The Romance of the Animal World

CHAPTER XXVI. Man-Eating Animals—the Tiger’s Slave—a Savage

MAN-EATING ANIMALS—THE TIGER’S SLAVE—A SAVAGE LION-HUNT—WOLF-REARED CHILDREN—MEN AND APES—A SHAM GORILLA—UNPROHIBITED MURDER—A MONKEY’S MALISON 308

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

1. ALLIGATOR AND PECCARY Frontispiece

PAGE

2. EAGLE ATTACKING AN OSPREY 34

3. BEAR BESET BY WILD SWINE 82

4. MALDONADA AND THE PUMA 88

5. SPIDERS AS PETS 168

6. OTTER AND SALMON 174

7. BEAVERS TREE-FELLING 194

8. A BRAVE WALRUS 210

9. JAGUAR ATTACKED BY PECCARIES 224

10. COMBAT OF WHALE AND SWORD-FISH 260

11. WOLF PLEADING FOR LIFE 282

12. SABLE ANTELOPE AND WILD DOGS 292

13. WOLVERINE STEALING A GRIDIRON 304

14. A LION HUNT 310

15. MIDNIGHT ASSASSINS 316

16. GORILLAS FIGHTING 326

THE ROMANCE OF THE ANIMAL WORLD

CHAPTER I. A Microscopic Combat—a Snail’s Friendship—Hermit-Crab and

A MICROSCOPIC COMBAT—A SNAIL’S FRIENDSHIP—HERMIT-CRAB AND SEA-ANEMONE IN PARTNERSHIP—A CRAB IN AMBUSH—CRABS THAT EAT COCOANUTS.

Before there can be any romance—as I understand the word—in animal life, there must be some degree of intelligence in the romance-making animals. The question, therefore, is, at what stage in the ascending scale any conscious exertion of brain-power—any evidence of what we call a mind—begins to show itself. I say this because I have to begin somewhere, and in my selection of subject-matter to illustrate the title of this book, I had intended to pursue a plan similar in principle to that resolved on by Koko, in Mr. Gilbert’s Mikado, who, with a view to becoming perfect as an executioner, was going “to begin with a guinea-pig and work his way through the animal kingdom, till he came to a second trombone.” Of course I must begin much lower down than a guinea-pig, and the nearest approach I can hope to make to a second trombone will be a gorilla—but the principle is the same. However, on further consideration, I think that this scheme, if rigidly followed, may prove too exacting, and also give an appearance of scientific pretension to this humble little work, which it is entirely guiltless of. I have decided, therefore, to soften and modify it by the employment, when occasion offers, of another and somewhat opposed principle, that, namely, of letting one thing link itself to another as it does in ordinary conversation, either through suggestion or association, quite irrespective of whether there is any or no natural—that is to say, systematic—connection between the two. For instance, should alligators be the theme, and should they, after lying like logs on the water, and so forth, proceed, in the dramatic development of their character, to seize and devour some unsuspecting mammal, I shall use the incident as a convenient opportunity for treating of that mammal—should there be anything to say about it—without waiting for its proper turn to be treated of to arrive, as upon the first-stated principle I should have to do. But where opportunities of this sort do not present themselves—if birds have only to do with birds, insects with insects, and so forth—then I shall be systematic, and so go on, letting the one method balance the other. A third principle—that, namely, of paying no attention to either of the other two—will also occasionally be acted upon, and if, as a result of the three, no principle at all should be discernible by the reader, I would ask him to look upon that as a merit, since “Summa ars est celare artem.” And now, having explained my system, which I think is an easy and flexible one, I will proceed to put it into practice in the best way I can.

The lowest of all animals are the protozoa, yet even here, as it appears to me, we begin to see the dawnings of that intelligence, without which that kind of interest which the life and acts of any creature should possess, in order to make it the subject for a work like this, can hardly be said to exist. The infusoria stand at the very bottom even of the protozoa. Most of them are so small as to be invisible, except through the microscope, and they are not supposed ever to think. Yet a creature belonging to this humble group, having a cup-shaped body, with a grasping arm or tail to it, has been seen to attach itself, with this, to the cup of another individual of the same species, considerably larger than itself, and cling there with a pertinacity very suggestive of a firm intent. Upon this the larger one became, to all appearance, very excited, and, moving about in the water—for these creatures are aquatic—till it came to some weed, fastened with its one limb on a piece of this, and proceeded to jerk itself backwards and forwards, with great suddenness and vigour, and with the evident design, as it seemed, of ridding itself of the intruder. The latter, however, held on like grim death, and this hard-pitched battle, which had all the appearance of being intelligently directed, went on between these two microscopic and simply formed creatures, for quite a long time. At length the smaller of the two was jerked off, upon which it made a second attempt to establish itself as before, but was defeated by the efforts of its more powerful adversary. The witness of this interesting scene tells us it was very difficult to believe that the two lowly organisms engaged in it, though consisting but of a single cell, without a head and with no trace of a nervous system, properly so called, were not sentient beings, conscious of what they were doing, and of why they were doing it.

Coming to the earthworms, which stand higher than the protozoa, though still very lowly, there seems little doubt that they are capable of forming and carrying out an intelligent purpose, since, when they pull leaves into their holes, they always catch hold of them by the proper part, so that they go down easily, and this they do even with the leaves of foreign trees, of which they can have had no previous experience. And if worms have experience, snails have both that and something better, or, at any rate, still more interesting to discover in a creature of this kind. “They appear,” says Darwin, “susceptible of some degree of permanent attachment. An accurate observer—Mr. Lonsdale—informs me that he placed a pair of land-snails, one of which was weakly, in a small and ill-provided garden. After a short time the strong and healthy individual disappeared, and was traced, by its track of slime, over a wall and into an adjoining well-stocked garden. Mr. Lonsdale concluded that it had deserted its sickly mate; but after an absence of twenty-four hours it returned, and, apparently, communicated the result of its successful exploration, for both then started along the same track, and disappeared over the wall.”

Both snails and worms, however, stand higher in the scale than do the sea-anemones, amongst which latter creatures—those flowers of ocean, rivalling with their pillared stalks and many-coloured living petals the proudest ones on earth—we yet find an instance of what is called commensalism—the living together, that is to say, in friendly community of two separate and often widely sundered species, each thereby obtaining some benefit for itself. The other party to the arrangement is in this instance a crab—the hermit-crab—that curious anchorite which by living and moving about in the disused shell of another creature escapes the many dangers which would otherwise threaten its soft and palatable body. Indeed, the association may almost be said to be between three, rather than two, different species, each of them belonging to a separate and well-marked division of the animal kingdom—viz. to the mollusca, the crustacea, and the cœlentera respectively. As, however, the mollusc is represented by its house only, and not by itself—though, indeed, its house is structurally a part of it—it will be safest to consider the alliance as a dual rather than as a triple one. That the anemone establishes itself on the shell, not by mere chance, as might sometimes happen, did the crab allow of it, may be demonstrated in a very delightful way; for if, when it is attached to a stone, a hermit-crab should be placed in its vicinity, it will, after a time, abandon its post, and gliding, like a snail, to the hospitable portals of its friend’s domain, proceed to attach itself there, much to the satisfaction of the latter. For that the crab’s participation is of an active kind, that he does not merely not mind the anemone, and that the latter has more than his sanction, is, likewise, a thing that can be proved. This discovery was first made in 1859 by Mr. Gosse, the naturalist, for up to that time it had always been imagined that the crab, at any rate, was indifferent. Mr. Gosse, however, by the simple expedient of detaching the anemone from the shell, demonstrated that this was not the case, for on each occasion that he did so the hermit-crab picked it up again in its two claws, and pressing it against its shell, held it there for about ten minutes, at the end of which time it was sticking fast, as before. The crab, therefore, must derive some advantage from the presence of the anemone in return for the protection which he perhaps affords the latter against certain enemies. Or possibly the constant change of locality, with its increased chances of procuring food, is the real or the principal benefit conferred. But how does the crab benefit? This, at first sight, is not quite so easy to see. The explanation usually given is that it is “masked” or concealed by the sea-anemone, which is by no means small in comparison with the size of the shell, but often almost and completely covers it, forming a sort of cloak round it at its base, and towering like a pillar above it, so that of the two it is by far the more conspicuous object, especially when the crab is withdrawn, or partly withdrawn, into its shell. Nor is it always one anemone only that is affixed to the shell; there may be as many as two or three, or even more, and in some cases not only the shell, but the crab’s own claws may be thus utilised. Certainly, therefore, if concealment is a gain to the crab, it obtains this advantage by the arrangement. If, too, it has any special enemies of its own—as it is very probable that it has—the stinging cells of its allies would be likely either to incapacitate them or keep them at a distance. Of one thing, at least, we may be certain, that some advantage is obtained—and, no doubt, it is a substantial one—by each of the individuals in this strange copartnership—for throughout nature, in associations of the kind, the principle expressed by the homely Scotch saying of “giff, gaff”—Anglicè, “nothing for nothing”—obtains. Apparent instances may indeed be found of one species doing something for the benefit of another, since the very nature of these arrangements is such as often to give them this appearance. But such instances are apparent only. Whatever it looks like, and whatever either or any of the parties concerned may do, they always do it for their own, and not for one another’s benefit.

Continue reading The Romance of the Animal World free in the Wunder reader →