really worth eating. Then, mere vulgar imitation bluff is of little avail.
To be a withered leaf is my first line of defence; if the ichneumon
buzzes nearer, I shift my ground and become a spider. I am the only
caterpillar in the country with spider-legs; when they are stretched to
their full length and quivering, they are worse to look at than the real
thing. Should even this fail me, I show the imitation scar on my fourth
body-ring. That usually clinches the matter. The ichneumon fondly imagines
that I am already occupied. So, if I am lucky, I turn at length to dingy
pupa, and thus preserve my race."
[Illustration: NOT REAL EYES BUT MARKINGS WHICH SERVE AS SUCH.]
[Illustration: EACH BRANCH OF THE OAK HAD ITS LOOPERS.]
"Will you hear an amphibian?" said the toad. He came from the centre of a
grass-tuft, and spoke with solemn deliberation. "Not one of you is more
persecuted than I. From time immemorial I have been the loadstone of
credulity, and--I am altogether defenceless. I am never worth eating, for
the shock of capture opens every pore on my skin, drenching me with what
the poets class as venom. So I am usually thrown aside with a broken back.
For centuries I was thought to have a jewel in my head. How many of my
hapless ancestors were tortured for that jewel! With the toad's death,
the jewel was believed to vanish. How many have been 'larned to be a toad'
by baffled, disappointed rustics! That is what puts the sad expression in
my eye. How have I survived it all? By dogged perseverance. I lay so many
eggs that one at least _must_ survive. Thus is the balance of the race
preserved. I myself was one of five hundred, the only one that reached
maturity. Yet all were in the same long ribbon coil. The swan that gulped
the coil, gulped all but me. I dropped into the brook alone, and there I
quietly passed through my novitiate, egg to tadpole, tadpole to toadling,
toadling to toad. When my tail was absorbed into my body, I sought a
land-retreat. There I have spent my time for twenty years. None of you
know it, and none ever will. I leave it only at twilight, and, as you
pass, I shield my face with my fore feet. Froggin is much the same;
nothing but his prolific quality saves him."
[Illustration: "WILL YOU HEAR AN AMPHIBIAN?" SAID THE TOAD.]
[Illustration: "FROGGIN IS AT LEAST WORTH EATING," SAID THE GRASS-SNAKE.]
"Froggin is at least worth eating," said the grass-snake. He lay with
all his four-foot length displayed in graceful sinuous curves, and was
listened to in silence. Nothing loves a snake, however harmless. "With me,
as with the caterpillars, it is mostly bluff. I can swing back my head,
and flatten the nape of my neck, as well as any deadly adder. I can also
strike, but there is no poison behind the blow. My only weapon of offence
is smell, a sickening musty smell, that makes the enemy loose his hold.
Once I am halfway down a hole, I'm safe. I set my ratchet scales against
the sides, and nothing can dislodge me. Only a jerk is dangerous, and that
must be accomplished before I am fairly fixed."
[Illustration: "I AM ARMOUR-CLAD," SAID THE STAG-BEETLE.]
"I am armour-clad," said the stag-beetle. "Could there be better method
of defence? Look at the sliding joints of my breastplate. Human skill has
copied it, but never has surpassed it. My horns look formidable, but for
offence are useless. They are far from my eyes, and move but slowly. Give
me time, and I can crush a tender twig between them, and suck its juices.
That is all the purpose they serve me, yet they look like branching
antlers, and that also is something."
"I have heard you all," said the hedgehog. "I have heard the flier's point
of view from the bat, the gymnast's point of view from the squirrel, the
swimmer's point of view from the water-rat, and the assassin's point of
view from the stoat." For a moment he coiled himself up with a snap, but
the stoat made no remark, so he slowly uncoiled himself, and resumed. "Yet
I maintain my original contention, there is nothing like spines. 'The
fox's tricks are many; one is enough for the urchin.' What is the one
unfailing, all-sufficing trick? The proper and judicious use of spines.
All of you would use spines if you could. Most of you do. Think of the
bramble-thickets, think of the furze, the last resort of valiant stoat
and viper, think of the holly, where the sparrows roost.
"Spines are the proved asylum of the spineless. Nature has flung them
broadcast. She starts low down among the plants, thorn and thistle,
gorse and cactus. Then she turns to the sea-urchins and caterpillars and
beetles, then she fashions the globe-fish and thorny devil-lizard, then
she comes to the birds--spikes are their only weapons--lastly, in me and
mine, she reaches the fulness of perfection.
"Think of the purposes spines serve me. Which of you defies the fox or
terrier in the open? I leave the fliers out--running away is not defence.
To me a fight is child's play. The more inquisitive my foe, the tighter
do I clinch myself together. They get more harm than I do."
The last few words were spoken from within. The stoat approached gingerly,
and turned the hedgehog over, seeking for a place to jump at. The bat
wheeled across him, and swerved at the suspicion of those rigid spears.
The caterpillars betook themselves once more to feeding. The water-rat
slipped quietly down the stream,--she still feared the stoat. The squirrel
ran openly down his tree-trunk, and secretly up the far side of it. The
fear of the stoat was on him too. So the moon rose, and, for most, the
chance of sport that night passed away.
The hedgehog remained coiled for an hour. Then he shambled away, well
satisfied. First he eat two pheasant eggs, then a belated frog, and then a
nestling blackbird. As the sun mounted the eastern sky he once more sought
the pile of leaves that lay against the hen-house.
THE END
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End of Project Gutenberg's "Wee Tim'rous Beasties", by Douglas English