Part 7

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GEESE.

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NO thoughtful man who believes in the transmigration of souls can doubt for an instant that those of military men pass a portion of their period of change in the bodies of geese. Of all birds it is the most military; its carriage, habits, and customs all point to its being animated by a spirit which in some former phase of existence has passed through the hands of a drill sergeant. Whether walking, swimming, or flying, the goose shows its military instincts. It carries its head well upright, with a certain amount of stiffness, which speaks of reminiscences of the military stock. It advances with its comrades in solid phalanx, and even when feeding preserves the same order, and holds itself in readiness for instant action. A similar formation is preserved while swimming and flying, although in the latter exercise the goose prefers travelling in single file, each member of the column preserving its distance accurately, and keeping itself in readiness to range up in close order should necessity require such a movement.

The watchfulness of the bird is proverbial. In their wild state sentries always keep guard over the feeding flock, and at night it is easier to surprise a house guarded by the most wakeful of watch-dogs than to approach one around which geese have taken up their quarters. The fact that geese saved Rome by giving warning of the approach of the Gauls while the watch-dog slept is historical, and the goose was ever afterwards honoured by that military people. Even now the goose is employed in many places as a watcher, and there are many nurserymen in the neighbourhood of London who keep two or three geese in their gardens to give notice of the approach of marauders upon their fruit and flowers. It is singular, indeed, that they have not been utilised still further in this direction. They certainly have the drawback that, however great their valour, they are not feared by the armed burglar as much as is a savage watch-dog; but, upon the other hand, they can be cheaply kept, and can bring up a family which can be turned to other purposes than that of sentinels. Of all birds they are the most courageous; the gallinaceæ, and, indeed, many other birds, will fight fiercely among themselves, but they rarely exhibit valour against other creatures, and are almost universally afraid of man. The goose, on the contrary, is of mild temper with its comrades, and it is rare indeed that quarrels of a serious nature arise even in a large flock of them; but they have little fear of other creatures. They will close up together and face a dog, and will fiercely resent the approach of a bull to their feeding ground; they will attack even a good-sized boy who ventures to interfere with them, and although they will retreat before a man, they do so in good military order, showing a brave front as they fall back, and ready instantly to assume the offensive if an occasion offers itself.

In its wild state the goose is an aquatic bird, but when domesticated among us it prefers the dry land to the water; even when a pond is handy for its use, it passes but a very small portion of its time upon the water, and depends principally for its sustenance upon what it can pick up on the land. It has doubtless observed that the horse, the bullock, and the sheep, who stand high in the estimation of man, obtain their sustenance by grazing in the fields, and has therefore abandoned its family habits of feeding upon marine plants and insects, and has taken to grazing. It retains its web feet, however, so as to be in readiness for any contingency that may arise. This adaptability to circumstances has given rise to the supposition that the military spirits inhabiting the bodies of geese belonged in their lifetime to the gallant corps of marines, who always distinguish themselves equally by land and sea. The goose has suffered grievously owing to the popular, but altogether erroneous, belief in its silliness. How this belief—as expressed by calling a child a silly or a stupid goose—first originated has never been explained, for there can be no doubt whatever that the goose possesses an intelligence far above that of average birds.

Under ordinary circumstances the goose is dignified in its deportment, and there is nothing that so angers it as to be hurried. Under such circumstances its movements are awkward, and when compelled to walk much faster than its ordinary gait, it is often on the verge of falling on its nose—a misfortune which does not, so far as we know, happen to any other bird or beast under the same circumstances. It is the consciousness, no doubt, that its appearance when so bustled borders on the ludicrous that excites the anger of the goose, for it is to be observed that after such an exhibition it is a long time before it recovers its usual placidity of demeanour. At times geese have shown themselves capable of strong personal attachment to their owners, following them about like dogs, and abandoning their usual habits of military evolution with their comrades. This clearly enough points to the fact that these geese were, in their former state, soldier-servants, whose duties lay in personal attendance upon officers, and were never of a military character.

Unlike the hen, the female goose is not perpetually roaming about laying eggs. In the proper season she lays a sufficient number for the perpetuation of her race, and brings up a family more or less carefully; but even in this matter she does not exhibit the perpetual fussiness of the hen. She allows her young ones considerable freedom of action, but is ready in their defence to face the largest dog, and to oppose a threatening and formidable demeanour even to a human being whom she suspects of aggressive intentions towards them. So courageous is her attitude under such circumstances, that even the fiercest dogs will turn tail before her onslaught, and the ordinary boy, although he may pretend to deride her anger, will keep at a respectful distance from her. Undoubtedly the goose when attacking would have a more dignified appearance did it keep its head back in readiness for a stroke, as does the swan, instead of advancing with outstretched neck. This, however, is clearly the result of bygone drill, and the reminiscence of bayonet exercise. The cry of the goose is scarcely melodious; its hissing is almost peculiar to itself, its congener, the swan, being alone with it in the possession of the faculty of raising this angry and threatening sound. A flock of geese advancing to the attack, hissing loudly, are sufficiently alarming to the average woman, and terrifying in the extreme to a child, and even animals vastly superior in bulk and strength exhibit signs of trepidation when thus assailed. As might be expected, the goose is not particular as to its rations, and will eat anything. It will browse upon water weeds, it will graze on grass, it delights in corn, and will eat scraps of any kind of food. The final result of all this is eminently satisfactory. It is doubtful whether any kind of bird affords such excellent eating. Were the goose a rare bird, and its flesh so costly as to be seen only on the tables of the wealthy, it is probable that it would be considered as the very greatest of luxuries. Owing, however, to its numbers, and the manner in which it picks up its own living, it requires but little outlay in its rearing. Its flesh is so plentiful that at certain seasons of the year it can actually be purchased at a lower rate than butcher’s meat. At Christmas time geese can be bought in London at sixpence a pound, and the goose can fairly claim to be the working man’s greatest luxury in the way of food.

Although fashion has ordained that the turkey shall occupy the place of honour on the Christmas board of the well-to-do, the flesh of that bird is dry and tasteless in comparison to the juicy and well-flavoured meat of the goose. But, in addition to supplying man with some of his most tasty food, the goose also bestows upon him the most comfortable of beds. It is true that the hand of innovation has produced many contrivances of steel and iron, with complications of springs, to produce the same effect of elasticity as the bed stuffed with good goose feathers, and it may be owned that in summer time the spring bed possesses certain advantages, but in the depth of winter it is a poor substitute for the warmth and cosiness of the feather bed. Altogether, the goose deserves a far higher place than it really occupies in the esteem and affection of mankind. Its courage and military habits render it admirable when alive; its flesh and its feathers should win for it our warmest regard after its death.

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SLUGS.

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ALTHOUGH the slug is not generally classed under the head of feræ naturæ, it is in the summer time of the year hunted extensively, and with the greatest assiduity. The chase is kept up, indeed, in every garden in England, but it is in the villa gardens of London that the hunt is most actively pursued. It is not that the hatred towards the slug is stronger there than elsewhere, but its depredations are more noticed and cause greater annoyance. In a large country garden, although the head gardener may gnash his teeth when he finds that heavy raids have been made upon his beds of petunias or his tender young vegetables, the damage done is comparatively so small that it is scarcely noticed. But the ravages committed in a villa garden catch the eye at once. The possessor, if fond of his little domain, knows every plant in it by sight, and when he finds a dozen of his pet seedlings—raised under a handlight, watched, watered, and tended with pride and pleasure—lying upon the ground, eaten off a quarter of an inch above the surface on the very morning after being planted out, his heart is filled with grief and rage, and he becomes from that day a determined slug-hunter. This pursuit is a fascinating one; undertaken at first from a thirst for vengeance, it is soon pursued for its own sake. Many high qualities are requisite for marked success in the sport. It requires watchfulness, patience, ingenuity, a knowledge of the habits of the prey and of its likes and dislikes, and a certain intrepidity as to the risks from night air and damp feet, for it is only when the ground is moist that anything like a good bag can be hoped for.

The slug is as defenceless as the pigeon, and no greater share of courage is required for slug hunting than for pigeon shooting; but whereas the one amusement is a slaughter of innocents, the other is the destruction of ravening beasts, and stands therefore in a far higher category. The slug trusts neither to speed nor fierceness; we know from story how his cousin, the snail, when attacked, put to flight a troop of tailors, by the exhibition of his horns, or, as the scientific would tell us, of his eyes on their upreared stalks. But if the slug possesses eyes, he makes no show of them. We are aware that he possesses a rudimentary shell, which he carries somewhere in his body, and it is possible that he stows away his eyes with equal care.

Secretiveness is, indeed, a strong point in his character, and it enables him to hide himself with such marked success that, until he chooses from hunger or inclination to walk abroad, he can defy the most careful searcher. The slug, unlike the snail, leaves a trail behind him, and this remains visible for hours. The creature is fully aware of the danger which this shining evidence of his passage would entail upon him, but his native craft enables him to baffle his pursuers. As the fox doubles across his trail to throw off the hounds, so does the slug upon his return to his hiding-place at daylight double and twist until his trail is a very labyrinth which Dædalus himself could not solve. Men have been known in the enthusiasm of the chase to sprinkle finely powdered charcoal over a trail of this kind. The use of a bellows removes all the particles save those adhering to the shiny trail, which is thus rendered permanent, and can then be studied at leisure. But even under these favourable conditions the problem has proved insoluble, and medical men cannot too strongly dissuade their patients from undertaking a pursuit which experience has shown will eventually terminate in madness.

People who write books about gardening give instructions for guarding plants from snails, and often recommend a circle of sawdust, soot, or lime to be spread round each plant. The villa gardener knows that one might as well try to keep a fox from a hen-roost by making a chalk mark on the door. He has tried the experiment. He has spent hours, and nearly broken his back, in applying these pretended remedies, and in the morning his most cherished plants have fallen before the destroyer. He knows that there is no prevention, and that the only cure is the persistent hunting down of the enemy. There are various methods of attaining this end. Pieces of orange peel, if laid on the ground, may be searched in the morning with a fair chance of success; for the slug is so fond of them that, instead of returning to his home at daybreak, he clings to them, and may be found underneath, gorged with over-much eating. Pieces of board six or eight inches square, pressed firmly into the ground, are a good trap, as these keep the soil beneath them moist, and the slug loves moisture and takes refuge under them. Much execution may be done by these and similar traps, but the enthusiast regards these devices with contempt, for he knows that the enemy may be thinned but that he will never be exterminated by such means. The legitimate sport is the night hunt, the search, by the light of a lantern, of cabbage or lettuce leaves cast down in the favourite haunts of the slug. On these, on a warm night after a light rain, it may be found by the score—of all sizes, from the tiny glistening speck no larger than a pin’s head, to the full-grown animal as long and as thick as a man’s little finger. The slug-hunter recognises two species of slugs. There are others he knows, notably the great black slug of the woods, but these concern him not. The two garden species are the white slug, slimy, active, and enterprising, thin in figure, and seldom over an inch in length; and the brown slug, very much larger and heavier, short and dumpty in figure, triangular in section, only slightly slimy to the touch, and with a coat of the toughness of india-rubber.

Hitherto all efforts to turn the slug to profitable use have failed, and mankind have been content to destroy without utilising it. The snail, we know, makes a good and nourishing soup, and nothing but prejudice prevents it from becoming a valuable article of food. But the snail, living as it does in its shell, has but a soft skin, while the slug possesses a coat of extraordinary toughness, which would seem to be an obstacle in the way of its ever becoming useful for culinary purposes. Inventive minds have suggested other uses for it. An enthusiast was convinced that the slug would make an admirable glue, while another has pointed out that the skin of large specimens, carefully tanned, would make imperishable fingers for gloves. The latter idea has never yet been carried out, owing to the impossibility of finding any material of equal durability and toughness for the other portions of the glove.

All efforts to tame or educate the slug have been vain. It has, indeed, been used by showmen at fairs to spell out names from letters scattered at random on the stage; but it is well-known that the creatures were directed to the desired letters by small pieces of cabbage-leaf fastened beneath them. The exhibition was abandoned, owing to the slowness of movement of the creatures, as they took no fewer than four hours to spell out a word of five letters, and audiences grew tired before the conclusion of the performance, and did not stay to obtain the full value of the penny paid at the door. But although, so far, the slug has failed to afford either profit or gratification to man, its existence cannot be termed a failure, for there can be no doubt that, although unprovided with visible eyes, feet, or other organs, the slug manages to enjoy itself vastly. It has a keen scent, and a most discriminating appetite; its food is abundant, and costs it nothing. Although it can eat and enjoy cabbage leaves, it has higher tastes. For young melons and cucumber plants it has the keenest relish, seedlings of all sorts it loves, and the more rare and valuable the better it likes them. The slug is, in fact, a gourmand, and it is the delicacy of its palate which proves its ruin. Did it content itself with the abundant cabbage or the full-sized lettuce, men would not grudge it its share, and none would trouble to hunt it with lantern and traps; but it is its fastidiousness of appetite, its craving for the young and the rare, its weakness for the quarter of an inch next to the ground of the stalks of seedlings, which sets vengeance upon its track, and causes it to be hunted to extermination. At present, however, the end is apparently far off; for in spite of its foes the slug flourishes exceedingly, and whatever be the prospects of other game, it is likely to afford sport for the suburban gardener for generations to come.

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THE PIG.

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SO accustomed are we to the pig in his sty that we are apt to forget that he is naturally one of the most valiant of animals, a sturdy and desperate fighter, able to hold his own against most wild beasts, and ready to face man and to die, fighting valiantly to the last, in defence of his wife and offspring. Whether the pig has improved or deteriorated under the hand of man depends upon the point of view from which he is regarded. Those engaged in consuming the succulent ham, or the crisp rasher, would, doubtless, reply in the affirmative; while the Indian officer, on his return from a morning spent in the fierce and hazardous sport of pig-sticking, would utter as decided a negative. Between the wild boar and the domestic pig the difference is as wide as between the aboriginal Briton and the sleek alderman; and, in both cases, though civilisation has done much, eating has done more to bring about the change. Gluttony is undoubtedly at the root of the pig’s present condition and status. It cannot be called a gourmand, for it is not particular as to its food, and demands quantity rather than quality. It is content to eat and to sleep alternately, and the whole energy of its naturally vigorous disposition is devoted to putting on fat. The consequence is, it is ready for market at almost any period of existence. Whether as the toothsome sucking-pig or as a venerable great-great-grandmother, the pig is, after a period of repose and extra feeding, equally appreciated as an article of food. Other animals become tough and lean in old age; the pig knows its duty to man better than this, and is ready at all times of its life to bring itself into the condition fitted for the knife. In his wild state the boar is swift of foot, clad in a coat of coarse, thick hairs, with bristling spine. His tusks are very formidable weapons, and he can use his strong forelegs to strike with effect. Even the royal tiger will shun a contest with this sturdy warrior, unless absolutely driven to it by hunger. His cousins and relations all share his courage. The peccary of Mexico, small as he is, will when in bands attack the jaguar, or even man, with absolute confidence, and, although many may fall in the assault, will, in either case, almost certainly prove the conqueror in the end; while the wild pigs of Paraguay are equally fierce and formidable, and, having driven a hunter into a tree, will remain round it, and refuse to retreat until scores have fallen by his rifle, or until they are driven away by hunger. The domestic pig, like the Britons when under the tutelage of the Romans, would seem to have lost his warlike virtues, were it not that there still lingers in his wicked little eye an expression of savage defiance that speaks of a consciousness of latent power ready to break into open war did he see a prospect of emancipating himself from his degrading slavery.

There is a prejudice against the pig because he is dirty. It is difficult to imagine a more unreasonable one. He is kept by man in a filthy stye, penned in within the narrowest possible limits, and deprived of the decencies of life. Under such circumstances, it is practically impossible that he could be otherwise than dirty. As in his wild state he is protected by a coat of smooth bristles from the dirt, nature has not bestowed upon him the long and flexible tongue that enables the dog and cat tribe to clean themselves. His short neck, too, renders it impossible for him to reach the greater portion of his body. The fact that his skin becomes dirty from the conditions under which he lives would matter comparatively little, so far as the estimation in which man holds him, were he covered with hair. Man is tolerant of dirt when it is not brought prominently under his notice, and it is the height of injustice to blame the pig for a hairlessness which is solely due to the fact that he is kept in comparatively warm quarters. The pig of Italy and Sardinia, which for the greater portion of the year picks up his living in the forests in a state of semi-wildness, is still well clothed with hair; and, indeed, it is only when kept entirely in confinement, as with us, that he almost wholly loses his natural covering.

The pig is an eminently vocal animal, and even in the bosom of his family he maintains a steady, if to man monotonous, conversation. He possesses a large variety of notes, in this respect far surpassing any other animal. The cat has an extensive register, but principally among the high notes; while the pig’s tones embrace the whole gamut, from the deep grunt of discontent to the wild shriek of despair. Properly educated, the pig should be capable of vocal triumphs of a very high kind, its upper notes being as clear and no more unpleasant than the corresponding ones of an operatic soprano, while the lower ones would be the envy of a basso profundo. It is a little singular that no persistent effort should have been made to utilise the pig’s vocal powers in this direction, although he has at times been taught to spell and to perform other feats requiring as high an intelligence as that of singing.

The pig is capable of adapting himself to all and any circumstances in which he may find himself. In Ireland it complacently accepts the position of a member of the family; in Africa and the East, where flesh is not in demand, and no one takes the trouble to fatten him, he readily assumes the office of scavenger in general, and performs that role admirably. No one has yet, so far as we are aware, adopted the pig as a drawing-room pet; and yet, if tended with the same care bestowed upon the lap-dog, there is no reason why he should not shine in that capacity. His tail is fully as curly as that of the pug, his skin may compare not unfavourably with that of the shaved poodle, while in point of sprightliness he is, at any rate in his younger days, superior to the bulldog. He would not run up curtains like a kitten, nor knock down valuable ornaments from the chimney-piece; while he might, doubtless, be trained with very little trouble into becoming an efficient guard in the house. He is certainly capable of affection, and, as all acquainted with his habits are aware, has pronounced likes and dislikes.

In the East the pig is viewed with extreme abhorrence, or, at the best, with contempt; but as he shares this feeling with the dog, it must be regarded rather as a proof of the want of perspicuity on the part of man than of any demerit on that of the pig. The pig does not naturally take to the water, and it would have been well had he been, like the dog, encouraged to do so, for when once fairly driven to it he is a good swimmer; and the popular belief, that he cuts his own throat with its fore feet, is, like many other popular beliefs, wholly erroneous, although it is true that he will sometimes, in his first flurry at finding himself in an unaccustomed element, scratch his cheeks somewhat severely.

In the early days of our history the pig formed an even more important article of food than he does now. The swineherd was a much more common personage than the shepherd; and, indeed, at a time when the greater part of the country was covered with a dense forest, sheep must have been comparatively few and rare. In all the descriptions of the banquets of our forefathers swine’s flesh stands in the very first position, and seems to have been a much more common article of nutriment than beef. The pig, indeed, affords a great variety of food. The boar’s head, properly garnished, is a lordly dish; brawn has always been regarded as a delicacy; and pig’s flesh is good whether boiled or roasted, salted or smoked. The pig can be eaten almost to the last scrap, for his feet are edible, chitterlings and tripe are relished by many, and from his superabundant fat we have the lard so useful to housewives.

His skin furnishes an excellent leather. His bristles are unrivalled for the manufacture of brushes. Our ancestors showed their wisdom in the warm appreciation of the pig, and no small proportion of our cousins, the Americans, exist almost entirely upon his flesh. The pig is an admirable emigrant, and appears to be almost indifferent to climate, flourishing wherever it has been introduced—from the sunny islands of the South Seas to the rigour of a Canadian winter. So that it can be given sufficient food or obtain it by foraging, he is contented, and applies himself vigorously to the work of putting on flesh and rearing frequent and extensive families. The contempt with which the pig is too generally regarded should be exchanged for a respectful admiration of his numerous and varied excellences.