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HOW TO MAKE AND SET TRAPS
Including Hints on How to Trap Moles, Weasels, Otter, Rats, Squirrels
and Birds.
Also How to Cure Skins.
Copiously Illustrated.
by
J. HARRINGTON KEENE.
New York:
Frank Tousey, Publisher,
24 Union Square.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1902, by
Frank Tousey,
in the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington, D. C.
HOW TO MAKE AND SET TRAPS.
I. THE MOLE.
Dirt has been defined as “matter in the wrong place.” It is very
useful, and, indeed, indispensable, as earth in a garden, but decidedly
unbecoming and dirty when on your face or clothes. In a similar way,
most of the creatures termed “vermin” are in themselves very graceful
and beautiful specimens of the Creator’s handiwork, but when they
encroach on man’s paths of progress and improvement they become
“vermin,” and though all life should be looked upon as a fearful and
wonderful thing, not to be lightly taken from its possessor, they are
then justifiably slain.
The little gentleman in black velvet--the mole--is a lovely-coated
little fellow, possessing many virtues, such as courage, industry, and
parental affection, but when he once gets into your father’s garden,
which has probably cost money and exceeding care to render it neat
and productive, our little friend is transformed into one of the most
troublesome of “vermin,” and must be relentlessly sacrificed by the
trapper. If this is not done, Master Mole will himself sacrifice the
crops in his efforts to get at the worms, which, as the late Charles
Darwin so conclusively showed, are one of the great regenerating forces
of the land’s fertility.
Look at rats again. See how lithe and agile they are, how fond of their
young, and provident in storing food for future consumption; yet they
are without a redeeming excellency if, like dirt, they are in the wrong
place--as they are, by the way, pretty certain to be.
Of the squirrel Mr. Ruskin, in his marvelously eloquent way, has said:
“Of all quadrupeds ... there is none so beautiful or so happy as the
squirrel. Innocent in all his ways, harmless in his food, playful as
a kitten, but without cruelty, and surpassing the dexterity of the
monkey, with the grace of a bird, the little dark-eyed miracle of the
forest goes from branch to branch more like a sunbeam than a living
thing. The chamois is slow to it, and the panther clumsy. It haunts
you, listens for you, hides from you, looks for you, loves you, as if
it were a plaything invented by the angel that walks by your children.”
Alas! there is a reverse side to this beautiful word-picture of the
great art critic. The gamekeeper will tell you that mischievous Master
“Squiggy” is very fond of birds’ eggs--many a tiny wren, and many a
sweet-voiced blackbird has discovered this also--and that he above all
will often suck the dove-hued eggs of the pheasant. Much, therefore, as
I admire this little creature when he is in his native firtree, I shall
tell you how to catch him alive, so that he may be kept away from doing
harm.
Again, the brilliant kingfisher, flashing by you like a beam of azure
light, is in his right place near the stickleback pond, but on my trout
river he is “vermin.” The same exposition of the properties of vermin
might be followed out in reference to all the creatures I intend to
hereafter teach you how to capture or destroy.
So much by way of introduction, and now suppose, as I have above
referred to “the little gentleman in the velvet suit,” we begin with
him. Do not be alarmed at the few items of natural history I am going
to give you in reference to each “varmint.” It is better for you
to know about the funny little ways of the lower creation now than
wait till you are men, and perhaps unable to devote much time to the
acquisition of such knowledge. Besides, there is nothing mean or paltry
in such studies. Why, the great German Heber and our hardly less great
Sir John Lubbock have devoted their lives to ants and such small fry
till marvels of intelligence in these insects have been unfolded to
their wondering vision. Even the wise and mighty King Solomon did
not forget them. Do not despise small things because they are small,
therefore, for are we not ourselves as motes and specks of dust in the
sunbeam in the immensity of God?
I most, however, return to the mole, or you may accuse me of preaching
a sermon when you were expecting to hear how to catch vermin.
Well, the scientific name of the mole is Talpa Europæa, and its
distribution is all over Europe. France, Italy, Spain, Portugal,
Germany, Holland, Sweden, and Denmark alike produce it as well as our
own land. The main thing--or one of them--that arrests the attention
on first seeing the mole is the very hand-like fore paws. These
are attached to the body by a short forearm, and suggest immense
strength--which, as a matter of fact, they possess. They are used for
scooping the earth from before and throwing it on one side; and for
this purpose the claws are long and trenchant. The hind feet, which are
comparatively small, serve the purpose of throwing out the earth behind
with incredible quickness. The head also, being sharp-pointed, offers
no opposition to this boring through the soft soil, and the eyes, being
so tiny, are never injured by the soil through which the pointed snout
passes.
For a long time people failed to discover that the mole possessed eyes,
so rudimentary and hidden are they. They are covered by the soft fur,
and it is to be presumed that as they are of little or no use in the
total darkness of subterranean passages, they serve only to apprise
their owner of the approach of light whenever it may find itself near
the surface of the ground. It sometimes has happened to me to find a
mole strayed from its habitation, I suppose, and on the surface of
the soil. From the experiment of putting an obstacle in front of it,
and its avoidance thereof, I have come to the conclusion that it can
see slightly, though it is evident when you dissect the head that the
organs of hearing are vastly more developed than those of sight. The
sense of smell is perhaps stronger than that of hearing--as one would
infer from the long, pointed, greyhound-like snout; and this should
be borne in mind when setting the trap. If indeed, in the case of any
animal, you are told that the sense of smell is well developed, handle
the ginsnare or trap as little as possible with the naked hand. There
is a distinctive odor in the human hand which animals, whether vermin
or not, seem instantly to recognize.
[Illustration: Fig. 2.]
Moles construct a fortress, or habitation, under a hillock or some such
convenient protection as a sort of central position, from which they
proceed outwards through various “runs” or roads in search of food
(see Fig. 2). This fortress has a dome of earth, which is beaten hard
by the creature, and so rendered strong and impervious to rain, snow,
dews, or frost. A in Fig. 2 represents the hollow center, which is also
dry and hard, whilst B B B signify the ramifying tunnels leading into
the galleries of the central fortress, and outwards to the tracts for
feeding and exploration, as well as to the nests of the various pairs
of sexes forming the community. Along these tracts the individuals
travel and obtain their livelihood, never stopping to gossip; for
if, indeed, one mole meets another by chance, one must turn out of
the way into the nearest alley, or there is a “row,” which generally
means death to the weaker--for, let me tell you, Mr. Talpa is a very
pugnacious little man when thwarted.
Of course, you know that the food of the mole is chiefly comprised
of worms--and speaking of that reminds me of a method I once saw of
catching moles, which was cruel but very singular. I was fishing on the
Colne, near Wraysbury, and I noticed an old man in the field behind me
industriously going over the ground, and here and there drawing out a
live mole by means of what seemed a string.
I laid down my rod and went over to him, and after a little persuasion
I got to understand the whole bag of tricks. His method was to dig
down to a fresh tunnel and “lay” a lobworm, threaded on a rather small
fish-hook tied on fine brass wire, covering in the hole with leaves
and dirt and securing the wire by a string to a stout peg. The mole,
being almost sure to return, would thus take the bait, and in most
cases get hooked in the mouth. This seems to me, however, a needlessly
cruel way of mole-catching when there are others quite as effectual and
practically painless, and I shall therefore not go any farther into the
particulars necessary for its practice.
Moles are extremely voracious and, this being so, they crave and enjoy
large quantities of water. I have frequently watched moles descending
by a beaten run to the water--and, indeed, just opposite where I am
writing there is a tiny roadway from a mole hillock to the neighboring
ditch. Should a plentiful supply such as this not be handy, the little
animal sinks a well for himself, beating the interior hard and forming
quite a little shaft, which receives the rain and stores it. I came
across one some time ago which was quite a foot in depth and almost
full.
I have said that there is a fortress usually built by a colony of
moles in the approximate form of Fig. 2, and so there is. The aim
of the mole-catcher should be if possible to find out where this
central position is and cut off retreat. I have seen the mole-catcher
in Windsor Park dig the moles out on finding out this metropolis of
moles--as it might be fitly called.
It has been proved that immediately on anything very alarming
occurring, they forsake their explorations and flee into the citadel.
This is how it was done and who did it.
Monsieur le Court, a French gentleman, very sensibly believing that
there was little else but horror and danger in the tumult and bloodshed
of the great French Revolution, fled from the court where he had waited
on and been the companion of the highest, and secluded himself in the
depth of the country to become the historian and friend of the humble
La Taupe, as the French term the mole. M. Geoffrey St. Hillaire visited
him, and together they watched their opportunity till one of the moles
had penetrated far from the fortress in search of food.
Le Court then placed straws with little flags on the end out of the
ground at intervals in the passage behind the mole in such a way that
if the creature fled back again it would infallibly knock them down.
With a trumpet buried, leaving the mouth-piece out of the ground, he
blew a blast loud enough to shake the good-nature out of the best toy
of your acquaintance, and instantly one after the other, almost as fast
as a horse can trot, down went the little flags till the central home
was reached. The mole usually builds at the intersection of several of
the roads and not in the habitation. Its nest consists of fibers and
dried grass, straw, etc., and the young seldom number more than five.
Moles will sometimes take the water, but such instances are extremely
rare; there is no reason, however, why it should not be a good swimmer,
its front paws being so spatulous and strong.
[Illustration: Fig. 3. Fig. 4.]
Mole trapping is very seldom practiced, except by professionals, who
besides the blood money generally awarded on the production of each
mole’s tail, make a very nice little amount by selling the skins. Still
there is nothing difficult about mole catching, and the most stupid boy
could render himself successful if he observes a little and follows
the directions I am about to give. First, then as to tools, which are
indispensable when one is out for a day’s trap-setting. Fig. 3 shows
an implement which at A consists of an iron heavy spike which is used
for making holes for the insertion of the spring stick of the trap to
be described presently. B is the wooden haft--ash is as good as any; C
is a sort of spatula or little spade for digging into a mole run. Fig.
4 shows a light hatchet or a rather long handle for cutting hazel or
ash-spring sticks, pointing them, etc.
[Illustration: Fig. 5.]
Now as to the traps themselves. Fig. 5 shows the iron trap, usually
sold with galvanized uprights and claws. A indicates the spring which,
on the mole by placing its head in the circular orifice of B releasing
the latter, closes the claws to, killing the mole instantly. B, of
course, is a movable tongue of the shape shown at C, and ought to be
tied to the body of the trap in case the mole should by any means
escape, pulling the tongue (C) after it. This is, of course, a very
neat kind of trap, but a dozen of them would come expensive, and
besides, I do not prefer them in actual practice on a large scale, as
they are by no means so likely to be viewed without suspicion by the
mole as are the homespun traps I am going to describe.
Get a strip of wood (deal is as good as anything) about six inches long
by four broad and half an inch thick, like D, Fig. 6. Bore nine holes
in it, four for the reception of the ends of two half circular hoofs of
wood shown at A, and four smaller ones for the two wires at A2 A2 to
pass through. One largish hole is made in the center, and through this
passes a cord with a knot at the end (C). B shows a piece of wood cut
like a little spatula with a somewhat blunt handle or head (see B2).
This tongue is placed against the knot when the spring hazel stick E
is in position as in Fig. 7. I want you to look carefully at Fig. 6
because it very nearly explains itself.
[Illustration: Fig. 6.]
The whole apparatus is buried in the ground in the run of a mole, and
fastened down by sticks stuck athwart and across, as shown at Fig. 7.
The stick E is thus kept in position by the knot C and the tongue B and
B2. When a mole passes through the circular loops at A A it hits its
nose against B and knocks it out, releasing the knot C, which in turn
releases the bent stick, up this flies, and one of the wires A2 are
bound to catch the hapless Talpa, compressing it so strongly as to kill
it almost instantly.
[Illustration: Fig. 7.]
These are the details of how to set the trap. Having found out a run
where the mole-heaps are fresh, or have recently been thrown up, cut
down with the spade end of your tool (Fig. 3) into it, and with your
hands take out the dirt, feeling for and making clear the direction of
the passage each way. Now with the pointed end of Fig. 3 make a hole
slantwise, but not too much so, for the insertion of E (Fig. 6), which
should be a hazel, withy, or ash stick from half an inch in diameter.
Adjust the string of the trap to the top of it, and then set the
tongue, carefully spreading the loops of wire within the hoops. Now,
with the left hand on the trap, and assisted by the knee, bend the
spring stick down, place the trap in its position, and with the right
hand force in some short hazel sticks across and across, as shown in
Fig. 7. This done, your trap is set, and a turf can be broken up and
spread round the top of it, to keep out any light, from the interior
of the run. If my readers have carefully gone through this explanation
with me there is no fear but that they will be able to make and set the
trap--and also catch moles.
Damp weather, or after a warm shower, is the best time to set these
traps; and as many as twenty or thirty should be systematically set
per day while moles exist and good weather lasts. The straightened
character of the stick will infallibly indicate when the trap is
sprung, and if no mole be caught move it a little farther away, but not
away from the colony entirely, and set again.
The skins of the moles are in best condition in autumn, and if a
sufficient number be properly cured, and set together by a professional
furrier, a warm and rich garment, either cloak, hat, or waistcoat can
be made. I have a mole-skin waistcoat I have worn for four winters, and
it is far from being worn out yet. Queen Victoria has eight hundred
skins sent annually to Windsor Castle by the Park mole-catcher, for
preparation and making up. I dare say this man catches two or three
thousand moles every year, and yet the number seem not to decline, so
unfailing is the multiplication of these velvety little fellows.
The professional mole-catcher usually skins his moles in a very summary
manner. Simply passing a very sharp knife round the head, and cutting
off the forefeet, he turns the skin off inside out as I should do
an eel. Indeed, it is a more rapid process than eel-skinning, for I
once had a match with a mole-catcher, which was that I was to skin
six fair-sized eels, while he skinned six moles. I lost, though I am
exceedingly quick with eels, by one eel, much to my annoyance, for
I had loudly boasted of my dexterity. Having skinned his mole as I
described, the mole-catcher then simply stuffs a pledget of hay or
wadding into the skin and leaves it to dry.
If you have time, however, it is much better to skin the mole by making
an incision down the belly, and taking off the fur as you would do in
the case of a rabbit. It should then be tacked with small tin tacks to
a dry board, the inside toward you, and after removing with a blunt
knife any particles of fat, it should be dressed with a soap made as
follows:--whiting or chalk, 1-1/2 oz.; soft soap, 1 oz.; chloride of
lime, 2 oz. If these ingredients are not handy powdered alum will
serve, though not so well.
Now, one word in conclusion of this chapter on the mole, and it will
serve as good advice whenever you are trapping. Be quiet; do not go
lumbering all over the ground with the tread of a cart-horse, for it
must be borne in mind that the mole has not only a good perception of
actual sounds, but an exquisite sense of vibration. Like a trout, the
softest tread will in some cases apprise it of danger and cause it to
retire to its citadel. Your object is to catch moles by cutting off
their retreat, for if they are in the central habitation they may not
take the route when next a start is made that you desire and in which
the trap is set.
II. THE WEASEL, STOAT AND POLECAT.
“If we consider the animal creation on a broad scale, the aggregate
of living beings will be found to be the devourers and destroyers of
others.” The editor of Cassel’s Natural History is responsible for this
statement, and it struck me as a forcible and appropriate one for this
chapter on weasels, etc. Without doubt the weasel, next to the rat,
is one of the most destructive of our vermin, preying as it does with
extraordinary ferocity on leverets, chicken, young ducks, pigeons,
rabbits, in fact, on all creatures more timorous than itself. Truly it
is not a very formidable enemy to the farmer in connection with his
granaries and other stores, for it is an inveterate slayer of ruts and
mice, but the gamekeeper cannot tolerate it. Its “treasons, stratagems
and spoils” are, without exception, excessive above all other of the
spoiling mammalia whatsoever.
Perhaps you doubt the conclusions to which I arrive in reference to
this pretty, brown-backed white-bodied little animal, and there are
some naturalists whose writings seem to clothe it with very different
characteristics. A certain Mademoiselle de Laistre seems to contradict,
in one of her letters, the commonly received opinion that it cannot be
domesticated. She describes with touching minuteness how her weasel
would drink milk out of her hands and fondle with her, showing signs
of satisfaction and enjoyment, which could scarcely be apart from
intelligence. “The little creature,” she says, “can distinguish my
voice amid twenty others, and springs over every one in the room till
it finds me. Nothing can exceed the lively and pleasing way it caresses
me with its two little paws; it frequently pats me on the chin in a
manner that expresses the utmost fondness. This, with a thousand other
kindnesses, convinces me of the sincerity of its attachment. He is
quite aware of my intention when dressed to go out, and then it is with
much difficulty I can rid myself of him. On these occasions he will
conceal himself behind a cabinet near the door and spring on me as I
pass with astonishing quickness.”
This testimony would seem to rather invest _mustela vulgaris_ with
domestic virtues at least rare in his family, and, sooth to say, there
is a vast crowd of witnesses waiting to be heard, whose report of his
character is far different. The weasel, agile and lithe as he is, is
ferocious to the degree which scorns fear, and there are many instances
wherein he has attacked the absolute viceroy of creation--man.
I recollect once chasing a weasel with some determination and finding
myself suddenly confronted by some seven or eight others, who ran up my
legs and endeavored to reach my face. Fortunately I beat them off and
killed seven with the stick I carried, but I feel satisfied I should
not have escaped so well if I had not stood my ground and luckily
possessed a stick.
I have frequently heard of similar experiences, and one I find is
recorded in a cutting from a Scotch newspaper in my scrap-book.
One night, it appears, the father of Captain Brown, the naturalist, was
returning from Gilmerton, near Edinburgh, by the Dalkeith road. He
observed on the high ground at a considerable distance betwixt him and
Craigmillar Castle a man who was leaping about performing a number of
antic gestures more like those of a madman than of a sane person. After
contemplating this apparently absurd conduct, he thought it might be
some unfortunate maniac, and, climbing over the walls, made directly
towards him. When he got pretty near he saw that the man had been
attacked, and was defending himself against the assaults of a number
of small animals which he at first took for rats, but which, in fact,
turned out on getting closer, to be a colony of from fifteen to twenty
weasels, which the unfortunate man was tearing from him and endeavoring
to keep from his throat. Had he not been a powerful man, capable of
sustaining the extreme fatigue of this singular exertion, he probably
would have succumbed to the repeated efforts made by the ferocious
little creatures to get at his throat. As it was, his hands were much
bitten, and bleeding profusely.
It further appears that the commencement of the battle was nearly as
follows. He was walking slowly through the park when he happened to
see a weasel. He ran at it, and made several unsuccessful attempts to
strike it with a small cane he held in his hand. On coming near the
rock, he got between it and the animal, and thus cut off retreat. The
weasel squeaked out aloud, when a sortie of the whole colony was made,
and the affray commenced.
Apropos of this, I have read somewhere of a colony of rats attacking
a condemned criminal in the sewers of Paris--or in a dungeon closely
contiguous--and I can quite believe that hunger and numbers would
render these horrible vermin capable of homicide.
I do not quite see how any one can pity the members of this weasel
family. Let any one of my boy readers hear the agonized cries of
a pursued rabbit as it finds its relentless foe chasing it with a
determination and persistence quite unequaled, and he will probably
find the American love of fair play prompt him to take the weaker
creature’s part.
Emphatically I declare it--a weasel never relinquishes its quarry till
the life’s blood has been sucked and the brain extracted and eaten.
Then wasteful as the little tyrant is, the rats may have the remainder,
whilst it seeks for more prey. Its little finger-thick body and black,
venom-leaden eyes seem the incarnation of destructiveness, whilst over
the sharp incisive teeth rows might well be written
“Ch’entrate lasciate ogni speranza,”
the terrible epigraph Dante, in his wonderful “Divina Commedia,” saw
inscribed over the portals of the infernal regions.
Perhaps there is one redeeming feature in all this pitiless ferocity,
and that is the indomitable courage with which the weasel defends its
young against all marauders. It breeds as fast as a rabbit--that is,
two or three, or even more times in a year--and its nest of dried
herbage and undergrowth is generally made in the hollow of some old
tree or wall. Close by the nest may often be found the remains of
putrid mice, rats, birds, etc., which circumstance has suggested to
some naturalists the conclusion that the weasel prefers carrion to
fresh food. This is erroneous. It is true that it hunts, like some
dogs, entirely, or nearly so, by scent, and will even follow the
sightless mole through the interminable windings of its burrow; but
fresh flesh and blood are its delight, and if there be a plentitude
of food it disdains all the grosser parts of its prey with a
fastidiousness worthy of Apicius, the _gourmet_. The weasel generally
produces five or six young ones at a birth.
[Illustration: Fig. 11.]
I do not counsel sparing the weasel any more than the rat. The best
place for the gins to be set is underneath a wall whereby the weasel
is known to travel. The best trap unquestionably is the steel trap, or
gin, and the best bait is the inside of a newly-killed rabbit. This
is the concrete essence of my experience. You can scent the bait with
musk, and this addition will often prove of exceeding service. At the
ends of drains, in the hollows of old buildings, in the dry tracts of
ditches, by old trees--all these are likely places and a careful watch
will often discover their tracks. In setting the gin do not allow it
to spring hard as if you expected an elephant of the Jumbo type to
tread on the plate. On the contrary, let it spring very lightly, and
if possible hang the bait up, so that the creature puts a foot on the
plate and so gets caught. A very good sort of trap for open places is a
fall-trap, which may be made at home and is useful for nearly all kinds
of vermin, including even birds (See Fig. 11). Some little explanation
is needed for the complete understanding of this trap. A is a board
hollowed near the letter A to relieve _e_ when the trap falls. B is a
slab of lead or iron cut to admit _a_ and _f_; _h_ is a hinge holding
_c_, which, when adjusted at _g_, impinges on _a_, and so sustains
the slab B. On the little hooks _d_ the bait is fixed, and the weasel
confidently places his foot on _e_. Of course _f_ then springs from
_g_ and down falls the slab, crushing the captive instantly. A stone
slab is quite as useful, if not more so, than lead or iron, and it
is evident that this fall-trap can be set with the greatest ease and
delicacy.
[Illustration: Fig. 12.]
The next useful trap is termed “The Fig. 4 Trap,” from its resemblance
to that character, and is shown in the engraving (Fig. 12). This
consists of a large slab of stone, metal, or wood, propped up by three
pieces of wood (A, B and C). If the engraving be carefully examined it
will be seen to consist of a perpendicular A, of a horizontal bar C,
at one end of which is attached the bait D, and of a slanting stick
B. The upright A is usually half an inch square, and cut to a sort of
chisel-shape at top; a notch is also cut in the side of the stretcher
C, as shown in the side diagram _x_, to prevent it slipping down; and
a notch is also cut at the top of B to receive the upright, as well
as in C, to fix it, B being at this latter point of a chisel shape.
It will be obvious to the attentive reader that if this trap be set
carefully, and with a sufficiency of delicacy, a very slight tug at D
will be sufficient to bring down the slab, crushing the animal, or, if
a hollow be made in the ground, imprisoning it. This trap, for nearly
all vermin (of course, except moles), is very cheap and effective;
and for cats--in their wrong places, of course--is remarkably useful,
especially if D represent a sponge, on which tincture of valerian or
oil of rhodium has been sprinkled. One advantage of this trap is that
it is inexpensive, and not likely to be coveted by anybody else.
The gin has, however, preference in my mind over other artificial
traps for weasels, and I counsel all my readers to adopt it as the
surest if their pockets will sustain the initial expense. There is,
however, nothing lost in endeavoring to make your own traps, for such
perseverance implies interest in the pursuit of trapping, and this
necessarily is the central motive towards the acquirement of natural
knowledge.
There is one method of capturing weasels which I have found very
useful, though it entails the loss of an innocent live bird in many
cases. Form a sort of oblong square with brushwood and close it all
in except two narrow lanes leading to the center, at which point peg
down a young chicken or bird. Set the traps, as closely concealed as
possible at the ends of these lanes, so that neither by ingress nor
egress can the weasel escape without the chance of being caught. Each
trap should be set very lightly, and in some dry ditch near a covert,
or by the side of a wall, or, in fact, in any likely spot recognized by
the trained eye.
Here is another bad character in the polecat, or foumart, and as it is
the largest of the two, it commonly does most damage, though in saying
this I really am not sure I can place either or them first in this
respect. The weasel and polecat are unmitigated robbers and assassins,
and according to opportunity are given indifferently to bad habits of
the worst character. The polecat is, however, nearly sixteen inches
from that to eighteen inches in length, and its bite is terrific and
sometimes poisonous. Beware, therefore, of it when releasing one caught
in a trap; in fact, as I before impressed on you, “kill it first.” The
body of the polecat has a woolly undercoat of pale yellow, while the
longer hairs are of a deep glossy brown.
Its habits are very similar to those of the weasel, and it commonly
kills chickens by biting the head off and then sucking the blood,
leaving perhaps a dozen bodies as mementoes of its visitation. I have
known it to catch fish, and I caught one in a trap, set as I supposed
at the time, for an otter. The otter turned out to be a polecat,
however, which measured, exclusive of the tail, fourteen inches. Eels
seemed to be the prey for which it took water, as I had previously
found the remains of several half-eaten on the shore.
This circumstance was a strange one to me, and altogether exceptional,
until I looked up my natural history books, when I found that Bewick
refers to a similar fact in his “Quadrupeds.” He says:--“During a
severe storm one of these animals was traced in the snow from the side
of a rivulet to its hole at some distance from it.... Its hole was
examined, the foumart taken, and eleven fine eels were discovered as
the fruits of its nocturnal exertions. The marks on the snow were found
to have been made by the motions of the eels while in the creature’s
mouth.” We have no reason for doubting Bewick, but it is certain that
the polecat must have extracted the eels from either beneath stones
or mud, where, during cold weather such as described, it is their
infallible habit to retire in a semi-torpid condition.
In trapping it use a strong gin, and set very lightly. The baits are
precisely similar to those for the weasel. Be, above all, careful to
use the naked hands as little as possible.
III. RATS.
Rats may, I think, fairly lay claim to being the most mischievous of
all vermin. They are fellows of irreclaimably bad habits, and never
so happy as when devouring or destroying something. Artemus Ward has
placed it on record that “Injins is pisen wherever you meet ’em,”
and the same might be said of rats. In that exquisitely whimsical
poem of Browning’s, “The Pied Piper of Hamelin,” we are told that the
townspeople were plagued emphatically with
“Rats!
They fought the dogs and killed the cats,
And bit the babies in their cradles,
And ate the cheeses out of the vats,
And licked the soup from the cook’s own ladles.
Split open the kegs of salted sprats,
Made nests inside men’s Sunday hats,
And even spoiled the women’s chats
By drowning their speaking
With shrieking and squeaking
In fifty different sharps and flats.”
I have not the least doubt but that they did all this and other things
worse; hence I would say with no uncertainty, “Slay all and spare
none,” whenever you get a chance. I do not know of one redeeming
feature in the character of _Mus decumanus_ unless it be good in a pie,
as our friend the Rev. J. G. Wood hints that it is from experimental
trial.
Hundreds on hundreds of tales relating to its cunning or intelligence
might be cited until you were heartily tired of reading, much less I
of writing. How rats will bite holes in leaden pipes, attack the face
of a sleeping infant--an instance of which I might relate from actual
knowledge--how they devour each other, leaving only the skin turned
inside out as neatly as you could turn a stocking, and last, but far
from least, how they have been trained to perform a drama in pantomime
and various other tricks quite too numerous to refer to here. The rat
is practically omnivorous, and so gets his living where more select
appetites and digestions would starve. “Hit him ’ard, he ain’t a’ got
no friends,” as was said of the pauper boy in “Oliver Twist.” Every
creature’s hand seems turned against him, and we, agreeably to this
bent of nature, will now proceed to compass his destruction by means of
trapping.
[Illustration: Fig. 8.]
Unquestionably the best trap is the common iron gin. Everybody knows
what that is like, with its centre plate and formidable rows of teeth
on either side the jaws. I shall therefore spare you a drawing and
description of it, and content myself with simply advising that the
teeth be of the shape shown at Fig. 8--that is, square points fitting
when closed in half circles. Now this form of tooth does not cut
through the limb of the captured animal so readily as the saw-shaped
does, and is preferable on that account. Rats are very prone to gnaw
through a fractured limb and free themselves--they will not do this
nearly so readily, however, if the teeth be of the shape indicated.
This is also the best shape for the capture of other vermin, as we
shall see as these chapters proceed.
[Illustration: Fig. 9.]
In all cases a chain about eighteen inches is attached by means of an S
hook in the gin. A swivel should be placed about the middle, and a ring
of about an inch and a quarter should terminate it. A good stout stake,
about eighteen inches long, is also necessary, and ash is particularly
recommendable if it can be procured. If it be trimmed when cut, like
Fig. 9, so that a short piece of branch keeps the ring from slipping
off, so much the better. Another tool which is ever useful when gins
are being set (and that will be pretty frequent with the vermin I shall
speak about) is a hammer shaped something like Fig. 10. You will see
that it has a broad, hatchet-like form to it instead of the claws of
an ordinary hammer, and this is for cutting into the earth, separating
roots, etc. In twenty ways it comes in useful, so I advise my readers
to get one made after this pattern.
[Illustration: Fig. 10.]
Be careful in setting your trap to keep your fingers well away from
the teeth, and to do this observe the following method. Place your
right foot upon the spring firmly, and as the jaws fall back, quickly
lift the catch over with your right hand; then, without relaxing
pressure, raise the plate of the trap from underneath until it allows
of the catch to meet the nick in the plate. Set them lightly or hard,
according to the animal to be trapped. Experience will soon enable you
to judge how this should be for a rat. A fine sieve is generally used
by trappers to sift dirt over the trap when set, but you can dispense
with this if you wear gloves. In rat-trapping, by the by, always wear
thick gloves; rats can smell you infallibly.
You can easily detect a rat-run, and quite as easily tell if it be
fresh or not, by noticing the appearance of the excrement. Having
determined on a fresh run, endeavor so to set your trap that the catch
shall be light, and the whole affair completely hidden from sight, the
pan or plate being baited with whatever seems to have been the recent
food, or food most likely to be got near by the run. For rats in runs
where they come to feed, by walls, rick-sides, or places at which they
appear most, the traps should be set. When the run appear stale or not
much used, they should be shifted to other places. For rats a great
variety of baits may be used, but the best is generally something like
what they are in the habit of feeding upon on farm premises; grain,
with sufficient chaff or cut hay to cover the bottom, meal mixed with
sweet broth or small bits of meat. Rats may be enticed with oils of
aniseed, thyme, and rhodium, and when traps are new and smell of the
shop a few drops should be rubbed inside the bottom of the traps to
take the other smell away. By using a drag of these oils, rubbed on a
herring or a piece of clean rag, rats may be enticed a long way.
A capital bait for old poaching rats--such as would not hesitate to
kill your spring chickens or young rabbits--is the drawing of game of
any sort, or the young of pigeons or young birds. I have also found
the following a capital dodge to enable one to overcome the cunning
of an old buck rat. Get some sprats and pound them. Put them in glass
bottles and cork and seal, and hang them up in the sun for three weeks
or so, or put them on a dung-hill of moderate heat. This will entirely
decompose and resolve them into an oily substance exceedingly bad
smelling. Pour some of this on a rag and drag it about from a common
center where the trap is, and indeed it is well to drag it after one
as the traps are seen to successively. The trap bait should be roasted
salt fish. A kippered herring does famously, and a few drops of oil of
aniseed can be put on the bait. I have known this to be exceedingly
successful.
A similar sort of treatment is necessary for the water-rat. There is,
however, but little necessity to use baits if the trap be set under
water at the spot where the creature emerges. The precise place can be
easily seen, and its freshness or staleness as a “run” be determined
in the same way as that of a brown rat. The water-rat is easily
distinguished from its cousin the brown by the tail of the former being
covered with hair and that of the latter with scales, of which there
are 200 rows. It must not be supposed, however, because the water-rat
derives its living from the water chiefly that it is not a destructive
creature inland. A very interesting writer says: “We have seen
water-rats cross a wide meadow, climb the stalks of the dwarf beans,
and after detaching the pods with their teeth, shell the beans in a
most woman-like manner.” They are also said to mount vines and feed on
grapes, and I can verify that they are fond of plums from the following
incident:
Between my study window and the margin of a stream at the foot of
my garden stand two tall trees of the bullace plum, and this year
they have been unusually full of fruit. I placed a ladder against
one of the trees in order to pick the plums, but rain or some other
interference prevented my doing so at the intended time; thus the
ladder remained for some days. Now I have a large tabby cat, and
besides a good rat-killer she is fond of birds, and strangely enough
will climb trees and spring at a bird within reach, in nine cases out
of ten falling to the ground with her captive in her mouth. As I sat
writing one morning Tabby mounted her coign of vantage by means of the
ladder, and scaled to the topmost height, enjoying the sunshine, and
not, I fancy, on this occasion waiting for prey. However, good things
come when least expected, and presently Tabby and I both beheld a
large water-rat--unseen by the latter, of course--approach the ladder,
and after peering slyly round, began to mount it, which he did with
remarkable agility. On reaching the first large branch he stepped on
it, and without the least hesitation made for a cluster of the plums
and began his feast. I told you Tabby saw him as well as I, and I would
have given much too if she had not. As Mr. Rat sat absorbed with his
back to her, like a jungle leopard, creeping with silent certainty on
its innocent, unsuspecting prey, Tabby slowly approached, and the
steadfast glare in her greenish eyes was full of a deadly purpose,
which gathered strength as she progressed. Presently, when within three
feet of the still gourmandizing rat, her fell purpose culminated in
a terrific but unerring spring, which tumbled rat and cat out of the
tree to the ground. Habet! alas! he had it, and after a few terrific
crunches of her jaws Tabby rose from the body proudly, with swinging
tail and a victorious air, which as plainly as language conveyed
infinite self-complacency at the death-dealing deed.
These rats are more clever in boring their tunnels than the brown
species, resembling, in fact, the ingenuity of the mole rather than the
rat. They are much more cleanly also. Should you get an apple or pear
or melon which has been bitten by a brown rat you will instantly detect
it by its peculiar musty odor and taste. The water-rat is, on the
contrary, a much more cleanly animal, and its flesh is not uncommonly
eaten by the French peasants on _maigre_ days. It breeds in the spring,
and again in autumn if the spring litter be very early, bringing forth
five or six at a time. The nest is usually by the side of a river or
stream. In the roots of an old willow tree just opposite my house
I found six nests this year. Not that these rats will not at times
build away from the water. I know of several instances, as a neighbor
was plowing in a dry, chalky field, far removed from any water, he
turned out a water rat that was curiously laid up in an _hybernaculum_
artificially formed of grass and leaves. At one end lay about a gallon
of potatoes, regularly stowed, on which it was to have supported itself
for the winter.
When a rat is caught in a gin always be careful to keep your hand at a
distance on releasing it. In fact, do not let it go at all, but kill
it at once. I do not like the idea of letting a suffering animal be
farther tormented by dogs, or even cats. There can be no true sport in
it except, perhaps, to the savage instincts of the dog, and why a human
being should find cruel sport for a dog I cannot tell you.
The other species, the black rat (_Mus rattus_), is perhaps a more
ancient importation even than the brown. It is, however, scarcer
than either of the others. Its colors are grayish black above and
ash-colored, and beneath it is about seven and a half inches long when
full grown.
Ferrets are often employed to aid in exterminating the brown rat. The
ferret is of no use whatever for the water-rat, though it is certainly
extremely useful when barns, wood-heaps, and such like erections
are infested. The gun is the thing, in the hands of an experienced
sportsman, to kill them as the ferrets force them to leave their homes,
but a few sharp dogs and a half dozen sharp school-fellows with sticks
will produce very certain destruction. Be careful not to mistake
the head of a ferret coming out of a hole for that of a rat, as once
happened to me in this wise. I was staying at a farm-house, and it was
proposed one fine December morning to try an hour or two’s ferreting.
My school chum, with whom I was staying, possessed some very tame and
good working ferrets, one in particular, a fine brownish dog ferret, by
which he set great store. The great wheat barn was to be laid siege to,
and he being a good shot and older than I, took down his gun and loaded
it preparatory to starting.
“Jack,” said he to me, “you can shoot, can’t you?” I was but fourteen
then and a school boy, and I fear I answered rather too readily and
without sufficient modesty, “Oh, yes; have you a gun to spare?” Yes, he
had a single-barrel pretty little weapon, and, proud as a cock-robin, I
sallied forth, on mighty shots intent. “Now,” said he, with emphasis,
“stand here; watch that hole, and as soon as you see the _whole_ of a
rat’s body fire away, but be careful not to kill a ferret, which you
may easily do if you fire too hastily.” I recollect I rather scorned
the idea of mistaking a ferret for a rat, and with steadfast attention
prepared to kill the first of the rodents that appeared. It seemed an
age, and then one swiftly popped his head out and bolted past me, my
fire hitting the ground at least a yard behind him. How savage I was!
not to speak of the half sneers of my companions. Next time I would be
ready. Ah! there was a slight movement in the hole, a small nose poked
itself out and then disappeared. I pointed the gun straight for the
hole. Out it came again, and then a brown head swiftly appeared. Bang!
Hurrah! I had killed him. Round came the boys. “Well done,” said my
friend Ted, as he stooped to draw out the murdered wretch. “Why, you
duffing idiot, you’ve killed my best dog ferret!” Moral, do not jump at
conclusions.
IV. THE OTTER.
The otter is one of the most graceful of living creatures, but as a
fisherman and fishculturist, I candidly confess that I look on him as a
detestable nuisance on my river. What says the poet!
“Nor spears
That bristle on his back defend the perch
From his wide, greedy jaws; nor burnished mail
The yellow carp; nor all his arts can save
Th’ insinuating eel, that hides his head
Beneath the slimy mud; nor yet escapes
The crimson-spotted trout, the river’s pride
And beauty of the stream.”
This is a faithful picture of the otter’s remorseless and predacious
nature. I caught one the other day in an eel-grate, whither he had
doubtless gone for the eels. The biter was, however, bit, for the rush
of water was too powerful, and on opening the door in the morning I
found him dead and stiff.
The otter usually kills many more fish than it actually wants for
food, and as otters generally hunt in pairs, it is not uncommon to
find in the morning as many as thirteen or fourteen prime trout--in an
ordinarily plentiful river, of course--killed and only partly eaten.
Like the lord mayor’s jester, however, the otter knows what is good,
or, indeed, best, for it eats away the shoulders of the fish, leaving
the rest to rot or be devoured by rats.
I have said it is graceful, and so it is, in a remarkable degree.
Let me advise you, if you live in New York, to visit the Zoological
Gardens, in Central Park, and watch the fine sinuous turns and sweeps
as the otter seizes or seeks for its prey. Its body is long and
flexible, and its feet short and webbed, and the adjacent muscles are
of immense muscular power. Its eyes are large, the ears short, and it
is bewhiskered like a Viking. Its coat is double, like that of the
seal. Long glossy hairs form the outer one, and a short waterproof
woolly waistcoat comprises the inner, so that neither cold nor wet
can affect the well-being of this amphibious hunter. In the daytime
it hides itself in its hole, which usually is some feet deep in the
bank, _above_ highwater mark, but at night its depredations commence;
and when the female has young, say five, and the male otter works with
her, as he generally does, I estimate that from thirty to forty fish
per night are, if anything, rather within the number than beyond. Can
any one deny, therefore, that the otter comes within the common-sense
definition of vermin?
If the otter be taken young, and great kindness and care be shown it,
it may be transferred from the category of vermin into that of “pets,”
and I do not think there is a much more interesting pet in existence,
and I recollect one which used to run about after its master at Eton,
England, some years since. A friend of mine (head river-keeper on a
nobleman’s estate) took a tame one from an old poacher which the latter
had constantly employed to catch fish and bring to him. My friend
tells me that when he caught the poacher he had some sixty fine trout,
scarcely injured, in a bag, all of which had been captured by the otter.
There are many instances of a similar character referred to in the
natural history books which I cannot produce here. It is sufficient
to say that otter-taming, and even the utilizing of the creature for
fishing purposes, is by no means uncommon.