A Gossip on Fishes &c.,
INCLUDING THE ROCKLING, SMOOTH BLENNY, GUNNEL-FISH, GOBY, ETC.
[Illustration:
1 SMOOTH BLENNY
2 VIVIPAROUS BLINNY
3 SPOTTED BLENNY or Gunnel-Fish
4, 5, 6 THE MONTAGU SUCKER-FISH
(Three illustrations.)
7 SUCKER of THE MONTAGU SUCKER-FISH]
XXIV.
One of the best _bons mots_ that I ever remember to have read was
entitled, 'Punch's Address to the Ocean'--
'With all thy faults I love thee _still_.'
Any landsman who finds himself occupying a seat in a fishing-smack or
oyster-boat while a stiffish breeze is blowing will, I am sure, with
great mental fervour echo the above sentiment.
For myself, I can never take even a short trip on the water without
experiencing some unpleasantness--proving to me that the sea is not 'my
element.' Still, I am one of those to whom the 'salt ocean' is endeared
by early recollections, having been, when a child, frequently among the
aged and mutilated veterans of our country who vegetate on the banks of
the 'silver Thames.'
From the tobacco-stained mouths of some of these old blue-jackets (all
of whom, I may mention, according to their own account, had fought
'alongside of the _galyant_ Nelson'), many strange stories have been
poured into my eager and willing ears, and even now a thrill of delight
is evoked when any of these 'yarns' rise to remembrance. Still, the
truth must be told: ever since I narrowly escaped drowning by plumping
into the water backwards, from leaning against the _unsnibbed_-door of
a bathing-machine, and at another time from being in a boat that, to
my intense horror and dismay, had sprung a leak--I have enjoyed the
sea best when my feet are on dry land; in other words, I like to view
the 'world of fluid matter,' in its various phases, from a distant and
perfectly safe point of view. Nay more, I can always better appreciate
certain of its beauties (at all events during winter time) when seated
by a warm fireside.
When lately in such a cosy position, my thoughts reverted to the
marvellous operations ever going on within the liquid walls of the
great deep. There artifices and stratagems, robbery and murder, and
cannibalism in its worst forms continually occur. On the other hand,
there may be scenes of courtship, touching instances of maternal
affection, such as, were they chronicled, would make our hearts bleed
with truest sympathy. Still, the Rob Roy maxim of
'They should take who have the power,
And they should keep who can,'
seems therein to be carried out with a rigour that would do honour to
the 'bold outlaw Macgregor.' Might there is generally predominant over
right. Fishes eternally prey upon each other; and for such reason, were
it not for the wonderful fecundity of these creatures (one cod-fish,
for instance, producing several millions of ova in a single season), we
should soon have the waters depopulated of all but the monsters of the
deep.
Now, knowing that such a state of things exists--that cannibalism is
of such frequent occurrence, and the dogs of war are there ever let
loose--the inquiry naturally presented itself: Are the inhabitants of
the ocean a happy race or not? According to many writers, the answer
must be given in the affirmative; nay, more, some authors state, and
with good show of authority, too, be it observed, that _fishes are
in reality the happiest of created things_, by reason that they have
no fear or apprehension of death, nor are they subject to pain or
disease, nor, in fact, to any of those ills that _flesh_ is heir to.
These creatures cannot, of course, live for ever; but by a merciful
dispensation of Providence, their final pang endures but for an instant.
The celebrated St. Anthony is among the believers in the consummate
happiness of the finny tribe. There is on record a discourse said to
have been preached by him to an assembly of fish, in which they are
flattered to an amazing extent. It almost rouses one's jealous ire to
find such fulsome adulation bestowed upon the lower animals, at the
expense of all other objects in nature, not excepting _man_ himself.
There is, however, such a singular force and truthfulness in some of
the expressions and sentiments which occur in the Jesuitical discourse
alluded to (given by Addison in his 'Remarks on Italy'), that I cannot
resist the temptation of quoting a few of its most prominent passages.
We are told that St. Anthony, feeling annoyed at certain heretics not
listening devoutly to his preaching, he determined to teach them a
lesson; and for this purpose went down to the sea-shore, and called
the fishes together in the name of God, that they might hear his holy
word. The fish soon swam towards the speaker in vast shoals, and,
having ranged themselves, according to their several species, into a
very beautiful congregation, were addressed just as if they had been
rational creatures.
The sermon commences in the following words:--
'My dearly-beloved Fish,--Although the infinite power and goodness
of God discovers itself in all the works of his creation, as in the
heavens, in the sun, in the moon, and in the stars--in the lower world,
in man, and in other perfect creatures,--nevertheless, the goodness of
the divine Majesty shines out in you more eminently, and appears after
a more particular manner, than in any other created beings.
'It is from God, my beloved fish, that you have received being, life,
motion, and sense. It is he that has given you, in compliance with your
natural inclinations, the whole world of waters for your habitation.
It is he that has furnished it with lodgings, chambers, caverns,
grottoes, _and such magnificent retirements as are not to be met with
in the seats of kings or in the palaces of princes_!
'You have the water for your dwelling--a clear, transparent element,
brighter than crystal; you can see from its deepest bottom everything
that passes on its surface. You have the eyes of a lynx or of an Argus;
you are guided by a secret and unerring principle, delighting in
everything that may be beneficial to you, and avoiding everything that
may be hurtful; you are carried on by a hidden instinct to preserve
yourselves, and to propagate your species; you obey, in all your
actions, works, and motions, the dictates and suggestions of nature,
without the least repugnance or contradiction.
'The cold of winter and the heat of summer are alike incapable of
molesting you. A serene or a clouded sky are indifferent to you. Let
the earth abound in fruits or be cursed with scarcity, it has no
influence on your welfare. You live secure in rains and thunders,
lightnings and earthquakes; you have no concern in the blossoms of
spring or in the glowings of summer, in the fruits of autumn or in the
frosts of winter. You are not solicitous about hours or days, months or
years, the variableness of the weather or the change of seasons.'
The saint still further 'butters his fish' by reminding them, among
other things, that they were specially favoured by God at the time of
the universal deluge, they being the only species of creatures that
were insensible of the mischief that had laid waste the whole world! He
then begs of them, as they are not provided with words, to make some
sign of reverence; give some show of gratitude, according to the best
of their capacities; express their thanks in the most becoming manner
that they are able, and be not unmindful of all the benefits which the
divine Majesty has bestowed upon them.
He had no sooner done speaking, but behold a miracle! The fish, as
though they had been endued with reason, bowed down their heads with
all the marks of a profound devotion, and then went joyously bobbing
around with a kind of fondness, as in approval of what had been spoken
by the blessed father, St. Anthony.
Many of the heretics, as a matter of course, were converted at
beholding the miracle; and the polite and pious little fishes, having
received his benediction, were dismissed by the saint.
Shakspeare authoritatively asserts that--
'Travellers ne'er do lie,
Though fools at home condemn them.'
Here I beg to differ with the sweet Bard of Avon, who, I am sure, would
have retracted his statement had he read the above fishy discourse,
and also the following among many other strange anecdotes which are
published regarding the 'denizens of the deep.'
An Eastern traveller tells us that, 'in a certain river whose waters
flow from Mount Caucasus into the Euxine, there arrives every year a
great quantity of fish.' This information not being particularly novel
in regard to most rivers, will fail to excite surprise in the mind of
the reader. A different result, however, will follow when he hears
that, according to Abon-el-Cassim, 'The people cut off all the flesh on
one side of those inhabitants of the deep, and let them go. Well, the
year following,' as this veracious writer avers, 'the same creatures
return and offer the other side, which they had preserved untouched; it
is then discovered that new flesh has replaced the old!'
This account reminds us of the tale of the traveller who reported that
he had seen a cabbage, under whose leaves a whole regiment of soldiers
were sheltered from a shower of rain. Another, who was no traveller
(but the wiser man), said he had passed by a place where there were
four hundred braziers making a cauldron--two hundred within, and two
hundred without beating the nails in. The traveller, asking for what
use that huge cauldron was, he told him, 'Sir, it was to boil your
cabbage!' A wittily severe, but deserved rebuke.
There are many other statements regarding fishes which, although
curious, are, nevertheless, to a certain extent true.
The Chinese, for instance, who breed large quantities of the well-known
gold-fish, call them, it is said, with a whistle to receive their food.
Sir Joseph Banks used to collect his fish by sounding a small gong; and
Carew, the historian of Cornwall, brought his grey Mullet together to
be fed by making a noise with two sticks.
In spite of these accounts, there are many writers who affirm that
_fishes do not possess the sense of hearing at all_; and certainly
a belief that these creatures are gifted with such a faculty is not
necessary, in my opinion, in order to explain the above-mentioned
phenomenon.
At the fountains, in the gardens of Versailles, the writer has seen
numbers of fishes flocking together and anxiously waiting for the
subscriptions of the visitors. Now, had a bell been rung, these
animals, doubtless, would have appeared at the edge of the fountain as
usual; but had the bell _not_ been sounded, and any human figure been
visible, they would have taken up the self-same position.
I have, at various times, kept packs of fishes (Blennies, &c.), and
tamed them, so that each member would feed out of my hand. For some
time I used to attract them to the side of the vessel in which, they
resided by striking a wine glass with a small stick; but I also noted
that if I made myself visible, and remained silent, while handing down
a few fish mouthfuls, that the whole pack followed as readily as if I
had sounded the mimic gong. Nay, whether I offered any bribe or not,
and silently approached their crystal abode, the whole family would
immediately flock in great haste towards me.
The tameness of these little creatures was somewhat remarkable. On
numberless occasions I have taken them up in the palm of my hand,
without the slightest opposition on their part, and then stroked and
smoothed them on the back, as I would do a bird. At such times they
made a kind of musical chirp, expressive of pleasurable emotion, and
seemed in no hurry to escape into their native element even when I laid
my hand in the water.
Such delightful confidence was always rewarded with some dainty.
Dr. Warwick relates an instance of instinct and intelligence in the
Pike, which is so remarkable that I am sure my readers will be pleased
to be made acquainted with it. I am the more induced to transfer it
to these pages, from the remarks with which the doctor closes his
narrative. From reasons stated above, the reader will be prepared to
learn that I do not consider the statements therein advanced--that
fishes are really sensible to sound--by any means conclusive.
When residing at Dunham, the seat of the Earl of Stamford and
Warrington, he (Dr. Warwick), was walking one evening in the park,
and came to a pond where fish intended for the table were temporarily
kept. He took particular notice of a fine pike of about six pounds
weight, which, when it observed him, darted hastily away. In so doing
it struck its head against a tenterhook in a post (of which there were
several in the pond, placed to prevent poaching), and, as it afterwards
appeared, fractured its skull, and turned the optic nerve on one side.
The agony evinced by the animal appeared most horrible. It rushed to
the bottom, and boring its head into the mud, whirled itself round with
such velocity that it was almost lost to sight for a short interval.
It then plunged about the pond, and at length threw itself completely
out of the water on to the bank. He (the doctor) went and examined it,
and found that a very small portion of the brain was protruding from
the fracture in the skull. He then carefully replaced this, and with a
small silver toothpick raised the indented portion of the skull. The
fish remained still for a short time, and he then put it again in the
pond. It appeared at first a good deal relieved, but in a few minutes
it again darted and plunged about until it threw itself out of the
water a second time. A second time Dr. Warwick did what he could to
relieve it, and again put it in the water. It continued for several
times to throw itself out of the pond, and with the assistance of the
keeper, the doctor at length made a kind of pillow for the fish, which
was then left in the pond to its fate. Upon making his appearance at
the pond on the following morning, the pike came towards him to the
edge of the water, and actually laid its head upon his foot. The doctor
thought this most extraordinary, but he examined the fish's skull and
found it going on all right. He then walked backwards and forwards,
along the edge of the pond for some time, and the fish continued to
swim up and down, turning whenever he turned; but being blind on the
wounded side of its skull, it always appeared agitated when it had that
side toward the bank, as it could not then see its benefactor. On the
next day he took some young friends down to see the fish, which came
to him as usual, and at length he actually taught the pike to come
to him at his whistle, and feed out of his hands. With other persons
it continued as shy as fish usually are. He (Dr. Warwick) thought
this a most remarkable instance of gratitude in a fish for a benefit
received, and as it always came at his whistle, _it proved also what he
had previously, with other naturalists, disbelieved, that fishes are
sensible to sound_. (?)
On hunting among the rock-pools by the sea-shore, several peculiar
little fishes are frequently to be found, and although some of them
cannot be considered suitable for the aquarium, still, for the reader's
information, it may be as well that I devote a brief space to a
description of the peculiarities of each.
By far the most interesting of all the finny occupants of the
rock-pool, is, to my taste, the Smooth Blenny, or, as it is variously
termed, Shanny, or Tansy. It is also more abundant than many other
species, and may therefore be readily captured during summer. The
Blenny varies from two to five inches in length. The back is ornamented
with exquisite markings, but the most characteristic features are the
peculiar bluntness of the head, and the brilliant crimson dot both on
and immediately beneath the eyes.
Although easily tamed, the Blenny, in his native haunts, appears to
be the most timid of animals, darting with the rapidity of lightning
to the shelter of some stone or overhanging weeds at the remotest
indication of approaching footsteps, or the faintest shadow of a human
form being cast on the water.
When desirous to procure a specimen, it is best to choose as small a
pool as you can for your hunt. Drop in your net at one end, and as the
Shanny precipitately retreats to the other, give him chase. Having
arrived at the extremity of his domain, he will endeavour to hide among
the weeds, but if you hold your net across the pool with one hand, and
with the other lift up a stone or beat the bushes, the little fellow
will become greatly excited, and darting out, of course, unwillingly,
falls into the snare prepared for him.
Having gained your prize, do not handle it, but placing your finger
under the net, tilt it over the mouth of the bottle, and allow the
Blenny to fall as gently as possible into the water. You need be under
no uneasiness after introducing him to the aquarium about the nature of
his diet. He is far from being epicurean in his tastes. I supply mine
according to my whim at the moment, with whatever is at hand, a bit of
fowl, roast beef, or the like.
The only caution I adopt when giving animal food to the Blenny is to
remove all traces of fat. I mince their food into minute particles, and
having sufficiently moistened it, I place a morsel upon a hair pencil.
This attention to their comforts the Blennies soon learn to appreciate,
and will, after a while, display at meal times the sagacity of larger
animals.
Perhaps the simplest plan to adopt is to cut open a mussel and throw
it into the tank. A considerable deal of amusement, moreover, is often
to be obtained by watching the fishes engaged at such a meal. How
they toss the valves of the Mytilus about, and snap at each other's
tails! How vexed they become if by accident the shelly dish is turned
topsy-turvy, and resists all their manœuvres to reverse it so as
to get at the meat! The valves of a large mussel will sometimes be
literally cleaned out by some half dozen Blennies in the course of an
hour.
I have noticed a singular fact in connection with the Blenny--namely,
_that they do not all increase in size as they grow older_. Out of five
that I kept domesticated for more than two years, one specimen remained
at the end of that period of the same size as when I first made its
acquaintance in a rock-pool by the sea-shore, while its companions had
greatly increased their proportions. But let me in justice add, that
if my little finny pet failed to increase in corpulency, it gained
largely in intelligence. Who is there that has not seen children, short
in stature, and comparatively old in years, who deserve the epithet
applied to them by the vulgar, of 'little--but _knowing_.' This remark
would apply with great truth to my 'little Dombey' fish.
Before becoming expert in carrying out the plan (which will be fully
detailed hereafter) for clarifying the water of an aquarium which has
become opaque from superabundant vegetative growth, I had to submit to
many annoying failures. Thus it was in a certain instance.
I had cleaned out my tank, refilled it with partially purified water,
and again inserted the various animals constituting my 'stock.'
Emboldened by the success which had attended my operations, I thought a
still further dose of diluted acid might be added, in order thoroughly
to remove the greenish hue of the water. A few minutes showed me
the folly of not letting well alone, for soon flakes of discharged
vegetation were precipitated to the base of the vessel, covering it
with a coating of fur.
The poor Blennies speedily showed signs of distress, and changed
colour, as they generally do, upon the most trifling cause. Instead of
dark brown or black, their bodies appeared of a yellowish tint, spotted
with white. Such a change was lovely to the eye, but, alas! it was--
'The loveliness in death,
Which parts not quite with parting breath.'
The little creatures jumped and dived about in all directions, all
their motions being extremely violent. I quickly perceived the error
which had been committed, and, moreover, discovered to my chagrin that
such error could not possibly be rectified for some time, on account of
my not having by me any reserve of pure salt water. Taking several of
the fishes in my hand, I stroked their backs with a camel-hair pencil,
and was pleased to find that as their alarm subsided their natural
hue returned. My being obliged to place my pets in their unhappy and
pestilential home again was, as the reader may suppose, a source of
regret to me; but I had some hopes that they might by chance survive,
and become used to the 'vapour of their dungeon,' at all events until
such time as I could hasten to the sea-side and procure a new supply
of water. My expectations of such a result were built upon the fact,
that although four of the fishes had changed colour, the small Blenny
still retained its natural hue. How did this happen? it will be asked.
I answer, by little Dombey (doing as his brethren had always hitherto
done in similar circumstances) leaping on to a ledge of rock that
projected out of the water, and there breathing the fresh air in safety.
On the following morning I peeped into the vessel, and saw by their
upturned gills that all my finny proteges were dead!
'All my pretty ones?
Did I say all?'
All except the smallest of the pack, he was still dressed in his sombre
coat, and gracefully reclining upon the rocky couch above mentioned.
How thankfully he received the breakfast that I temptingly offered upon
the tips of my feeding brush, and how grateful he seemed to be, when,
after the lapse of a few hours, I was enabled to let him float again in
his pure native element, a fresh supply of which had been procured with
as little delay as possible!
The Viviparous Blenny differs from the other British Blennies 'in the
circumstance to which its name refers--that of bringing forth its young
alive, which seem perfectly able to provide for themselves from the
moment they are excluded.'
It is a most gentle, graceful-looking fish, but as far as my experience
goes, one that is impossible to tame, or rather, I should say,
embolden. All my efforts to domesticate various specimens have proved
unavailing; and in spite of the most earnest and kindly attention,
they have generally pined away and died within a week after their
introduction to the aquarium.
From the illustration on Plate 12 the reader will have no difficulty
in recognising the original, should he by chance meet with it hiding
among the tangle, or beneath the stones by the sea-shore.
The spotted Blenny, Butter-Fish, or Gunnel-Fish, as it is variously
termed, is found lurking under stones in the same places as the
preceding. In the north of Scotland it is called 'cloachs,' and is used
extensively as a bait for larger fish. When disturbed, it wriggles its
body about in the muddy bottom of the rock-pool like an eel, for which,
indeed, it is occasionally mistaken.
Its length varies from three to nine inches; the depth only half an
inch; the sides very much compressed and extremely thin.
The dorsal fin consists of seventy-eight short spiny rays, and runs the
length of the back almost to the tail. The most conspicuous feature in
the Gunnel-Fish are the eleven round spots which occur at the top of
the back, and reach the lower half of the dorsal fin; they are black,
half encircled by white.
The tail is rounded, and of a yellow colour. The back and sides are of
a deep olive; the belly whitish.
In its young state I have had this fish live in my aquarium for several
months, but it never seemed to be happy or contented.
The Five Bearded Rockling is almost as great a favourite with the
writer as the Smooth Blenny. It is a very pretty fish, and may be
easily tamed. In the course of a week I trained one to feed out of my
hand, and when I put my finger in the water the fish would rub against
it with its head, just as a favourite cat frequently does against the
leg of a person with whom it is very familiar; moreover, if I moved the
intruding digit with a circular motion through the water, the Rockling
would waltz round the tip with evident signs of pleasure.
This fish is often found in tide-pools, and may readily be identified
by the prominent appendages attached to its head, to the presence of
which, the Rockling owes its familiar appellation.
The Goby (_Gobius unipunctatus_), or, as it is more popularly termed,
One-Spotted Goby, is frequently found inhabiting the same pool as the
Blenny or the Rockling. The distinguishing character of this pretty
creature is the black spot which is situated between the fifth and
sixth ray of the first dorsal fin. Its length is usually about one, or
one and a half inches; specimens have, however, sometimes been found on
the shores of the Frith of Forth, that measured nearly three inches.
The colour of the Goby is very changeable. If the animal is labouring
under excitement, its body assumes a deep brownish tint, approaching
in some instances to black; this gives place to brown, drab, and even
amber, or yellowish white.
The Goby possesses the power of attaching its body to any object by
means of its ventral fins, which become united together in the form of
a funnel.
Another species (_Gobius bipunctatus_), or Two-Spotted Goby, is
generally found among the _Fuci_, in rocky situations. Its name is
derived from a dark spot which is distinctly apparent on each side,
near to the origin of the pectoral fin.
The head and upper part of the body is dark brown,--the under part of
the head and belly white or pale drab.
Allusion has already been made to the peculiarity of the Gobies
affixing their bodies to rocks or other substances, by means of a
sucker formed by the junction of the ventral fins. The adhesive power
in question, which this class of creatures possess, is very limited
as compared with that which is exercised by the true sucker fishes,
and especially by the members of a certain species, whose bodies are
furnished with two distinct organs of adhesion.
The extraordinary adhesive powers of the Lump-Sucker, for instance,
have been tested by several writers. One observer states, that a fish
of moderate size has been known to suspend a weight of above 20 lbs.,
upon which it had accidentally fastened itself. Mr. Pennant says still
more, for he has known that, in flinging a fish of this kind just
caught into a pail of water, it fixed itself so firmly to the bottom,
that, on taking it by the tail, the pail was lifted up, though it
contained several gallons of water.
To descend from the largest to the smallest species, we arrive at the
Montague Sucker-Fish, or, as it is sometimes called, the Diminutive
Sucker, one of the most interesting little creatures to be met with
at the sea-shore. At the coast near Edinburgh I have met with many
specimens, equally well in the spring or winter season, as during
the summer months. At such locality this species may therefore be
pronounced common; yet it is comparatively unknown to most 'collectors'
in the neighbourhood. Many, indeed, contend that my designation is
erroneous. But having taken considerable pains to satisfy my mind upon
the subject, I have no hesitation whatever in stating that the little
fish in question is identical with that of the Montague Sucker.
Donovan, in his 'Natural History of British Fishes,'[19] was the first
to illustrate and publish an account of this _petite_ gem of ocean.
His figures are copied from drawings made by Colonel Montague, who
also furnished the description of the specimen delineated. With the
important exception of the sucker--an organ of adhesion which is very
nearly correct--the general appearance of the Diminutive Sucker-Fish
as figured, is not at all satisfactory. Perhaps this is not to be
wondered at, when we remember that the specimen from which the sketches
were taken was very small indeed. Moreover, it was diaphanous, and is
depicted as being principally transparent, spotted, and tinged with
pink.
[19] This splendid work, which was published in five volumes, between
the years 1802-8, contains 120 exquisite illustrations, all, _with
the solitary exception, unfortunately, of the Montague Sucker-Fish_,
accurately drawn and coloured from living specimens, procured at vast
trouble by the author.
The Diminutive Sucker, in its adult state, is said to be from two to
three inches in length; consequently Colonel Montague's first specimen
must have been an extremely young one.
The usual colour is deep orange, varied with minute dark spots. The
under parts of the body and throat are of flesh colour; the centre of
the sucker being faintly tinged with crimson.
I have seldom met with specimens measuring more than one, or one and a
quarter inches. It is a marked peculiarity in this Sucker-Fish, that
when adhering to any substance it has a constant habit of curving the
tail towards the head. In such position it will remain motionless for
several hours.
There is little difficulty in capturing the Montague Sucker in its
native haunts. It does not possess the power of darting to and fro with
the speed of the Blenny, or most other fishes, but progresses through
the liquid element with a peculiar quivering motion.
It is not a fish that can be recommended for the aquarium. A fortnight
to three weeks is the longest time that I have been able to keep a
specimen alive; indeed, until I adopted the plan of allowing each
little captive to remain quiet and undisturbed in a dark and shady
place, death ensued in the course of one or two days.
My illustrations (Plate 12) having been carefully drawn and coloured
from a living specimen, the student will, I trust, find no difficulty
in recognising the Diminutive Sucker, should he be so fortunate as to
meet with it in a rocky pool.
'There is also a fish called the Sticklebag, a fish without scales, but
hath his body fenced with several prickles. I know not where he dwells
in winter, nor what he is good for in summer, but only to make sport
for boys and _women anglers_.' Thus contemptuously does dear old Izaak
speak of the Sticklebag, or Stickleback, as it is now termed, one of
the most amusing and interesting members of the finny tribe. I have
frequently transferred specimens of the Stickleback from fresh water to
salt water, and found them live quite as well in the latter as in the
former.
The contrast, however, between the appearance of the three spined
Stickleback, when first taken from the sea, and one captured in the
fresh water pond is very remarkable. The first is dressed in a gorgeous
coat of varied colours. Around the mouth and belly it is bright
crimson, on the upper part of its body various tints of green prevail;
while in the pond specimen no red colour is visible at all, but only
white blended with green.
In addition to _Gasterosteus aculeatus_, whom we have above alluded
to, there is another species, _G. spinachia_, or Fifteen-Spined
Stickleback, which is also an inhabitant of rock-pools by the
sea-shore, but unlike the first-mentioned, is never found in fresh
water. Both species possess one peculiarity in common, a description of
which will form an appropriate conclusion to this chapter. I allude to
their nest-building habits, which has only of late years been proved to
exist, although Aristotle has recorded the same fact regarding a fish
(_Phycis_) in the Mediterranean Sea, which was known to make a nest and
deposit its spawn therein.
The duties of mason and architect are invariably undertaken by the
male Stickleback. His materials are of course very limited, still his
labours are skilfully and even artistically performed. Having chosen a
suitable spot as a foundation for his house, he collects some delicate
sea-weeds, gravel and sand, and with these materials, aided by a
glutinous fluid which is given off from his body, the house is built.
When completed, and not before, he seeks out his mate, and invites
her to take possession of her newly formed home. If she shows any
affectation or coquetishness, he does not hesitate to nip hold of her
tail, and urge her forward by equally expressive signs. Soon, like a
dutiful little pet, she enters, and having deposited spawn, retires
again, leaving her lord and master to guard the casket and its living
treasure. This task, though extremely arduous, he adopts with pride and
gratification.
How so small a creature can bear up so long under such a state
of apparent excitement appears marvellous. His assiduity is most
extraordinary. By night he rests beside the nest, and by day, if he can
possibly hinder it, he allows nothing to approach. When there are other
members of the Stickleback family in the aquarium, numerous combats
are sure to ensue, for as the young and transparent offspring of one
fish are deemed a great dainty by the non-parental body, the latter
invariably endeavour to satisfy their cannibal propensities at the
harrowing expense of their neighbours.
When the spawn are hatched, fresh care devolves upon the parent, in
order to keep them within the nursery, and protect them from the greedy
mouths of the larger fish, always on the look-out for tit-bits. Should
one of the little fishlings stray beyond the prescribed bounds, the
watchful parent darts after it, and in an instant his jaws close over
the wanderer apparently for ever, but in fact only for a time, for
swimming quickly back the old fish puffs out the straggler into its
nest lively and uninjured.