Chapter VI: Part 6

Whilst reclining one beautiful May afternoon in the shade of an oak that stood on the outskirts of a thicket, my attention was arrested by the activity and bustle presented by a colony of yellow ants, which proved to be the _Formica flava_, so common everywhere.

Scattered indiscriminately about were numberless larvæ in various stages of growth, and not a few immobile pupæ, that had been brought up from subterranean domiciles by thoughtful nurses, while here and there were a dozen or more ants, but recently escaped from their mummy-cases, basking in the sun’s warmth, preparatory to entering upon the duties of the formicarium.

The very picture of restlessness and anxiety were these full-grown neuters. That something was transpiring, or was about to transpire, seemed not unlikely, for ovæ, larvæ and pupæ were being quickly carried to places of concealment in the earth, or hustled away among the entangling and interlacing grasses.

Looking about for the cause of all this excitement, the truth at once became painfully apparent. Three large, burly ants, representatives of _Formica subterranea_, a black species that is everywhere abundant in wooded regions, had intruded their obnoxious presence into the happy colony, bent, as it was evident, on pillage or slaughter.

Were plunder the inspiring motive, these giant invaders were not slow to learn that their weaker kin, though lacking their strength, could more than match them in cunning and stratagem.

Not daring to attack the foe, and being unwilling that any of their number should be led into slavery, or suffer aught at the hands of others, they immediately set to work to destroy all whom it was impossible to protect.

Young Destroyed by Nurses.]

Detailed as most of the neuters seemed to be in looking after the wants of the immature, there were a few observed running hither and thither and seizing in their jaws the newly-developed, not to bear them out of the reach of danger, as was at first supposed, but to kill them so as to prevent them from falling a living prey into the hands of the enemy.

Knowing the sympathy and affection which the nurses are ever wont to cherish towards the objects of their care, this act of cruelty struck me as something very astonishing and peculiar.

Prompted by curiosity to know the nature of the wounds thus inflicted, I placed upon the palm of my hand one of the wounded ants, and made, by means of a microscope, a careful examination of its injuries. Above and below the abdomen, between the second and third segments, two deep wounds, which met each other in the interior, were plainly to be seen.

Several cases of the kind were afterwards noticed. These were not accidental occurrences, made through efforts to carry the young to places of shelter. Possibly, through inexperience, accidents might happen once in a long time, but to suppose that insects, accustomed to handling their young as the neuters assuredly are, would be likely to make such blunders, is too unreasonable to be entertained. Admitting for argument’s sake that such things might occasionally occur, would successive repetitions be expected? I apprehend not. But on the supposition that a purpose was thereby subserved, the object had in view warrants, it would seem, the means employed for its accomplishment.

What the purpose was it will now be my aim to show. That many animals, tame as well as wild, are wont to destroy disabled and wounded companions, is well established by history. In many instances the destruction is justified to preserve the herd or pack from the close pursuit of enemies. “Instinct or reason,” as Darwin says, “may suggest the expelling an injured companion, lest beasts of prey, including man, should be tempted to follow the troop.”

Audubon, in writing of the wild turkey, so abundant in his day, observes substantially that the old males in their marches often destroy the young by picking the head, but do not venture to disturb the full-grown and vigorous. The feeble and immature being an encumbrance, it is obvious that the watchfulness and attention which they would require, were sympathy and affection the emotions by which the males are actuated, would necessarily retard progress, and lead to the destruction of the entire flock. Instinct or reason here operates for individual and family good.

Granting that instinct or reason does sometimes act for individual and family preservation in the manner described, I am not willing to admit that in every case that may arise in which the weak and disabled are sacrificed, that it is done for the material benefit of the physically able and robust. How the destruction of the weak and nearly-developed ant can result in good to the colony, in view of the fact that not the slightest effort to escape the danger by flight is undertaken, the sole object being the hiding of the young, it is most difficult to conceive.

There seems to be one of two theories, in the writer’s judgment, that will, in anything like a satisfactory manner, account for this strange, abnormal habit upon the part of an insect that has been proverbially distinguished for its kind and affectionate disposition towards the tender beings committed to its trust; either to attribute it to an unwillingness and dislike to see its offspring made the servants of a hostile race or the subjects of ill-treatment and abuse, or to the survival of a habit of the past when its ancestors were a migratory, or nomadic, species.

That a feeling of repugnance does sometimes take possession of animal nature when the objects of parental care and solicitude are, or are about to be, reduced to slavery or confinement, and impels to actions of cruelty, will be patent from what follows:--

A friend, several summers ago, having procured a pair of young
robins, placed them in a cage, which he hung from a tree-branch close
to his dwelling, where the parent-birds could have an opportunity to
feed them. All went well for a few days, when the parents, who had
busied themselves in the intervals of feeding in attempts to secure
their release, finding their efforts unavailing, flew away, but
only to return with something green in their bills, most probably
poisonous caterpillars, which they fed to their offspring. A few
minutes later and they lay in the bottom of the cage dead, but the
parents, as if conscious of what would result, flew away, and never
came back.

May it not be that the parents, finding all efforts to restore their young to freedom ineffectual, sought this method of saving them from a life to which death must assuredly be preferable? Instances of like character might be adduced by the hundred, but enough has been written to show that, in the case of _Formica flava_, an unwillingness to allow the humblest of the colony to be taken into bondage was the motive which prompted the sacrifice.

NEST-BUILDING FISHES.

Not alone in color do fishes resemble birds. In the home-life and love of offspring a close resemblance obtains. Many are nest-builders, erecting structures quite as complicated as those of some birds, and hardly less elaborate in design and finish.

Floating along some woodland stream, or strolling along its grass-fringed margin, we have watched the domestic life of the Sun-fish, the _Eupomotis vulgaris_ of writers, that mottled, bespangled beauty that seems always on hand to be caught by the angler in default of more noble game.

Where delicate grasses grow, and floating lily-pads cast their shadows, there among the winding stems the Sun-fish builds its home. Moving in pairs in and out among the lilies near the shore, as if jointly selecting a site for a nursery, they may be seen. The spot is generally a gravelly one, and, once determined upon, no time is lost in pushing the work to a speedy conclusion. For several inches around the space is cleared of stems or roots, and these are carefully carried away. The smaller roots are swept aside by well-directed blows of their tails, or by mimic whirlpools which the fishes, standing over the nest, create by their fins. The stones are next taken up, the smaller ones in their mouths, the larger being pushed out bodily, or fanned away by the sweeping process, until an oval depression, with a sandy bottom, finally appears. About the sides the stems of aquatic verdure, which seem to have been purposely left, may be seen standing, and these now naturally fall over, oftentimes constituting the nest a perfect bower, with walls bedecked with buds, while the roof is a mat of white lilies floating upon the surface. Here the eggs are deposited, the male and female alternately watching them.

Male and Female Defending It from Attack of Cat-fish.]

While the Sun-fish is always recognized as the most peaceful of the finny tribe, and only chasing in wanton playfulness its neighbors, it is otherwise when the passions are wrought to a high pitch of excitement through the play of amatory influences in the spring-time. Let a stranger, a bewhiskered cat-fish, approach the bower, and war is at once declared. The little creatures snap at the intruder with anger and defiance. Their sharp dorsal fins stand erect, the pectorals vibrate with repressed emotion, while the violent movements of their powerful tails evince a readiness and determination to stand by their home at all hazards. Indeed, so vigorous is their charge, that even large fishes are forced to retreat, and, as the Sun-fishes build in companies, the intruder often finds himself attacked by a whole colony of them.

Nearly all the Sun-fishes are nest-builders, some forming arbors, as we have seen, others scooping out nests on sandy shoals, while one, the Spotted Sun-fish, is more democratic, affecting muddy streams, where, on the approach of cold weather, it makes a nest in the muddy bottom, and there it lies dormant till the coming spring.

Who has not made friends with the Dace--_Rhinichthys atronasus_? He is a veritable finny jester. We have watched him in his watery retreat, and, perhaps unseen, have played the spy upon his domestic proceedings.

Life is a gala time to these little fishes. They have seemingly never a care or a bother. In jest they join in the chase of some curious minnow that intrudes upon their presence, suddenly changing their course to dash at some resplendent dragon-fly that hovers over the leafy canopy of their home, and as quickly darting off again to attack some bit of floating leaf or imaginary insect.

All is not play, however, even among the Dace. The warm days of June usher in the sterner duties, the nesting-time. Male and female join in the preparation, and a locality, perhaps in shallow water in some running brook, is selected. Roots, snags and leaves are carried away, both fishes sometimes found tugging away at a single piece, taking it down-stream, and working faithfully and vigorously until, in a few hours, a clearing over two feet in diameter is the result.

There the first eggs are laid. The male, who has retired, soon appears from up-stream, bearing in his mouth a pebble, which is placed in the centre of the clearing. Now they both swim away, but soon returning, each bearing a pebble, that is also dropped upon the eggs. Slowly the work proceeds, until a layer of clean pebbles apparently covers the eggs. A second layer of eggs is now deposited by the female, and these are covered by pebbles as the others had been, the industrious little workers scouring the neighborhood for them, seemingly piling up eggs and stones alternately until the heap attains a height of eight inches or more. These heaps vary in shape, some being pyramidal, and others dome-shaped.

Such patience as these finny housekeepers manifest is not appreciated by man. The gleaners of the golden fields, in whose waters our little friends are found, have not discovered their secret, and think the curious piles the washes of the brook itself. But their purpose is the protection of their eggs. In swift-running streams, which these fish are so wont to affect, the eggs would be washed away, and, driven against rocks and snags, would be destroyed, or, even escaping destruction, would, by the undulating movement to which they would become subjected, be rendered impossible of incubation. Besides, were they not thus protected, even though there was no danger of being washed away, they would become easy prey to the attacks of carnivorous fishes.

Unlike as the Lamprey-eels are in structure to the Dace, yet in their habits of erecting a nest they are very similar. Upon our Eastern sea-board they are a common species, inhabiting both salt and fresh water. In the early spring they follow the shad up the rivers, occasionally preceding them, and search about for suitable localities in which to deposit their spawn. They clean away the stones as the Dace were seen to do, bending their long bodies in coils, which they use in pushing aside the accumulation on the bottom. To the unlearned the appearance of two Eels, each three feet in length, twisting and seemingly coiling about each other, would be indicative of war. But having cleaned for themselves a smooth spot, the Lampreys proceed to place stones. Irregularly-shaped stones of small size are easily and quickly transported in their mouths, but when stones that weigh several pounds are to be brought, the tactics they adopt are worthy of an engineer. As the spots chosen for the rearing of their submarine castles are ordinarily subjected to a swift current, the largest stones, which it would be thought impossible for them to move, are looked for up stream. A suitable one found, and a favorable position presented, the sucking mouth is fastened to it, and by a convulsive effort, the tail of the fish being raised aloft, the heavy stone is lifted from its place, the current pushing against the fish and stone, bearing them along several feet before they sink. Another effort of the fish, and the rock is again raised and carried down stream, until finally, by repeated liftings and struggles, the ingenious, persevering nest-builder is swept down to the nest, where the load is deposited. This laborious work is carried on until the pile has attained a height of two or three feet, and a diameter of four. No special form seems to be necessary. The nest is generally oval, compact and well devised to contain the eggs, which are carefully deposited within, thus affording protection in its numerous interstices for the young when they hatch. When about six inches long, the young _Petromyzon marinus_, which is a strange little fellow, is devoid of teeth, and blind, and possesses so many characteristics distinct from the parent, that for a long time he was considered a separate species, and even assigned a place in a different genus. Enormous nests are sometimes built. John M. Batchelder, Esq., describes one, which he saw in the Saco River, Maine, that was about fifteen feet long, and from one to three feet in height, its position and triangular shape in vertical section being well adapted for securing a change of water, and a hiding-place for the young. The operation of building was very methodical, a hundred and more Eels being at work upon the structure. Water-worn stones, chips of granites and fragments of bricks, sometimes weighing as much as two pounds and transported by a single individual, were utilized in the building.

Constructing Their Nest of Pebbles.]

More remarkable, however, than any previously described, are the nests of the Fresh-water Chub, _Semotilus bullaris_, which is known in some localities as the Stone Toter. This fish attains a length of about fifteen inches. The finest nests are on the shores of Westminster Island, but they are common on nearly every island that has a sandy, gravelly shore among the many that make up the Thousand Islands. The nest is a pile of stones, sometimes measuring ten feet across at the base, four feet in height, and containing a good-sized cart-load of stones, weighing in all perhaps a ton. Stones from small pebbles to some four inches in length were used, and as some of the nests are placed at considerable distances from the gravel-beds, and each stone represented a journey, the amount of labor performed, when it is considered that tens of thousands of stones must have been used in the building, certainly was incredible. Each stone is brought in the mouth of the Chub and dropped over the piles, one or more fishes working at the same heap. Some plan is evidently followed in the work, the first deposit of stones being small, and dropped so as to form a circle or semi-circle. The largest heaps are undoubtedly the work of successive years, the nests being annually added to during the last of May or June, when the Chubs are seen lying in the heaps, at which time the eggs are probably deposited. All the labor of piling up is to protect them from predatory fishes, a necessary and wise provision, as cat-fish, rock-bass, perch and others prey upon the eggs.

In gravelly beds the Trout excavates a simple nest, a mere depression in the sand, that is not at all incomparable to the nest of some species of gulls. A furrow in the gravelly bottom of a river, often ten feet in length, the depression being made as fast as it is required, is the nest of the Salmon. In Canadian rivers these nests can be easily distinguished by the lighter marking in the bottom.

Few persons of the many who delight to drift along our sea-shores are unfamiliar with the Toad-fish. So closely does he in shape and color resemble a moss-covered stone that his enemies are deceived. Intrenched among the weeds and gravel, which the mother-fish carelessly throws aside, after the fashion of some of the gulls, the young are reared, their yolk-sacs enabling them to cling to the rocks of the nest soon after birth. There, under the watchful eye of the parent, they remain until old enough to swim away.

But the most vigilant of all nest-builders is the Four-spined Stickleback--_Apeltes quadracus_. In some neighboring stream, that sooner or later finds its way to the ocean, he may be found. There are different species of these fish, but their architectural ideas are pretty much the same. They vary mainly in the locations they select for nesting. Some place the nests upon the bottom, concealed among the sea-weed found there, while others hang theirs from some projecting ledge, or swing it in the tide from the sunken bough of some overhanging tree. As is unusual, the work of nidification is solely performed by the male Stickleback, the female taking no part in the labor. The spawning season having arrived, he, assuming a bright nuptial lustre, shows remarkable activity in selecting a site for an edifice, and transporting the building material thither. Fragments of all kinds of plants, gathered often at a distance, are brought home in his mouth. These are arranged as a sort of a carpet, but as there is danger of the light materials being carried away by the current, they are weighted down by sand to keep them in their places. Having entwined them with his mouth to his complete satisfaction, he then glides gently over them on his belly, and glues them with the mucus that exudes from his pores. More solid materials, sometimes bits of wood, sometimes bits of straw, which he seizes with his mouth, are adjusted to the sides of the floor to constitute the walls. He is now very particular. If the piece cannot be properly adjusted to his building, and he does not lose patience in his efforts to fit it in, he carries it to some distance from the nest and leaves it. After the side walls are erected, a roof of the same materials with the floor is laid over the chamber. Firmness is given to the whole structure by passing over it with his body, the light and useless particles being fanned away by the action of his fins and the vibratory movements of his tail. In carrying on his building operations care is taken to preserve a circular opening into the chamber, his head and a great part of his body being thrust therein, thus widening and consolidating it, and rendering it a fit receptacle for the female. When choosing material, the fish has been seen testing its specific gravity by letting it sink once or twice in the water, and if the descent was not rapid enough finally abandoning it.

Of the exact method used by the fish in binding the nest together we are indebted to Prof. Ryder. The male fish spins from a pore or pores a compound thread, using his body to insinuate himself through the interstices through which he carries the thread. The thread is spun fitfully, not continuously. He will go round and round the nest perhaps a dozen times, when he will rest awhile and begin anew. Its shape is somewhat conical before completion. The thread is wound round and round the nest in a horizontal direction, and when freshly spun is found to consist of six or eight very thin transparent fibres, which have alternated tapering ends where they are broken off. Very soon after the thread is spun, particles of dirt adhere to it, and render it difficult to interpret its character. The nest measures one-half of an inch in height, and three-eighths in diameter.

The time occupied in collecting materials and constructing the nest is about four hours, and when all is ready the male starts out to seek a female, and, having found her, conducts her with many polite attentions to the prepared home. The eggs being deposited, the male establishes himself as a guardian of the precious treasures, not even suffering the female to approach it again. Every fish that comes near, no matter how large, is furiously assailed. He gives battle valiantly, striking at their eyes and seizing their fins in his mouth. His sharp dorsal and ventral spines are very effective weapons in his defence. Constant watchfulness upon the part of the male is needed, for, if he go away for only a few moments, the sticklebacks and other fish lurking in the vicinity rush in and devour the eggs in an instant. A whole month he is occupied in providing for the safety of his offspring. About the tenth day he employs himself in tearing down the nest and carrying the material to some little distance. The fry may now be observed in motion. And these the male continually nurses, suffering no encroachment, and if the young brood show a tendency to stray beyond bounds, they are driven back within their precincts, until they are strong enough to provide for their own living, when both old and young disappear together.

But nothing in the lives of all these little nest-builders is more interesting than the intelligence they display and the facility with which they adapt themselves to circumstances. They seem to be able to grasp almost instantly the conditions of the environment, and to employ a wise discrimination in suiting them to their wants. Hardly two nests are alike. Marked differences in details of structure, configuration and surroundings are apparent, which prove that these creatures are controlled by reason, rather than instinct, in the elaboration of their homes. That they have some means of communicating their desires to each other cannot be doubted. When the male has laid hold of a stem, a pebble or a stick that completely baffles all effort at removal, his mate seems summoned to his assistance, and the united strength of the pair accomplishes the object to be gained. There is ever noticeable in whatever the sexes undertake some concert of action which would put to shame the boasted intelligence of man himself. The Sun-fishes, as has been said, nest in companies. When the combined effort of two individuals is unable to expel an invader, the entire community, as by a single mighty impulse, rises up against the foe. There is evidence of some form of society, even though simple in its organization, where individual members league themselves together for mutual protection and defence. Other examples might be cited to give the reader a common-sense estimate of the comparatively high order of intelligence that characterizes the actions of many of our fishes.

SLIPPERY AS AN EEL.

Eels are found in almost all warm and temperate countries, and grow to a very great size in tropical regions. They are impatient of cold, and hence do not exist in the extreme northern and southern parts of the world. In many islands of the Pacific Ocean they are held in considerable estimation, being preserved in ponds and fed by hand, but in many civilized communities a strong prejudice prevails against them, probably from their similarity to snakes, which prevents even a hungry man from caring to eat such wholesome and nutritious food.

Not one of our river fishes is so mysterious as the Eel, and although much is now known that was involved in obscurity, yet there is still much to learn of its habits, especially the manner of its reproduction. Difference of locality, it is likely, may influence the Eel and cause a difference of habit, an opinion which seems warranted from the various and perplexing accounts that have been given of its customs by numerous practical observers.

During the hot, still and sunny days of June they are chiefly seen on top of the water, wherever masses of aquatic weeds may be found, either in the calm enjoyment of a sun-bath, or for the purpose of feeding upon the myriads of gnats, moths and flies that seek the plants for rest or food, and which by unavoidably damping their wings become easy prey to their ambushed enemies. At night, similar retreats are affected for like purposes. Floating masses of detached weeds that the eddying stream has wound and kept in one place are sought in warm, stilly weather, but in blowing, cooler or rainy weather they forsake such places for the still, deep ditches. If a flush of water comes, and a little, shallow stream, running from or into the main river, becomes fuller than usual, there they resort in vast numbers, evidently pleased with the delicious change, only to remain as long as its freshness continues.

Like many other fishes, Eels are very tenacious of life, and can live a long time when removed from the water, owing to a simple and beautiful modification of structure, which permits them to retain a sufficient amount of moisture to keep the gills damp and in a condition to perform their natural functions. They have been seen crawling over considerable distances, somewhat snake-like in their movements, evidently either in pursuit of water, their own dwelling-place being nearly dried, or in search of some running stream in whose waters they may reach the sea after the customary manner of their race. Multitudes of Eels, both old and young, some of the latter scarcely six inches in length, have been seen crawling up the banks of a creek, apparently without any purpose, and over the smooth surface of a projecting rock, with all the ease of a fly moving over a ceiling. So active were the little ones as to defy, unless the hand was moved with extreme rapidity, their capture. Vast numbers of these little Eels are in the habit of proceeding up the rivers in the spring-time. In some places in England they are called Elvers. They are caught in immense quantities, and scalded and pressed into masses termed Eel- or Elver-cake. When dressed these little Eels afford a luxurious repast. Towards the latter part of summer these fishes migrate towards the sea, being capable of living in fresh or salt water with equal ease, the mouths of rivers constituting favorite localities. Even in our seaport towns and marine watering-places the common river Eel is caught by those who are angling in the sea for fish.

Various modes of capturing Eels are adopted by man. Bobbing, or clodding as it is sometimes called, is a very common and successful method, consisting in bunching a number of earthworms upon a worsted string, and lowering it near the place where the fishes are supposed to be feeding. So eagerly do the voracious fish seize the bait, and so fiercely do they bite, that they are pulled out of the water before they have time to collect their thoughts and disengage their teeth from the string. Night-lines, which are laid in the evening and taken up in the morning, are another plan. But the most successful method is by spearing. The spear used for the purpose is not unlike the conventional trident of Neptune, except that the prongs are four in number, flattened, slightly barbed on each edge, and spread rather widely from their junction with the shaft. This is pushed at random into the muddy banks where the Eels love to lie, and when one is caught, its long snake-like body is wedged in between the jagged prongs and lifted into the boat before it is able to extricate itself. Almost any kind of food that it can master, whether aquatic or terrestrial, is eaten to satisfy the creature’s most voracious appetite. Even mice and rats fall victims to its hunger, and an Eel is recorded to have been found floating dead on the water, having been choked to death by a rat which it had essayed to swallow, but which proved too large a morsel for its throat.

So remarkable is the tenacity of life which this fish possesses, that after the creature has been cut up into lengths, each separate piece will move as if alive, and at the touch of a pin’s point will curve itself as though it felt the injury. When all irritability has ceased, the portions will flounce vigorously about if placed in boiling water, and even after its influence has ceased will, upon the addition of salt, jump about as vigorously as before. There can be no real sensation, let it be understood, as the spinal cord has been severed and all connection with the brain, which is the seat of sensation, has been cut off.

How the Eel reproduces its kind has long been a subject of discussion. Some held that the young is produced in a living condition, and others that it is hatched from the egg. The matter has, however, been set at rest by the microscope, which shows that the oily-looking substance, generally called fat, which is found in the abdomen of the Eel, is really an aggregation of eggs, and that these objects, minute as they are, and which are not so large as the point of a pin, are quite as perfect in their structure as the eggs of a moth or a bird are seen to be to the naked, unaided vision.

_Anguilla rostrata_, as the Common American Eel is technically known, is abundant in the United States, living in fresh-water streams, but depositing its eggs, often eight millions to a single fish, in the ocean, the young ascending the rivers. Eels are devoid of ventral fins. Their scales, which are very minute, are covered with a thick, slime-like material. Under the microscope each scale is beautifully ornamented, and the exquisite pattern formed by the scales on the skin may be readily and effectively seen if a bit of it, when fresh, be placed on the window-glass and allowed to dry. The sexes are difficult to distinguish; the females have the highest dorsal fin, smaller eyes, and a lighter color than the males, while the snout is generally broader at the tip.

When contiguous to the sea, as in a pond near Wells, on the coast of Maine, the Eels invariably go down into salt water at night. As the connecting stream is narrow, the sight is remarkable, thousands filling the channel, many of whom, when alarmed, leaving the water and passing over the dry rocks to the ocean. Eels are not the silent creatures which many persons suppose them to be. They frequently utter a sound, expressed by a single note, which is more distinctly musical than the sounds made by other fishes, and which has a clear metallic resonance. They are of slow growth, scarcely reaching the length of twelve inches during the first year, but subsequently attaining to large dimensions, the preserved skins of two Eels, which Mr. Yarrall saw at Cambridge, England, weighing together fifty pounds, the heavier being twenty-seven pounds in weight.

How It Seeks New Feeding-Grounds.]

Fish, as a rule, do not live more than a few minutes out of the water. An Eel, however, will remain alive for many hours, and even days, in atmospheric air, provided it is laid in a damp place. Now, if one be carefully watched when placed upon dry land, it will be observed to pout out the cheeks on both sides of its face. Underneath this puffed-out skin will be found the gills, and the skin which covers them will be seen to be so arranged as to form a closed sac, which the Eel fills with water, and so keeps the gill-fibres moist. This wonderful contrivance enables the Eel to come out of the water, and to travel, so to speak, by land. Thus Eels are often found in outlying ponds of human construction, where they were never placed by the hand of man. Finding old quarters uncomfortable, they take in a good supply of water, and exchange them for the better, not by repeated leaps towards the water, as some fish are known to do, but by a smooth, uniform snake-like progression.

That some fishes should leave the water and travel overland is, perhaps, not more remarkable than that some birds, the ouzel for example, should leave their natural element and fly into and under the water. Whoever knows the hidden paths of the marsh has doubtless watched the brown-hued Eels wriggling their way through the grass from one pool to another, especially at night, leaving their home and wandering about, seemingly unconscious whither their pilgrimage will end.

“Slippery as an Eel” is proverbial. Many a person has, by his slick, cunning ways, succeeded in eluding the law and escaping justice, affording an apt illustration of the character of the animal about which we have been talking, but the slipperiness of the Eel is not given to it that it may take some unlawful advantage of its neighbors, but that it may the more readily slip from the grasp of a more powerful enemy, or the more easily make its way into the muddy depths of the pond or stream which it so very much affects. So it will be seen that while this slippery character in the one is protective, in the economy of nature, for a wise and laudable purpose, yet in the other it but secures to the possessor the getting of an ignoble gain and the ruin of a once proud name.

While these agile denizens of aquatic life are selfish and voracious almost beyond precedent, and apparently more concerned in feeding than in anything else, there are certainly some traits in their character which are redeeming features. Low as they are in the scale of piscine existences, occupying the very lowest family of the Anguillidine Apodes, they are none the less susceptible to the human influence of kindness. They grow accustomed to man when good is at the basis of his actions, and have been known to accept food from his hand. They remember the face of a friend, and when it is presented at the door of glass, so to speak, that opens the way to their home, they come without fear or suspicion showing itself in their movements. Even the sound of the voice of a benefactor awakens a sympathetic response in their bosoms.

RANA AND BUFO.

Belonging to the lower vertebrates is a family of animals called scientifically Ranidæ, but which are, popularly speaking, best known as frogs. They are queer-looking creatures, scarcely met with in Australia and South America, but reaching their highest state in the East Indies. They are capable of enduring great changes of heat and cold, and can live on land as well as in water, provided they have the amount of moisture necessary to preserve the suppleness of their skins. Salt water is fatal to the frog in any stage of its existence.

_Rana clamata_, the lusty croaker of the summer pond, is our most familiar species. He may be recognized by the colors of his dress, in which green, bronze, gold and silver play important parts, and by the ear-splitting character of his vocal intonations. The glandular ridges down the skin of his back, together with his strange coloration, singularly fit him for his home. Imitations of the stems of plants are seen in the darker ridges, and their leafage in the green color of his coat. The silver of his vest has the glimmer of the water in which he bathes, and the moist earth seems to have left its stain upon his brownish feet and markings, while the yellow of the several badges that adorn his person in being like the stamens and pistils of the surrounding flowers, and of the hue of many buds and blossoms, adds largely to his protective display. Thus is the frog in his natural haunts protected by his garments, and, unless he stirs or is betrayed by his full, bright eyes or the palpitation of his breast, he is not likely to be observed.

Four fingers or toes are found upon the anterior extremities, while those of the posterior are five in number and webbed. The front legs are much shorter, smaller and weaker than the hind ones, which are largely developed, and thus serviceable in swimming and leaping.

Though the frog is possessed of a back-bone, yet he has no ribs. Being ribless, he cannot expand and contract his chest in breathing, but must swallow what air he requires. In swallowing the air he must close the mouth and take the air in only by the nostrils; therefore, oddly enough, if his mouth is forcibly kept open, he will smother. The frog’s breathing, a fact not generally known, is partly through his skin, which gives off carbonic acid gas; and moisture, therefore, is just as essential to his skin as it is to the gills of a fish. Damp, rainy weather is his extreme delight. When the rain falls, out come the frogs. Their skin absorbs moisture, which is stored up in internal reservoirs, and some of this water, when these timid creatures are alarmed by being suddenly seized, is ejected, but I do not think that it is purposely so done, as the water is not, as some people have fancied, of a poisonous nature. Frogs have no poison-sacs, and in truth no weapons of any kind.

Open a frog’s mouth, and you will find but a few tiny teeth in the upper jaw and palate, which are useful for the partial grinding up of horny insects. His tongue you will discover to be a very odd affair, which is fastened at the front end of the mouth, the hinder part being free and hanging down the creature’s throat. This organ is covered with a glue-like secretion. When an insect is to be captured, it is snapped forward from the mouth, and, striking the insect, which it seldom fails to do, causes it to adhere as to bird-lime.

A few thoughts now about the life-history of the frog. From egg to egg is the story. In roundish masses, upon sticks lying in water, or upon the leaves and stems of submerged water-plants, are the eggs deposited. The creature that comes from the egg is no more like a frog than a caterpillar is like a butterfly. It has a large head, small tail, branched gills, and is devoid of limbs, resembling, in this stage, more a fish than a frog. This is its early childhood, or tadpole state. It can only live in water now, and swims and feeds from the very moment it leaves the egg. Change in form almost immediately begins, the branched gills being drawn within the neck and hidden, a pair of fore-legs beginning to bud, and subsequently a pair of hind-legs, which push out much faster than the fore-legs. As the legs grow, the tail is gradually absorbed and disappears. The interior of the body meanwhile changes, the lungs and heart becoming reptilian. When the gills and tail are gone, and the legs are fully formed, the once-swimming tadpole hops out of the water a perfectly-formed frog.

When first the tadpole emerged from the egg, it ate the jelly-like cover. Then soft animal and vegetable matters, with the strengthening of its pair of horny jaws, began to be devoured. Insects later on, and even its own kith and kin, became its food. The fare of the adult frog is almost exclusively insect in character, although necessity sometimes drives him to make a meal out of some of his weaker brethren.

Seated in cool, leafy shadows, not far from his favorite stream or pool, the frog watches with his great, black, gold-ringed eyes for such insects as good fortune shall bring to his retreat. As one hovers near, out flies his limber, sticky, ribbon-like tongue, true to its mark, and the hapless insect, adhering to the viscid projected ribbon, is gently and cleverly deposited in the open throat, the frog maintaining all the while an air of calm, superior self-satisfaction, as if he had not so much satisfied an appetite as fulfilled the mission of ridding nature of a superfluous insect.

A most harmless, timid and interesting animal is the frog, and often most unfortunate. He is the legitimate mark for all the missiles that can be thrown at him by urchins wandering about his native pool. Snakes make him their prey, and he is always in mental fear lest some insidious serpent shall take him unawares, or his musings shall be suddenly cut short by the stately progress of some swan or goose, sailing over the limpid water, or searching the green herbage wherein he sits concealed.

Lusty Croaker of the Summer Pond.]

That he is susceptible of being trained, there can be no question. Man is not always viewed by him as an inveterate enemy, nor does he always dive headlong into the pool when his presence is near. He has been known to cultivate man’s acquaintance, and to live on friendly terms with him. Some three years ago a tiny frog was taken from a swamp by a friend and placed in a small stream of spring water that passed close to the house where the writer was summering. A dozen times a day the little frog was dipped up by the hand from the bottom of the stream, and forced to endure down the head and back the tenderest caresses. A few insects were then offered as food in conciliation for the liberty taken, which the little frog was only induced to accept after a great deal of persuasion, when he was carefully put back into his watery bath. In the space of a week, the frog had become so attached to his friend, that he would leap into his outstretched hand and take his food without the least distrust or fear. Even the voice of the master was recognized by the frog, and, when heard in the distance, was the signal for the strangest behavior. Froggie would leap out of the water upon a bare stretch of earth, peer off in the direction whence the sound came, and there await his master’s arrival with restless anxiety. The strongest bond of friendship seemed to unite the two. Not only was the frog able to recognize the voice of his friend, but he knew him in person as well. Repeated efforts were made by the writer to gain the attention and good-will of the frog, but all his advances were received with the utmost indifference.

While the species which I have just described represents the aquatic Ranidæ, the Wood-frog, its near kin, represents a branch of the family which prefers dry situations, except in breeding times, when the eggs must be deposited in water. The Wood-frog is somewhat smaller than the Bull-frog, and is clad in olive-green and brown colors, which are in perfect keeping with the coloration of dead leaves and dry twigs. There is a large black patch on the side of the head around the big ear-drum, which seems still further to distinguish him from his cousin. He is a very shy and suspicious creature, and makes a prodigious jump at the first intimation of danger, his leaps being so enormous that it is very difficult to capture him. When upon the ground, he can hardly be discerned from the dry vegetation around. By hiding in damp moss or in decayed logs, and in little hollows in the ground, he is enabled to maintain the moisture of his skin. He avoids the sunshine, and keeps close to the earth.

Another curious Rana is the Tree-frog. He is smaller than any of his cousins, and may be known by his bright green dress, which is spotted with black, and by a membrane stretched between his toes, which gives him a broad, flat surface, while it helps to sustain him as he leaps, somewhat after the fashion of a flying squirrel, from branch to branch. In tropical regions, where many of the trees are bedecked with gorgeous blossoms, Tree-frogs appear in the gayest of colors, the splendor of their garb being protective in such surroundings.

Dressed in black and light brown, and living in marshes in the Eastern United States, is another species--the Swamp-frog. His voice is a prolonged croak, which, to the practised ear, can be readily distinguished from the bawl of Clamata, or the roar of the Bull-frog.

Cats, geese, hawks, vultures, owls and other animals eat frogs, and the luckless creatures can scarcely appear without finding an enemy. But nature, who is a very wise and considerate mother, provides a means for balancing this great destruction of their forces in endowing them with wonderful reproductive organs. So prolific are frogs, that when the little black tadpoles appear, so thickly are they huddled together that the pond seems literally alive with their swimming forms.

In the same class of animals to which the frogs belong, as well as to the same order, but to a different sub-order, are placed the toads, somewhat remote cousins of the frogs. As the frog is well-known about our ponds, so the toad is a constant denizen of our groves and gardens. The frog, you have been told, is a species of Rana, and now I shall introduce to you the toad as a species of Bufo. In general anatomy they are alike. Their eggs and young are closely similar, and the stages of growth from egg to adult form are nearly identical. When the adult stage is attained the frogs and toads are very tiny creatures, but, small as they are, they are readily distinguishable from each other by the conformation of the snout, and by the larger development of the hind-legs of the frog. Their chief differences will now be enumerated. The toad has no teeth, but the frog, as has been stated before, has teeth in both the upper jaw and the palate. Similarly attached is the tongue, but the free end of the frog’s tongue is forked, and the toad’s entire. The skin of the toad is usually warty, while the frog’s is smooth. A rounder body, shorter hind-legs, less fully webbed feet and more rounded snout still further distinguish the toad from the frog. Their soft moist skin shows them to be Amphibians. The absence of tails places them among the Anuran, or Tailless Amphibians. Thus far they agree well together, but differences loom up upon careful examination, and we are compelled to say of the frog that he belongs to the Ranidæ, and of the toad that he belongs to the Bufonidæ. Of the two animals, the toad is by far the more interesting and useful.

The toad is almost unrestricted in his territorial range. He hops through the tropics and the temperate zones, and well up into the polar regions. Everywhere he is the same inoffensive, gentle, humble, useful and generally silent creature. But like his human brother he has his faults. He has a great fondness for bees. Happy is he when, brigand-like, he can stand by the highway of the bees and capture them as they return to their waxen city. Their wealth of honey he does not demand as a ransom, but swallows the little creatures themselves, alive and whole, and digests them at leisure. Bee-eating seems his only fault. Not only the hive-bee, but other insects as well, share his attention. Millions of noxious beetles and bugs are devoured, and the world is the richer by thousands of bushels of fruit and vegetables. The good he accomplishes largely outweighs the mischief he commits. So ceaselessly and swiftly he swallows his game, that a grasshopper’s legs or a sphinx’s antennæ may often be seen sticking out of his mouth, while the carcass itself is well down in his throat. French gardeners so appreciate his utility that he is brought to market and sold for a pittance to such as may need his services.

How He Manages a Difficulty.]

Toads can be tamed and taught to eat from the hand. They are easily beguiled with sugar and with bread that has been soaked in milk, but, like a captious child, they eat only the middle out of the slice, and leave the crust. We once saw a toad, a noble fellow he was, who, at a certain hour of the closing day, would come from his gloomy retreat to receive at the hands of man his supper of flies, which he had been trained to catch on the throw. So unerringly would his tongue dart out at the opportune moment, that he seldom, if ever, shot wide of his mark. It is amusing to observe him when, in his greed and haste, he has attempted to swallow a huge grasshopper whose legs will not accommodate themselves to his peculiar gape of mouth. How he swallows and twists and contracts the walls of his throat, but the legs seem unmanageable. He does not give up, or endeavor to eject the half-swallowed body, but ponders the matter over and over. A look of delight beams out of his eyes, that shows he has managed the problem. Up goes to the mouth the right fore-leg, and, in less time than it takes to chronicle the event, the obstreperous insect is pushed into the stomach.

Some curious myths are told of the toad. One says he can live for hundreds of years encased in clay or in stone. No more true of Bufo is this than of Rana, his cousin. Another asserts that his skin, when handled, is productive of warts, and that the fluid he emits, which serves but to moisten his body, for without moisture he could certainly not live, and to protect him from enemies, is poisonous in character. His power to produce warts, we cannot admit. But that the fluid he exudes, if not poisonous to touch, is offensive to animals, there can be no doubt. We are led to this conclusion from the following considerations: Dogs, young animals especially, are prone to attack the toad, but they never want to repeat their experience. The toad’s exudation so affects the salivary glands of the dog as to cause him to froth and foam like an animal with rabies. A case is recalled where a dog, that had taken a toad in his mouth, became almost frantic. This dog never afterwards was well. His whole system apparently had become diseased, and, in less than a year, he had wasted to a complete skeleton, when death relieved him of his sufferings. Another allegation, that the toad has a jewel in his head, has been believed from very ancient times. The story doubtlessly originated from the beauty of the toad’s eyes, the irides being a rich flame-color, which, in the dusk of the even, shine like burnished gems.

When hatched the young of the toad are of a jet black color, and are very active. Their changes are made very early and in the same manner as those of the frog. They are quite small when arrived at the perfect toad state. Their legs produced and their tails absorbed, they quit the water and set out on long journeys. Unlike the frog, which is a home-stayer, the toad is a born vagrant. They travel chiefly by night, hiding under stones and herbage during the day. If clouds cover the sky, they take heart and joyously hop forth upon their pilgrimage. During a long drouth they mysteriously disappear, but if a rain comes on they suddenly come out by hundreds, and this has given rise to the tale of a “shower of toads.”