Chapter X: Part 10

Hundreds of nests, quite as novel as any that have been described, might be instanced, showing varieties from so-called normal forms, but I shall content myself with only another example. Everyone is familiar with the Ruby-throated Humming Bird, so common in the eastern half of the United States. It is the smallest of all our birds. But its nest, which is by no means scarce, is a rare sight to the average man and woman. No nest can be compared with it. It is a thing of beauty and a joy forever. A mass of cotton, with a hole in the top, and thatched all round with blue-gray lichens, and just as big as a walnut, conveys a good idea of its appearance. But all nests are not made of cotton. The yellow wool that forms the dress of the undeveloped fern-frond, or the red shoddy that is wind-swept into heaps outside some woollen factory, is often made to take the place of the down of the seed of the poplar. Not to be mentioned in the same breath with these, is the nest I am now about to describe. It was saddled upon the horizontal bough of a small white oak-tree that grew on the side of a thicket, and was peculiar from the nature of the material that composed its inner fabric. This substance resembled burnt umber in color, and was as soft as the finest wool, or the fluffiest down, and proved, upon examination, to be the mycelium of a fungus which the builders had gathered from decaying stumps or mildewing tree-branch.

STRANGE FRIENDSHIP.

Somewhat widely distributed throughout temperate North America, but nowhere very abundant, is the little Acadian Owl, or Saw-whet Owl, as he is popularly designated. In Eastern Pennsylvania he seems notably scarce, but this may be attributed to his pre-eminently nocturnal and secluded habits. Being a denizen of dense pine forests, and only venturing abroad in quest of food at the close of the day, his presence and numbers remain to many a mystery. Hollow trees, and the dark caverns of rocks, are his natural retreats, and as these are to be met with largely in densely-timbered regions and sequestered localities, he is seldom, if ever, seen in close proximity to human habitations. He seemingly shuns rather than courts the society of man. When routed from his burrow in the broad glare of day he becomes very much bewildered, and is scarcely able to escape the approach of danger.

The common appellation of Saw-whet Owl, which is applied to the species, owes its origin to the close resemblance which the notes of the bird bear to the noise produced by the filing of a saw. These notes are so deceptive, that persons unacquainted with their source have fancied themselves in the vicinity of a saw-mill, or in near presence to a woodman occupied in whetting a saw. Audubon, hearing these notes in a thicket for the first time, was thus deceived. The same distinguished writer gives, on the authority of Mr. McCullock, an interesting description not only of the notes of this Owl, but also of his remarkable powers of ventriloquism. On a certain occasion his informant was aroused by what appeared to be the feeble tones of a distant bell. But in nearing the spot whence the sounds emanated, they apparently shifted from point to point, being heard at one time close by, and at the next moment in the distance, now on the left, then on the right, and as often in the rear as in the front. Finally the author of these sounds was discovered at the entrance of his burrow in a birch-tree. Stationing himself at the base of the tree in full view of the bird who was calling to his partner, Mr. McCullock had a splendid opportunity of observing an exhibition of his singular and exceptional ventriloquial powers.

Smooth, gliding and noiseless is the flight of this Owl, and but slightly elevated and protracted. When seeking for food he may be seen sailing over low meadows in the neighborhood of his accustomed haunts, or, perched upon a stump or fence-rail adjoining thereto, quietly gazing in every direction for whatever of life may chance to manifest itself, which he seizes with remarkable adroitness, even sometimes venturing to assail prey larger than himself. The smaller birds, awakened from their perch by his cries, fall ready victims to his rapacity.

Hollow trees, or the deserted nests of other species, are selected for breeding-quarters. The eggs, varying from four to six in number, are pure white, sub-spherical, of crystalline clearness, and measure one and one-eighth by one and seven-eighths inches. The food of this interesting little Owl, which is not so large as a robin, though appearing bulkier, consists of small quadrupeds and birds, but chiefly of various species of insects.

When taken quite young, and held in confinement, this Owl becomes quite tame, permitting strangers as well as his keeper to handle him with the utmost freedom, without so much as resenting such familiarity. But a greater attachment is manifested towards the master whom he is able to recognize by the sound of his voice, and in whose presence he is peculiarly fascinating and agreeable.

Like _Scops asio_--the Red Owl--he leads a solitary existence, save on the approach of warm weather, when the sexes are discovered together, or are heard calling one to the other. Mating commences early in April, and about the middle of the month the birds have located their nests in the hollow of a tree, about twenty feet from the ground, where the female lays her complement of eggs. The entrance to the hole is very small, scarcely two inches in diameter. Upon the female devolves the whole work of incubation, although the male takes a hand in raising the young. The latter leave the nest about the first week of May, and when disturbed make a noise that sounds like a dog sniffling the air, which, when heard, especially at night in heavy timber, is quite certain to startle one and make him fancy a bear or some such animal up a tree near by.

Some years ago there lived in the hollow of an oak tree, not far from Germantown, a common Chickaree Squirrel--_Sciurus Hudsonius_--with this little Owl as his sole companion. This association reminded me of the connection of the burrowing owl of the West with the singular settlements of the prairie dog, the life-relations of the two creatures being really intimate in very many localities, although the owls are simply attracted to the villages of the prairie-dogs as the most suitable places for shelter and nidification, where they find eligible ready-made burrows and are saved the trouble of digging for themselves. Community of interest makes them gregarious to an extent unusual among rapacious birds, while the exigencies of life on the plains cast their lot with the rodents. That the owls live at ease in the settlements, and on familiar terms with their four-footed neighbors, is an undoubted fact, but that they have any intimate domestic relations is open to question. That the quadruped and the birds are often seen to scuttle at each other’s heels into the same hole when alarmed is no proof that they live together, for in such a case the two merely seek the nearest shelter, independently of each other. In the larger settlements there are thousands upon thousands of burrows, many of them occupied by the dogs, but more, perhaps, vacant. These latter are the homes of the owls. It is possible that the respective retreats of a dog and an owl may have one common vestibule, but this does not imply that they nest together. There are fewest owls in the towns most densely populated by the dogs and the greatest number in the deserted villages, and this is strong evidence in point. But the owls are by no means confined to the dog-towns, nor even to the similar communities of other gregarious spermophiles. They sometimes occupy the underground dens of wolves, foxes and badgers. When the subject has been carefully investigated, the owls never appear to enter the same hole or burrow with a squirrel, and a squirrel is never seen to enter a burrow that was occupied by owls, however strongly he may be tempted by fear to enter the first hole he should come to. The spermophile never likes to enter any burrow but his own, and has been known to run past any number of inviting entrances in order that he may hide himself in his own domicile.

Living Together in Perfect Harmony and Mutual Good-will.]

In the case of the Chickaree Squirrel and the Saw-whet Owl, they occupied the same hole together in perfect harmony and mutual good-will. It was not an accidental occurrence, the Squirrel merely seeking the cavity to escape a danger that impended, for the bird and the Squirrel had been repeatedly observed to enter the hole together, and in the most amicable manner possible, as though they had always shared the apartment. Ordinarily the Chickaree is a very pugnacious creature, attacking with the greatest fierceness the gray and black squirrel whenever they had the temerity to cross his path. He seems to be ever bent upon blood. Though strictly by nature a rodent, subsisting principally upon nuts and the bark of trees, which his powerful incisors enable him to manipulate effectively, yet he has not always remained true to his instincts, for he has been frequently detected in eating the eggs of birds, and also in the seizure of the feathered denizens of our lawns and woods, which he will capture with all the skill of the blood-thirsty weasel. His method of operation is peculiar. He will lie in wait, concealed from view by the dense foliage of the trees which he is wont to affect when in quest of game, and when some unsuspecting bird hovers near pounces upon it with unerring precision, and effecting its capture proceeds to suck, sitting up in true squirrel fashion, the life-sustaining fluid through a wound inflicted in the side of the neck. Having satiated his thirst, which may have been the prime object of the capture, the dead body of the bird is dropped, and the little monster, upon erect haunches, poses, the embodiment of perfect contentment.

But in the case of the Owl it was otherwise. Perhaps it was too large for the monster to attack, or, knowing from rumor of gossiping friends the reputation of the former for cruelty and murder, a conciliatory spirit was thought the best to adopt. No one knows the bitter character of the first interview, or whether a liking for each other sprang up from the beginning. Be this as it may, there can be no denying the fact that a friendship was cemented between the two animals, widely divergent in structural peculiarities as they are known to be, that gave hope of becoming long and enduring.

NATURE’S LITTLE STORE-KEEPER.

One of the most familiar of North American quadrupeds is the Hackee, or Chipping Squirrel, as he is sometimes termed, from the strange, quaint utterances which he emits while rollicking with his fellows or in quest of something to eat. He is a beautiful little creature, notable alike for the dainty elegance of his form and for the pleasing tints with which his dress is arrayed. His general color is brownish-gray upon the back, warming into orange-brown upon the forehead and hinder quarters. Five longitudinal black stripes and two streaks of yellowish-white adorn the dorsum and sides, which render him a most conspicuous being and one readily distinguishable from any other animal. His abdomen and throat are white. He is slightly variable in color according to locality, and has been known to be so capricious of hue as to become a pure white or a jetty black. But for the commonness of the species, which is found in great numbers in almost every place, his fur, from its extreme beauty, would long since have taken nearly as high rank as sable or ermine.

No quadruped is so brisk or so lively. His quick, rapid movements have not inaptly compared him to the wren. As he whisks about the branches of the brushwood and small timber among which he is chiefly met, or shoots through their interstices with his peculiar jerking movements, and his odd clicking cry, like the chip-chipping of newly-hatched chickens, the analogy between himself and the bird is strikingly apparent. Occurring in great plenty, and being a bold little creature, he is much persecuted by small boys, who, with long sticks, and well-directed blows, manage to fell to the earth many a luckless fellow as he endeavors to escape his pursuers by running along the rail fences.

Hackees delight in sequestered localities. There they tunnel their homes, preferring some old tree, or a spot of earth sheltered by a wall or a bank. Their burrows are rather complicated affairs, running often to great lengths, so that the task of digging the animal out of his retreat becomes one of no easy accomplishment. Sandy patches of ground, on the outskirts of a woods, are not unusually chosen for burrows. A hole, almost perpendicular, is drilled into the earth to a depth of three feet, and is thence continued with one or more windings, rising a little nearer the surface until it has advanced some nine or ten feet, when it is made to terminate in a large circular nest, made of oak leaves and dried grasses. Small lateral galleries branch off from the main burrow, in which these provident little creatures lay up their winter’s provisions. Wheat, Indian corn, buckwheat, hazel-nuts, acorns and the seeds of grasses have been found in their underground receptacles, a proof, were further evidence lacking, that they do not pass the cold famine months in a sluggish and benumbed condition. Several layers of leaves, aggregating nine inches in thickness, are often found over the entrance, as a protection from frosts, which are further prevented from intrusion by the sealing up of the mouth from within.

Everything is done by the Hackee in a business-like manner. In gathering his food, lest the sharp beak of the nut may injure his cheeks when he places the fruit in his pouch, he nips off the point, and then by the aid of his fore-paws deliberately pushes the nut into one of his pouches. Another and another are similarly treated, and taking a fourth between his teeth, he dives into his burrow, and, having packed them methodically away, returns to the surface for a fresh cargo. Four nuts are his load at each journey. With his check-pouches distended to their fullest capacity, and laboring most truly under an embarrassment of riches, the little fellow presents a most ludicrous appearance.

CHIPPING SQUIRRELS FEEDING.]

When menaced by foes, by which so defenceless and conspicuous an animal is sure to be surrounded in great numbers, the Hackee makes at once for his burrow, and is there secure from the attacks of nearly all enemies. One foe there is, however, that cares naught for the burrow, but follows the poor Hackee through all of its windings, and never fails to attain his sanguinary object. This remorseless foe is the stoat, or ermine, whose only _penchant_ is the blood, and not the flesh, of his victim.

Laying up Food for the Famine of Winter.]

Early in November the Hackee moves into his winter-quarters, excepting in occasional instances when the sun shines with peculiar warmth, and is not seen again until the beginning of spring. The young, to the number of four or five, are produced in May, and there is generally a second brood some time in August. A rather pugnacious animal is the male Hackee, and during the combats which are frequently waged when several males meet, their tails have been known to snap asunder from the violence of their movements, for these members, it is undoubtedly true, are wonderfully brittle in their structure.

Pretty as he is, and graceful as are his movements, it hardly pays to keep the animal in a domesticated state, for his temper is very uncertain, and he is generally sullen even towards his keeper. But could he be induced to take to the life of a captive kindly and pleasantly, he would, by his cunning little ways, prove a most agreeable companion.

Some years ago an American writer of note had a pair of these animals which made their home in the foundation wall of her house. A row of wild cherry trees stood near the lawn in the rear of the building, which the little fellows were wont to visit many times daily, carrying off in their pouches quite a number at a time of the numerous cherry pits that lay scattered over the ground.

The season being dry, one morning early the person to whom reference has been made repaired to the lawn and poured a pitcher of water over some plants that grew near her porch, when one of these squirrels was observed to pass among them on his way to the trees. He paused from his journey, sat up on his haunches, took one of the wet leaves in his hands, pressed the sides together for a trough for the moisture, and holding it to his mouth drank from it the water in the most comical fashion imaginable. He then went to another and another, drinking from five or six leaves in all, while she stood watching near by. A large saucer filled with water was placed near the plants, which the little fellows quickly discovered, and both thereafter drank and washed regularly at the dish.

A practice of testing their knowledge of nuts was then made. When cracked hickory nuts were given them, they at once sat down and picked out of them the meats, which they eagerly devoured. Cracked nuts, it would seem, were deemed worthless for storage. But, on the contrary, when whole nuts were given, they tested them, evidently by weight, to see if they were sound. Sound nuts were promptly transported to their burrow, but the poor ones were dropped. They were never known to be mistaken in their judgment, for the rejected nuts on being cracked were always found to be worthless.

Although the food of the Hackee is mostly vegetal in character, yet, like his English relative, he is occasionally carnivorous in his appetite, for he has been detected in the cruel act of robbing birds’ nests and devouring their callow young.

Some Squirrels are remarkable for their extreme agility in climbing trees, and in making extraordinary leaps from one bough to another or from some elevated spot to the earth. The Ground Squirrels, however, are intended to abide on the earth, and are seldom known to ascend trees to any great height. As they possess cheek-pouches, they are placed in a separate genus under the name of Tamias, which is a Greek word, signifying a store-keeper, and are distinct from the others in being furnished with these appendages. _Tamias striatus_ is the appellation by which the subject of our sketch is known to the books.

CANINE SAGACITY.

Many years ago, two decades or more, the writer was the possessor of a little dog--a French poodle by breed. A more knowing animal of his kind never lived. He was a pretty creature, with hair as white as driven snow, and manners the most agreeable. Great pride was taken in his appearance. That his dress should maintain its natural purity, he was weekly subjected to a warm-water bath. This task devolved upon a little brunette, for whom the canine had contracted a strong affection.

Frisky, for such was our pet’s name, had never before coming into the family known what it was to receive a good washing. His first experience was as uninteresting as it was novel and strange. It was anything but pleasant to him, but the little fellow bore it like a martyr.

Such treatment, by the ordinary cur, would have been resented with snaps and snarls, but his was a gentle nature that knew no such untoward manifestations. But there was, all the same, an aversion to the bath, as looks only too plainly indicated. So pronounced was the dislike, that the very sight of water caused his delicate frame to shake like a child’s with the cold.

Had not the greatest care been taken in the preparation of the bath, it might have been thought that the tremors that shook his by no means robust frame were induced by the water’s chilliness or by its undue warmth. But this could not be the case, as the fluid was always tempered to the most sensitive touch.

But there came a time, however, when Frisky was determined to evade these kindnesses upon the part of his mistress. He had pleaded immunity from them in pitying glances, but without avail. Something must be done, his looks would seem to say, as he lay cuddled up by the cosy kitchen fire. One could almost read the thoughts that were shaping themselves in his mind.

For three long years Frisky, who had been allowed to sleep at nights in the sitting-room, was accustomed, when morning broke, to visit the different members of the family in their respective dormitories, and have a lively, rollicking time. These visits were always looked forward to, and in no instance, during the whole of that period, were they ever intermitted. To have missed one of these exciting romps, would have been a keenly-felt deprivation. But that we were to be doomed to such disappointment and affliction, subsequent events only too clearly showed.

One Saturday morning, for it was always on the Jewish Sabbath that the bath was given, Frisky failed to make his accustomed calls. This was noticed by everyone, and no amount of comment was provoked. Loudly his name was spoken, but no response was elicited, and it soon became evident that the cunning little elf was beyond the reach of calling. Search was instituted, but to no effect. His absence was lamented, and it was feared some calamity had befallen him. A silence, like unto death, filled the house. There was weeping and wailing about, for Frisky was not.

But just as the shadows of night were deepening, and hope was dying out of the bosoms of all, the patter of little feet was heard upon the pavement leading to the back-door. The sounds were too familiar to be those of a stranger. All listened with breathless silence. “’Tis Frisky, ’tis Frisky,” went up a chorus of voices, and we all rushed to the door to welcome the runaway back to the fold. Not a chiding word was spoken, not a look of reproof given, as with outstretched arms the culprit was received to our hearts. A more crestfallen, conscience-stricken being, however, could hardly be conceived to exist.

Things resumed their wonted sway. Happiness reigned once more in the family. Frisky’s matutinal visits were as though they had not been interrupted. His frolics had all their former vivacity. The sin committed had been condoned, and he in splendid repute again.

How He Greeted His Master.]

A week since his first wrong-doing had elapsed. Would he repeat his plan of getting rid of the obnoxious bath?--had never entered our minds. The day dawned bright and lovely. All was bustle outside, and the slamming of shutters told that the servant was astir in the kitchen. As was her usual custom, the entry door was left open for Frisky. All ears were on the stretch. There were no familiar signs. The sharp, glad bark that always heralded his coming was wanting, and so, too, the timing of little feet upon the stairs. Not a sound of breathing, not a rustle of counterpane, was heard. Still and motionless we all lay, till the minutes seemed hours, and then came the thought that it was Saturday and Frisky had again disappeared. Search was everywhere made, but the missing one was nowhere to be found. That he had slipped out when the door was opened, was now most obvious. No effort was made to find his hiding-place, for we all knew that he would come back with the shadows.

His coming was later this time than before. The sun had long gone to rest. It was pitch dark when the pawing of little feet against the door announced his return.

This second offence was passed over as the first had been, and Frisky was his jolly, frolicsome self once more. A score of Saturdays was thus managed and the hateful bath escaped, for well this cunning bit of flesh and fur knew that the seventh was the only day of the week when it was convenient for his mistress to attend to his ablutions.

That Frisky was able to count, or had some means of determining the coming of the day he so thoroughly detested, there can be no question. But the exceeding cuteness of his nature not only showed itself in his manner of getting rid of the hateful bath, but in various other ways. He seemed equal to every emergency that could arise. Oftentimes I have watched him, as he lay upon a rug by the kitchen-hearth, or upon the pillow of a new-made bed, for he was at liberty to go where he pleased about the house, and I have fancied that I could see him thinking, or read the train of thoughts passing through his mind, so human-like seemed he in these reflective moments.

When scolded for some trifling misdoing, or threatened with denial of some expected pleasure, no so-called brute could show more pitying glances. His grief was often heart-rending to behold. Prostrate upon the ground or carpet, or in what place soever he chanced to be, he would moan and moan for hours together, and only consent to be comforted when the burden was lifted from off his soul by a kind word spoken, a smiling look given, or a quick, hearty shake of his delicate paw. When happy, and it did not take much to make him happy, he was full of life and vivacity, capering and prancing about with the utmost _abandon_, and doing his very best to show off his happiness and pleasure. His eyes seemed kindled with a holy affection, and a blaze of heavenly sunshine would appear to play over his features. I have seen him, when in such mental agony, to actually shed tears, a sight that never could fail to reach and melt the flintiest hearts. He knew and understood every word that was spoken to him, and responded by a shake of the head, or a low, soft bark. A conscience within told him the right from the wrong, and though he sometimes knowingly erred, yet he was always truly sorrowful for his sins afterwards.

There came a day, however, when the idol of the household went out and never returned. Some unlucky event had doubtless befallen him, or he had been spirited away to parts unknown. If living, I trust he is being cared for as he richly deserves. He was a kind, gentle, loving being, and I cannot help thinking that some day I shall meet him in the beautiful world beyond the grave.

FELINE INTELLIGENCE.

Probably no creature has been more calumniated by man than the Domestic Cat. While wonderful intellectual powers, as well as the most amiable traits of character, have been accredited to the dog, and rightly so, it seems rather strange that so little of good has been found to exist in the subject of our sketch. She has been held up to reprobation as a thoroughly selfish animal, seeking her own comfort rather than that of others, and manifesting a stronger attachment to places than to owners. Sly and treacherous as her untamed kindred of the forests and jungles are known to be, she receives no higher commendation, and is even accused of concealing her talons in her velvety paws when matters go pleasantly with her, and ready to use them even upon her best friends when crossed in her purposes.

Whatever may have been the experience of those who have so grossly libelled the Cat, my own large acquaintance with the animal has led to different conclusions. Nearly all the Cats with which I have been most familiar have been as docile, tractable and affectionate as any dog could be, and have exhibited an amount of intellectual ability unsurpassed by few dogs. There is as much to be said about the good and bad temper of the Cat as of the dog, while, as to her mental capacities, the advantage is not so decidedly upon the side of the dog as is generally supposed. Nor is my own experience exceptional, for in all instances where friends have possessed favorite Cats their experiences have been similar to my own.

Self is not always paramount to everything else with Cats. Some are generous to a fault. Mothers have been known, whose devotion to their young has been so strong that they have hunted all day for their benefit, even when the latter were full-grown, scarcely taking any nourishment for themselves. But such feelings are perfectly natural. When, however, we see a Cat that is willing to share its food with a stranger, one cannot resist the thought that here is a case of real generosity. A friend once possessed a fine black Cat. He was dainty in his eating, scrupulously exact in his dress, and well-mannered in his deportment. No Cat ever received better training. Unlike the average Cat, he could be trusted in the presence of tempting viands, and was never known to abuse the confidence reposed in him. Beauty, for so he was called, was a model fellow, and well deserved the name. The education he received, while it made him gentle, kind and affectionate, and gave him reliability of character, did still more, for it endowed him with a soul that was not a stranger to the noblest impulses. Life had few luxuries that he did not enjoy; but a sprig of catnip was more to him than the choicest steak or raciest tidbit, and to this luxury he was weekly treated. Notwithstanding his fondness for the herb, he was never reluctant to share it with another, whom Fortune had less favored.

Cats, at least such as are well circumstanced, possess some knowledge of the uses of things. We once knew a Cat that would, when out of doors, make its presence known by a few loud raps upon the closed door, administered by its right front paw. If the call was not immediately answered, a few more raps, louder than before, would be given, and then the Cat, unable to restrain its impatience, would spring up to the latch, striking it a downward blow, as though endeavoring, human-like, to effect an entrance.

But quite as interesting as any of the foregoing cases is that of a female Cat that had run a spine into one of her hind feet. Limping upon three legs she made her way to her mistress, and, raising her foot, implored with a piteous look and sad, distressing cries the removal of the offensive spine. A child could not have made its suffering better understood, nor supplicated the needed relief more intelligently, than did this poor creature, which thoughtless man in his self-glorification is so prone to regard as a senseless, unintelligent and unreasoning being, which has no existence beyond this sublunary sphere.

Guarding His Master’s Cows.]

While Cats are useful in the destruction of vermin, and afford man no little amusement by their wonderful antics, yet they seldom put themselves to any practical use. The Cat, about which we shall now have something to say, is an exception to the rule, and quite a marvel in his ways. He is a resident of a far-away town in New Jersey, and came to his present quarters a long, gaunt, wild-eyed, unfed creature. But something in his looks told of a soul within that fore-shadowed a great deal of good, and so the Cat, which at first seemed an unwelcome guest, began to be looked upon in an appreciative manner. And now Tom, as the Cat is called, is a fixture in the household.

Almost from his advent into the family Tom began to give an exhibition of his common-sense. This first remarkable show of intelligence was on the Sunday succeeding his adoption. The family had repaired to church, leaving Tom contentedly snoozing in a corner of the kitchen. But their surprise can hardly be pictured when in the midst of the sermon Tom came flying down the aisle to the place where his master was seated, and clawing the legs of the trousers of the latter, began yelling at the top of his voice. The minister stopped in the midst of his talking, and everybody got up to see what the trouble was, but Tom, utterly oblivious of them all, continued his strange behavior.

Convinced that the actions of the Cat were not the result of an epileptic fit, but foreboded something wrong at the house, the male portion of the congregation started thither, and when the house was reached a dense column of smoke was seen pouring from the kitchen window. The door was thrown open, and the carpet on the floor was found burned to a cinder. A coal of fire had evidently fallen from the stove-grate and started the fire. That Tom had understood the danger, was shown by his actions.

One day, a horse, belonging to a neighboring farmer, ran away, and tore down the road past Tom’s home at a thundering gait. Tom was sauntering around the yard, and his attention being drawn to the rattling of the wagon, he was soon in the road to see what the trouble was, and observing that the team was unaccompanied by a driver, he leaped upon the head of the runaway horse and hung on with teeth and claws until the animal was secured. On another occasion a tramp, happening along the road, descried a bicycle that belonged to one of the inmates of the house. He was soon astride the wheel, and might have made his escape had not he fallen under the eyes of Tom, who, as quick as a flash, was after the thief. Leaping into the air, he fell on the man’s shoulders and set his teeth firmly into his neck. There was a howl and a crash that brought the family to the yard, and there they found the tramp rolling on the ground and making desperate efforts to get away from Tom’s rigid jaws. Finally the Cat was induced to relax his hold, and the wounds of the tramp being cared for, he was allowed to proceed on his way.

More wonderful still is what follows: When the master wants to bait his cows and keep them within a certain area he instructs Tom to watch them, and the allotted task is performed with all the faithfulness and wisdom of a shepherd’s dog. Any disposition to stray outside the limits is checked, the erring animal being hustled back by Tom, who, attaching himself to her caudal extremity, remains there until she is brought back to where she belongs.

No animals seem to require human sympathy so much as Cats, or to be so capable of giving sympathy in return. Where they have formed a strong attachment to a person they are loath to be away from his society and follow him wheresoever he goes, giving caresses and expecting a liberal share of the same in return. I have been upon a bed of sickness and a favorite Cat, which I always addressed as Puss, would, whenever the opportunity occurred, make her way into my room, and, jumping upon the bed, lay her head against my face in the most endearing manner, and purr her sweetest and gentlest, ever and anon stopping to express her sympathy by licking my forehead or uplifted hand. Even when Puss has been suffering from maladies to which all flesh of her kind is heir, I have sat by her side and stroked her head, and have read in the look which she gave me that she felt my sympathy and appreciated it beyond any power of expression of hers to declare. She seemed to think at all times that I was wholly her own, and no other Cat, not even one of her own offspring, would be allowed such familiarities, as any attempt was sure to provoke the most intense jealousy. Nor was I permitted to lavish attentions upon any of her kith, for she would soon become wrought up to a high pitch of excitement, and instant vengeance would be wreaked upon the recipient of my favors.

Much more might be said about the Cat. It has its good qualities and its bad qualities. There is hardly a trait of character which the human animal possesses that it does not possess. Of course I now speak of our Domestic Cat. In the long-past times, when the Egyptian nation was at the head of the civilized world, _Felis maniculata_, which is the reputed origin of our Domestic Cat, was universally domesticated in their homes, and it is not unknown the very high position it held in the love and esteem of the people, for it was deified and worshipped as a god. Even in England, still later down in time, the Domestic Cat was so scarce that royal edicts were issued for its preservation. Yet in those days, A. D. 948, the wild Cat was rife in the British Islands and was considered as a vicious animal, which must be destroyed, and not a useful one to be protected by the law. How we came into the possession of the Cat is a matter of conjecture, the current belief being that it was imported from Egypt into Greece and Rome, and thence into England.

BRIGHT LITTLE CEBIDAE.

Next to man, in descending the scale of animal life, come the Quadrumana, or Four-handed Animals. They are represented by the Apes, Baboons, Monkeys and Lemurs. Excepting the last, and a few other species, these animals are not very pleasing in aspect or habits, some of them, the larger apes and baboons, being positively disgusting. The air of grotesque humanity that characterizes them is horribly suggestive of human idiocy, and we approach an imprisoned gorilla or baboon with much the same repugnance that we do a debased and brutal maniac. This aversion seems not to be produced so much by the resemblance that the ape bears to man, as by the horror felt lest man should degenerate to the condition, character and physiognomy of the ape. But to the naturalist, who sees wonder or beauty in all things animate, these creatures are no less pleasing than others that are not so repugnant.

Were we to take a survey of the varied forms which the Quadrumana of the Old World assume, we would find that the forms would show such diversification that there would hardly seem scope for further modifications. Yet the prolific power of nature is so inexhaustible, that the depth of our researches would only bring to light objects of such infinite variety of form as to overwhelm the mind with surprise and admiration. Thus it would be found to be with the Cebidæ, or American Monkeys. While they would be shown to possess the chief characteristics of the monkey nature, thus establishing their close relationship with the Old World monkeys, yet they would be seen to exhibit the strangest modification of details. Their four hand-like paws, and other quadrumanous peculiarities, would indicate their _status_ in the animal kingdom, while sundry differences of conformation would show that they were intended to live under conditions that would ill suit their relatives on the other side of the globe. Curious it is to observe how the same idea of animal life is repeated in various lands and climates, even though seas, impassable to creatures unaided by the light of civilized reason, intervene. So we have the Simiadæ of Asia and Africa represented by the Cebidæ of America. Nor is this wonderful idea restricted exclusively to the man-like animals. The lion, tiger and other feline races of the Eastern Continent find Western representatives in the puma and jaguar, and the same circumstance may be observed of nearly all the mammalia, the birds, the reptiles, the fishes, and, in short, through the entire animal kingdom.

But of all the monkeys of the New World, and they are numbered by hundreds included in several genera and species, there are none that deserve more consideration than the Capuchin Monkeys. They are active, little animals, lively and playful. So similar are all the species in general habits, that a description of one will equally serve for any other. Their youthfulness and sportive manners make them very desirable companions, and hence we frequently find them domesticated by the native Indians and European settlers. Like other small monkeys, the Capuchin often strikes up a friendship for other animals that may happen to live in or near its home, the cat being one of the most favored of its allies. It is sometimes the case this familiarity is carried so far that the cat is turned into a horse by the monkey, who, seated upon her back, perambulates the premises. More unpromising subjects, we are told, have been pressed into similar service. Humboldt cites the case of one that was accustomed to catch a pig every morning, and, mounted upon its back, was known to retain its seat during the entire day. Even when the pig was feeding in the savannas its rider remained firm, and bestrode the animal with as much pertinacity as one skilled in equestrianism would the most rampant steed.

No little difficulty is experienced in settling the species of the Capuchins, for their fur is rather variable in tint, and some individuals differing so greatly as to cause them to look like another species. The general color of the Capuchin--_Cebus apella_--is a golden olive, a white fur bordering the face in some, though not in all individuals. _Cebus fatuellus_, commonly called the Horned Sapajou or Capuchin, is much more conspicuous than the last, as the erect fringe of hair that projects so prominently from the forehead indicates it at once: hence from the front, the hair assumes the appearance of two tufts or horns, from which peculiarity the animal derives its name. These horns are not completely developed until the monkey has attained maturity. There is also a manifest difference in color of hair, the Sapajou having a constant tinge of red in its fur. It is usually of a deep brown color, but in some individuals there is a marked resemblance to that peculiar purple-black which is obtainable by diluting common black ink with water, while in others the ruddy hue is so pronounced as to impart a chestnut tint to the animal’s hair. The fringed crest is tipped with gray.

Perhaps no more interesting form of the Capuchins exists than the Weeper Monkey, or Sai, or, as it is called in the books, _Cebus capucinus_. As in the case of the two preceding species, it is an inhabitant of Venezuela and Brazil, and as lively as any of its congeners. Like its brethren, its tail is invested with a dense growth of hair, but this does not interfere with its prehensile powers. The Sai is possessed of a large amount of intelligence, and its quaint little ways make it a great favorite with those who delight to watch its quick and agile movements. While things of a vegetable character constitute the chief part of its food, yet it manifests a fondness for various kinds of insects, and is sometimes known to ascend to higher prey, for it has been observed to feed upon birds, which it devours with avidity, not even waiting to pluck off the feathers. Eggs are also thought to form a no inconsiderable part of this Capuchin’s diet.

Some few years ago, Prof. Cope had in his possession a tame Sai, which was kept in a cage, or, rather, was supposed to be kept in it, for the animal had a strong aversion to confinement, and was sure to break loose therefrom sooner or later. When in durance vile, and wishing to break prison, he always directed his attention to the hinges, and no matter how firmly they were fixed, he was sure before long to extract the staples, pull out the nails, and so open the door at the hinges, and not at the latch.

Finding that the cage could not hold him, his master had him confined by a strap fastened around the waist, after the fashion of monkeys. The strap, however, proved to be of no more use than the cage, for the crafty animal soon contrived to open it, and this he did by ingeniously picking out the threads by which the strap was sewn to the buckle, and so rendering the fastenings useless.

Again he was confined to the cage and carefully watched. Having rid himself of the strap, he began to consider how he might apply it to some useful purpose. So, having perceived that some food had fallen beyond his reach, he took one end of the strap in his paw, flung the other over the morsel of food, and so drew it toward him. In this feat he displayed great accuracy of aim, seldom missing the object which he desired. Once or twice, when he had to make a longer throw than usual, he loosened his hold of the strap. The first time that this happened, some one handed him the poker. He took it, drew the strap toward him, and resumed its use as before.

No intelligent person can deny that these acts were prompted by reason. So far from even being aided by instinct, the animal was certainly acting in direct opposition to it. The instinct of an animal when confined or tethered in any way is to break loose by main strength, and the instinct of the monkey would have impelled him to force his way through the bars of the cage or to strain at the strap until he had broken it in two. But it was his reason that taught him to look for the weak part in both cage and strap, and, having found it, to devote his energies to that part until he had succeeded in his object.

Showing His Use of Table Implements.]

Was it possible for instinct to teach him that the hinges were the weak part of his cage, and that, if he could only remove the staples or nails, the door would open and he would be free? Could instinct teach him that the stitches of the strap-buckle were to the strap what the staples and nails were to the hinges, and that if he could but pick out the threads, the fastenings of the strap would be rendered of no effect? Neither could instinct teach him to use the strap after the manner of a lasso, nor to employ the poker in regaining his lost weapon.

Not only did he thus show his ability to deal with the obstacles that stood in the way of his freedom, and without even the slightest suggestion from the mind of his master, but he also gave evidence that he had the capacity to profit by many of the civilities by which he found himself surrounded in the life in which he was placed. Monkeys are remarkable for their power of imitation, and Jack, as this Capuchin was called, proved himself to be no ordinary fellow in this respect. He had seen his master eat out of a dish, using knife, fork and spoon when occasion demanded, and nothing would do but an abandonment of his old habits--the using of his fingers, which his ancestors were wont to do--and the assumption of civilized practices. In time he became quite skilful in the use of these table implements and showed greater dexterity in handling them than many a man has shown. Accustomed to their use, he would never have things any other way. The writer has repeatedly been present when he was taking his meals. Seated upon the ground, his head and body slightly bent forward, with his plate of food before him, the ground serving him as a table, Jack would help himself in a quiet, cool and deliberate manner, all the while evincing in movement and look an air of the most consequential importance. To say that he was proud of the success which he had achieved in the correct use of table implements but tamely expresses the feeling which would dominate his bosom at such times. No human individual who had accomplished some wonderful discovery or striking feat at arms that had caused the earth to resound with his praises, could have felt more of the emotion than Jack. Indeed, it was a remarkable feat for Jack, and he had a right to feel vain over its accomplishment. All the while he was eating he would chatter in his uncouth guttural tongue, as though he had learned, like his human brethren, that conversation gave relish to a meal and was a powerful aid to digestion.

While Jack was a very useful fellow to have about, especially where cats without owners abounded, for he was a terror upon these feline nuisances, yet he had a few faults which detracted very much from his otherwise good character. Like some boys, he was addicted to the habit of throwing stones, but I am more than half disposed to believe that this was an acquired propensity, which he had learned by seeing his master engaged in a similar diversion, or perhaps, which is not at all unlikely, he had been trained to such exercise and pastime by his master. Well, he could throw stones with considerable force, and with as much precision as any well-trained lad of fourteen summers could do. Let the master but give him a stone, and say, “Now, Jack, hit that fellow,” and Jack needed no second telling. Throwing his right arm back, just as a boy would do, in order to give the necessary impetus to the missile, he would send the stone flying in the right direction. It required no little skill and celerity of movement to dodge the projectile, as the writer had more than once learned by painful experience, for Jack’s wonderful and well-directed aim seldom went astray of its purpose.

Towards his master Jack showed great deference and attention, and was ever ready to obey his slightest wish. No one’s society he enjoyed better. It was always a pleasure to be near him, but strangers he seemed to despise and treat as enemies. He would always eye them with a suspicious look, and could never tolerate their presence for any considerable length of time without giving vent to his annoyance by the most angry vociferations and hideous grimaces. Should this not have the effect of causing them to retire, he would emphasize his objection to their presence by pelting them with stones and such other missiles as were convenient to hand. That he had a considerable affection for his master, and respected him, no stronger evidence could be given than what has already been adduced.

After all that has been said concerning Jack, yet the world is full of people, educated and intelligent as they consider themselves to be, who cannot see that this bit of flesh and spirit has been endowed by the same wise Creator with the same traits of character, but differing in degree, that they themselves possess. Going back to the ingenuity which Jack displayed in the cases of the cage and the strap referred to, it may be said to his credit that even Baron Trench himself could not have shown greater skill in the discovery of the weak parts of his prison and bonds than did this so-called brute, nor could he have exhibited more patience and perseverance in working at them. Indeed, there are many human beings that would not have been half so sensible as Jack, but still we must believe that such high intelligence, comparatively speaking, must inevitably perish with the body, through which as a vehicle it was made to manifest itself. All intelligence is an emanation from the Divine Intelligence, and, when the life has gone out of the body from which it was made to shine forth, then it, instead of perishing with the material, returns to the Source of all intelligence, not to be re-absorbed, but, as I think, to continue as a separate intelligence, drawing its life and light from the great Central Head, like as the planets derive theirs from the centre of our material universe--the Sun.

UNTUTORED MAN.