Chapter III: Part 3

The Siberian fox is one of those wise creatures that has defied in a most extraordinary way his handicaps, and, refusing to admit them, has boldly selected the strangest dwelling-place known to the animal world--the horn of the mountain sheep. This unique dwelling-place has been the home of the Siberian fox for ages, and his ancestors have known no other. The mountain sheep, which are giants among their kind, have the longest horns in proportion to their size of any animal in existence. The argali of Siberia is the largest of all sheep, and is equal in bulk and weight to an average-sized ox, with horns proportionally large. The horns of these animals are strikingly like those of the Rocky Mountain sheep of America, except they are much larger. They spring up from the forehead, tilt backward, then boldly curve below the muzzle, before finally again pointing upward and tapering into a sharp and delicate point. They are hollow, though exceedingly stout and elastic, and strengthened on the outside by a number of ridges or horny rings set very close together. They are found in large numbers in this land of perpetual ice and snow, and it is thought that they break from the sheep's heads very easily.

It is not uncommon to find them lying in a spot which has been a battlefield, where two sheep in attempting to settle some dispute have fought and fallen. It is not long after they have thus fallen before they are utilised by Mr. Fox. He stores himself carefully away in these roomy horns, one of which Mrs. Fox uses as a nursery, finding it a snug, safe, and warm place to rear her little family.

The other varieties of foxes, especially the grey and red, are not so skilled in home-making. This may be due to the fact that they do not have need of such elaborate houses as their arctic cousins. Again, it may be that the existence of numerous deserted homes of badgers, or even rabbits, makes it unnecessary for them to spend their time in building homes of their own. It is much easier to enlarge the ready-made burrow of a rabbit than to dig a new tunnel, of course.

If there is no ready-made burrow to be had, then the wise fox sets to work and scoops out his own. Herein he sleeps all the day, and comes forth only at night. A small chamber from the main room serves as the nursery, and here the babies are born and nurtured. Nothing is more beautiful than to see the entire family--mother, father, and children--come forth at evening to play. The young are as sportive as pups, but they never wander far from home. Their broad heads, grey coats, short tails and awkward appearance would lead no one to think that they were the children of handsome, nimble-limbed, intelligent Mrs. Fox!

Woe to the dog that enters Mrs. Fox's home! She is a pugilist of the first order, and knows how to fight far better than the average bull terrier. It requires a very savage dog to kill her, and he is apt to be minus an ear when the battle is over.

Red and grey foxes are similar in intelligence, but differ in many other ways: the former are like the gipsies in always moving about from place to place, while the latter stick to one general locality, although their hunting-grounds may range for several miles in all directions. Red foxes seem actually to enjoy being hunted by dogs; in most cases they will outrun the dogs, and rarely seek protection from caves or rocks.

The grey fox, on the other hand, cares little for racing, but seeks protection among rocky cliffs where the dogs are at a disadvantage. Here none but the smallest canines may enter the holes and crannies, and they are usually wise enough to stay out. Hunters are thoroughly familiar with the tactics of the fox family, and therefore select the red ones for their sport.

The foxes are truly famed for their cunning, and when other animals try to play tricks on them, the trick usually turns out in the foxes' favour. During the winter season these wise creatures are sometimes hard pressed for food. Birds and small animals are hard to catch, and the farmers' chicken houses are closed. It is then that the wise fox needs all his wit and wisdom, for he oftentimes becomes the hunted as well as the hunter. His chief enemies are the puma and the timber wolf, but they are seldom able to get him.

The prairie-dog is so talented that he might be classed under several headings; he is sociable, a burrower, and especially gifted in the art of constructing underground "dog towns." He is rarely called by his Indian name, _Wish-ton-wish_, and we know him only as the prairie-dog. Evidently he was given this name because of his yelping bark, which resembles the cry of a young domestic dog.

He is a good-looking but rather curious little animal. He has a round, flat head, and garish-red fur, and a stout little body. He makes an affectionate pet, and loves the society of human beings. When he decides to start a town, he usually succeeds, for he is an exceedingly prolific animal, and his extensive burrows seem to have no ends. They are rather large, and run to great depths. In the western part of the United States, especially on the big prairies, the prairie-dog towns often cover large areas. They are usually dug in a sloping direction, and descend four to six feet in depth, and then suddenly rise upward again. Hundreds of these little tunnels are dug in such close proximity to each other that it is quite unsafe for cattle and horses to pass over them. This is the chief reason why ranchmen do not like the otherwise harmless little animals of the prairies.

These dog towns are most curious, and a visit to one of them well repays the traveller. Strangely enough, the prairie-dog is exceedingly inquisitive and this very quality often costs the little animal his life. Mr. Wood, in describing the prairie-dog's habits, says that this wise little Westerner, when perched on the hillocks which we have already described, is able to survey a wide extent of territory and as soon as he sees a visitor, he gives a loud yelp of alarm, and dives into his burrow, his tiny feet knocking together with a ludicrous flourish as he disappears. In every direction similar scenes are enacted. The warning cry has been heard, and immediately every dog within a hundred yards repeats the cry and leaps into his burrow. Their curiosity, however, cannot be suppressed, and no sooner have they vanished from sight than their heads are seen protruding from their burrows. Sometimes hundreds of them will be peeping from their homes at one time, their beautiful eyes sparkling as they cautiously watch the enemy's every movement.

The prairie-dog is truly a tenement dweller, and his home is occupied not only by his own kind, but by owls and rattlesnakes. Most naturalists believe that these incongruous families live in perfect harmony; but it is a well-known fact that the snake occasionally devours the young prairie-dogs, and he must be considered by them as an intruder who procured board and lodging without their consent. The owls, on the other hand, are supposed to do no harm, although it may be that they also occasionally feast on a tender young pup.

The magnificent little animals known to scientists as vizcachas, and whose homes are on the pampas of South America, are the most skilled builders of underground cities in the animal world. Their villages or cities are called "vizcacheras" and are provided with from ten to twenty mouths or subway entrances, with one entrance often serving for several holes. If the ground is soft, it is not uncommon to find twenty to thirty burrows in a vizcachera; but if the ground is rocky and hard, only four or five burrows are found. These wide-mouthed, gaping burrows are dug close together, and the entire town usually covers from one hundred to two hundred square feet.

The vizcacheras are different from other underground animal cities; some of the burrows are large, others are small. Most of them open into a subterranean main-street at from four to six feet from the entrance; from this street other streets wind and turn in all directions, like a man-made subway, and many of them extend clear into other streets or subways, thus forming a complete network of underground passageways. All the tunnelled-out dirt is brought to the surface and forms a large mound to prevent the water from entering the cities.

According to W. H. Hudson, in _The Naturalist in La Plata_, "in some directions a person might ride five hundred miles and never advance half a mile without seeing one or more of them. In districts where, as far as the eye can see, the plains are as level and smooth as a bowling-green, especially in winter when the grass is close-cropped, and where the rough giant-thistle has not sprung up, these mounds appear like brown or dark spots on a green surface. They are the only irregularities that occur to catch the eye, and consequently form an important feature in the scenery. In some places they are so near together that a person on horseback may count a hundred of them from one point of view."

Unlike some burrowing animals, the vizcacha does not select a spot where there is a bank or depression in the soil, or roots of trees, or even tall grass; knowing that they only attract the opossum, skunk, armadillo, and weasel, he chooses an open level plot of ground where he can watch in all directions for enemies while he works.

The great or main entrance to some of these underground cities is sometimes four to six feet in diameter. A small man stands shoulder deep in them. The going and coming of these little vizcachas would almost lead one to believe that they have a primitive city government, and are ruled according to definite laws. Their cities stand for generations, and many of the old human inhabitants tell of certain vizcacheras around them which existed when their parents were living. The founder of a new village is usually a male; and he goes only a short distance from the other villages to establish his new colony.

These cities are by no means occupied by their builders alone, but have their undesirables within their borders. The unique style of burrowing which the vizcachas employ benefits several kinds of birds, especially the Minerva, and one species of the swallows, which build their nests in the bank-like holes in the sides of the vizcacha's cities. Several insects, among which may be mentioned a large nocturnal bug, with red wings and shiny black body, also seek the same shelter; another foreign inhabitant is a night-roaming cincindela, with dark green wing-cases and pale red legs, which remind one of oriental jewels. There are also no less than six species of wingless wasps, beautifully coloured in red, black, and white. Dozens of spiders and smaller insects that live in and near the vizcacheras, which are everywhere sprinkled over the pampas, pass in and out among the streets recognising their respective friends and enemies.

The home life in these communities is most interesting. The burrowers remain indoors until late in the evening during the winter, but in summer appear before the sun sets. One of the larger males is the first to appear, as if to see if everything is safe from danger; if it is, others immediately pop up and take their places at the entrance to the burrow. The females are smaller than the males, and stand up that they may see everything that happens. Curiosity struggling within them for mastery is often the cause of their death. Tiny swallows hover over the entrances, like myriads of large moths, with never-ending low, mournful cries.

Of all the incongruous inhabitants of the vizcacheras, the fox is the most dreaded and the least welcome. To appease his growls and snarls the vizcachas are sometimes forced to let him occupy one of their rooms for a season, or even permanently. During a part of the year he appears quite unassuming and indifferent to the general affairs of the household, and he really goes quite unnoticed, even though he may be sitting on the mound in the family group. But when the vizcachas appear in the spring, the fox begins to become interested in the nursery and as soon as the older animals are away he devours the young. Occasionally, if the fox is hungry, or if he has another friend to aid him, he will hunt the vizcachera from end to end, battling with the old, and usually killing all the young. It often happens that the mother vizcacha, when her babes are large enough to follow her, will take them away to another place that is safer.

The language of these city-builders is most unusual; the males frequently utter the most varied and astonishing cries. They are jarring in the extreme, and are produced in the most leisurely manner, growing louder and louder and finally ending with a slow quaver. At other times, they grunt like small pigs. Hudson says that any quick noise, like the report of a gun, produces a most startling effect among these little animals. As soon as the report is broken on the stillness of the night a perfect furore of cries issues forth from every direction. In a few seconds it ceases for a momentary lull, and then suddenly breaks forth again, louder than before. The tones of the different ones are so different that the cries of nearby individuals may be plainly distinguished amidst the babel of voices coming from the distance. It sounds as if thousands upon thousands of them were striving to express every emotion with their tiny tenor voices. No words can describe the effect that these sounds produce. One of the most peculiar calls is the special alarm-note, which is sharp, sudden, and shrill. It is reported from one to another until every vizcacha is safe in his burrow.

But with all the kind and sociable qualities of these little animals, they have characteristics which seem rather paradoxical, and chief among these is their resentment of any intrusion of neighbours into their burrows. Although a number of individuals may reside in adjoining compartments in the same burrow, yet if one enters a burrow not his own--woe is he! Even when pursued by fierce dogs a vizcacha will rarely enter a room of another. If he does, he is immediately pounced upon by the angry owner, and is usually driven clear out of the burrow. These animals are undoubtedly far the most versatile and intelligent rodents in the world.

A most unusual miner and underground dweller is the pocket gopher of North and Central America. He is a rat-like animal, and is most plentiful on the plains of the Mississippi region. He is unusual in appearance, dressed in brown and grey fur, with tiny white feet, small eyes and ears, and a short stubby tail. His feet are wonderfully strong, and his fore-paws are armed with strong, curved claws. But he is famed for his wonderful fur-lined pouches which open inside his cheeks and serve a peculiar use.

His entire life, with rare exceptions, is spent underground. There he makes long tunnels for the purpose of securing tender roots for food; these tunnels are about twelve to eighteen inches below the surface, and usually wind under the foot of a tree where a sinking passage goes down four to five feet further and leads to a large living-room. This is the family nest and nursery, lined with grass and soft fur which Mrs. Gopher has taken from her own body. Adjoining the living-room is a storage bin filled with nuts, dried bits of roots, tobacco, and potatoes.

Much that is exaggerated has been said in regard to the adaptability of the gopher for his work. But it is a fact that he is of all the diggers best suited for his task. He uses his strong teeth, like a trench-digger uses a pick, to loosen the earth; and while his fore-feet are kept constantly at work in digging and pressing the dirt back under the body, the hind feet also aid in shovelling it still farther back. When a sufficient amount has heaped up behind him, he performs the strangest of all his feats--he turns around, and places his hands vertically against his chin, thus forcing himself backwards, pushing the dirt ahead of himself until it is forced out of the tunnel. At the outer end of the tunnel is formed a little hillock.

Dr. Merriam has made a special study of the gopher, and in speaking of the strange habit of running backwards, he says that even in carrying food to one of his barns or storehouses the gopher rarely turns round but usually runs backwards and forwards, over and over again like a shuttle on its track.

The gopher uses his pouches for carrying food, not dirt. When he has eaten a sufficient amount of food, he fills his pouches. If a potato is too large to be carried in this way, he trims it off to the right size. His method of emptying his pouches is most interesting; with his two tiny paws he delicately presses the food from his cheeks.

The woodchuck is an American basement-dweller of considerable renown. His peculiar whistling cry has won for him from the French the name of _siffleur_; and we sometimes call him by the very inappropriate name of ground-hog. He is a skilled weather prophet, and his appearance in the early spring signifies that the winter is over. He never shows himself until the cold is gone.

The home of the woodchuck is usually found under a hill, with a sheltering rock to protect the entrance, which leads into a tunnel, from twenty to thirty feet in length, finally ending by entering his home proper. The tunnel descends obliquely for several feet, and again rises towards the surface. His nest is rather large, and nicely lined with dry grass and leaves, which serve as a carpet for the young woodchucks when they come into the world. The young remain in the underground home until they are about five months old, then they go out into the world for themselves.

The ground squirrel long ago decided that he would rather have a dwelling under the ground than in the tree-tops, for in an underground home he would have more protection, a better place for storing food, and a far safer nursery for rearing his precious babes. So snug, cosy and hidden are the tiny quarters to which his runs or subways lead that his family is quite safe against most enemies. The ingenuity and skill shown in the construction of his home entitles him to rank among the leading animal miners and excavators.

The most unusual of all the underground and basement dwellers is the polar bear. This wise inhabitant of the Far North has long ago learned that no animal needs to freeze to death in the snow. To him the snow is a constant means of warmth and protection, and as winter approaches, he seeks a position, usually near a big rock, where he digs out a hole of small dimensions, and allows the snow to cover his body. Strangely enough it is only the female bear that seeks this permanent snow hut; the males do not care to spend so much time in seclusion. The same is true of the unmated females. But the mated females always have snow huts in which they give birth to their young, and where they reside until early spring; then the mother bear comes forth with them to seek food and teach them the ways of the world.

TO THE POLAR BEAR THE ICE AND SNOW OF THE FAR NORTH MEAN WARMTH AND PROTECTION. THE MOTHER BEAR DIGS HERSELF INTO A SNOWBANK, WHERE SHE LIVES QUITE COMFORTABLY THROUGHOUT THE WINTER.]

There is no danger that the bears will stifle for air under the snow, because the warmth of their breath always keeps a small hole open at the top of the snow-cell. This snow-house increases as time goes on, the heat exhaled from their bodies gradually melting the snow. Often Mrs. Bear's home is discovered by means of the tiny hole in the roof around which is collected quantities of hoar frost.

Hibernation is one of the strangest phenomena of the animal world, and bears, especially the white bear of the polar regions, the black bear of North America, and the brown bear of Europe, agree in the curious habit of semi-hibernation. In the late fall of the season, the bears begin to eat heavily and soon become enormously fat, preparatory for the long winter of semi-sleep.

During the winter, at least for three months, the polar bear takes no food, but lives entirely upon the store of fat which her body had accumulated before she went into retirement. The same is true of many hibernating animals, but in case of the bears it is more remarkable because the mother bear must not only support herself but nourish her young for a long period without taking any food for herself.

Another good example of a ground-dweller is the aard vark of Southern Africa. He is as curious as his name, and scoops out immense quantities of earth to form his home. This dwelling might be termed a cave, as he heaps up the earth in the shape of a mammoth artificial ant-hill; on one side is the entrance, which is so skilfully formed that it looks far more like the work of man than of an animal.

His name is Dutch and means earth-hog. It is applied to him because his head looks somewhat like that of a pig. His claws are powerful and enormous, and with them he is able to dig into the hardest soil, and to destroy the giant ant-hills which are dotted over the plains of South Africa, and which can withstand the weight of a dozen men.

This strange creature sleeps during the day, and comes forth at evening to seek his food. The first thing he does is to burst a hole in the stony side of an ant-hill, to the utter dismay of its tiny inhabitants. As they run among the ruins of their fallen city, he throws out his slimy tongue and catches them by the hundreds. In a short time only the shell of a half-destroyed wall remains.

These once stately ant-homes metamorphosed into caves, form homes for the jackals and large serpents of the plains. The Kaffirs of Africa use them as vaults into which are thrown their dead. The aard vark outrivals, with his great claws, the most skilled burrowing tools of man. These animals are therefore rarely captured. It is not uncommon for a horse to fall into their excavations and be killed.

Miners, excavators, and underground dwellers teach us the great lesson that, while many of them sought the ground as a protection, and found there many difficulties to overcome, they not only have won in the great struggle of life but have so skilfully adapted themselves to their environment and surroundings as to become entire masters, even artists, in their methods of living.

VI

ANIMAL MATHEMATICIANS

_"But what a thoughtless animal is man,--
How very active in his own trepan!"_

--PRIOR.

Among the special senses of animals none seems more human than their knowledge of mathematics. A recognition of this quality in animals is encouraging because the new scientists are earnestly trying to build up a true knowledge of animal behaviour by studying them in the light of the new psychology. This will fill the place of the vast amount of misinformation which those skilled only in book-knowledge, without really knowing the ways of Nature, have builded. It will also record all the strange and curious facts about animals and their ways without insisting too much on rigid explanation. These new scientists are far different from their predecessors who tried to explain everything they did not understand about an animal's behaviour in terms of the scanty information gained by studying a few museum specimens. We might as well attempt to explain human nature from the study of an Egyptian mummy. The new method is simply to give the facts about an animal, and frankly admit that in many cases, such as are found in their knowledge of counting and numbers, we must leave complete explanation to the future when we shall have a greater fund of scientific data on which to base our conclusions.

It is an established fact that some animals can count, and that they have the faculty of close observation and keen discrimination. They learn to count quickly, but they do not fully appreciate the value of numerical rotation. Most of the arithmetical feats of trained animals are hoaxes regulated by their sense of smell, sight, touch and taste. But no one doubts their ability to count. I have known a monkey that could count to five. He played with a number of marbles, and I would ask for two marbles, one marble, four marbles, as the case might be, and he would quickly hand the number requested.

Another incident that will illustrate the point is the case of a mule owned by an old negro near Huntsville, Texas. The regular routine work of this mule was to cart two loads of wood to the town every day. One day the negro wished to make a third trip, but was unable to do so. When asked the reason, he replied, "Dat fool mule, Napoleon, done decided we had hauled enough wood fo' one day!"

Prantl claims that the time-sense is totally absent in animals, and that it belongs only to man, as one of the attributes of his mental superiority. However, many facts go to show that animals have not only a specific time-sense, but also a sense of personal identity which reaches back into the past.

Time-sense is very highly developed in dogs, cats, hogs, horses, goats, and sheep. They apparently are able to keep an accurate account of the days of the week and hours of the day and night, and even seem to know something of numerical succession and logical sequence. A friend in Texas had an old coloured servant, whose faithful dog had been trained to know that just at noon each day he was expected to carry lunch to his master. I have seen the dog on more than one occasion playing with children in the streets, suddenly break away without any one calling him, or any suggestion on our part as to the time, and rush for the kitchen just at the proper moment. No one could detain him from his duty. This same dog, however, would on Sundays continue to play at the noon hour. Surely, if any explanation is to be offered in such a case as this, it will imply as strict a sense of time as it does of duty.

A friend relates a case of a dog that went each evening to meet a train on which his master returned from the city. On one occasion the train was delayed two hours, and it was exceedingly cold, but the devoted companion remained until his master arrived. Innumerable instances of such all-absorbing affection, showing at the same time a sense of time, might be cited.

Dr. Brown gives a most remarkable example of a dog's ability to distinguish time. The story is of a female dog, though named Wylie, which was purchased by Dr. Brown when he was a young man, from an old shepherd who had long been in his employment. Wylie was brought to his father's, "and was at once taken," he says, "to all our hearts; and though she was often pensive, as if thinking of her master and her work on the hills, she made herself at home, and behaved in all respects like a lady.... Some months after we got her, there was a mystery about her; every Tuesday evening she disappeared; we tried to watch her, but in vain; she was always off by nine P. M., and was away all night, coming back next day wearied, and all over mud, as if she had travelled far. This went on for some months, and we could make nothing of it. Well, one day I was walking across the Grass-market, with Wylie at my heels, when two shepherds started, and looking at her, one said, 'That's her; that's the wonderful wise bitch that naebody kens.' I asked him what he meant, and he told me that for months past she had made her appearance by the first daylight at the 'buchts' or sheep-pens in the cattle-market, and worked incessantly, and to excellent purpose, in helping the shepherds to get their sheep and lambs in. The man said in a sort of transport, 'She's a perfect meeracle; flees about like a speerit, and never gangs wrang; wears, but never grups, and beats a' oor dowgs. She's a perfect meeracle, and as soople as a mawkin'.' She continued this work until she died."

Another most striking instance, showing animals' sense of time, is that related by Watson in which he tells of two friends, fathers of families, one living in London and the other at Guilford. For many years it was the custom of the London family to visit their friends in Guilford, always accompanied by their spaniel, Caesar. After some years a misunderstanding arose between the two families. The usual Christmas visits were discontinued; not, however, so far as the spaniel was concerned. His visits continued as before. On the eve of the first Christmas following the misunderstanding, the Guilford family were astonished to find at their door their London friend, Caesar. Naturally, they expected that he had come in advance of the family, and were happy in the thought of this unexpected reconciliation. All evening they awaited their friends, but none arrived. Nor did they the next day. Caesar had come of his own accord at the accustomed time, and remained with his friends for the usual number of days. This naturally led to a correspondence between the families, who thereupon resumed their former friendly relations. We do not believe, of course, that this dog counted the exact number of days to know when to start to Guilford, but he doubtless saw something to remind him of the past.

Sir John Lubbock once related before the British Association at Aberdeen how cards bearing the ten numerals were arranged before a dog, and the dog given a problem, such as to state the square root of nine, or of sixteen, or the sum of two numbers. He would then point at each card in succession, and the dog would bark when he came to the right one. The dog never made a mistake. If this was not evidence of a mentality at least approaching that of men, we do not know what to call it.

If there is any difference between an animal and a human mathematician, it depends upon special training. The animal never has the same opportunities to learn as the man. Many savages, for example, cannot count beyond three or four. Sir John Lubbock gives an anecdote of Mr. Galton, who compared the arithmetical knowledge of certain savages of South Africa and a dog. The comparison proved to the advantage of the dog.

There is no reason that a dog should not be taught arithmetic. And if one wishes to do so, it might be well to begin by making the dog distinguish one from two, allowing him to touch both once at the word one, and twice at the word two. Then he might pass on to six or seven. After he had progressed to ten, he might begin addition. At least the experiment would be interesting and conducive to learning the truth. Surely a knowledge of mathematics is no more wonderful than that of the ordinary pointer dog's ability to distinguish different kinds of birds. Certain of those wise dogs are trained to hunt only quail, while others hunt several varieties of game.

It should be remembered that all degrees of arithmetical aptitude are found in the human races, from the genius of a Newton and a Laplace to the absolute inability of certain of the Hottentots to count to three. These inequalities in the mathematical notions of different people should make us very cautious about saying that animals cannot count and have no sense of numbers. It is extremely probable that if we had a way of choosing those animals with a special gift for arithmetic, they would surprise us with their learning.

No one denies that animals are capable of distinguishing relative sizes and even quantities. They are not so skilled as the average human being in making these distinctions, yet when mentally compared to the state of Bushmen, Tasmanians, and Veddahs, who can count only two, and call it many, there is not such a vast gulf between them and mankind.

The zebu, or sacred bull of India, shows his mathematical qualities to a pronounced degree. When he grows attached to a small group of his kin, he will often refuse to leave them unless the entire group accompany him. When driven from his pen, if by chance one of his party is left behind he refuses to go--thus indicating that he is able to tell that the exact number is not with him. His affectionate and gentle disposition, not to mention his love of his offspring, would entitle him to rank among the most human of animals. No wonder he is worshipped in India, where the human side of animal life is understood and appreciated to a degree quite unknown to the Western world!

The fox and the wolf, and even the coyote, can readily distinguish whether a herd of sheep or cattle is guarded by three or four dogs, and whether there is one herdsman or two. They cannot tell the exact number of sheep, however; neither could a man without first counting them. Their knowledge of geometry is remarkable. They can orient themselves to the surrounding woods, measure distances, figure out the safest way of escape, and the power of the enemy even better than savage man. Yet in most of these problems, definite notions of number or figures have little part. A dog, when hunting, for example, on a prairie where he has to leap over ditches or quickly turn around a large tree, is able by a second's thought to do so without danger. He clears the wire fence, leaps the ditch, dashes through a closing gate, or escapes an infuriated enemy at a moment's notice. This natural wisdom is exercised spontaneously in him, it is the result of inborn theorems of which he may not even be aware, but which he uses with a sureness that defies the book-learning of all our teachers of mathematics. He uses speed, force, space, mass, and time with so small an effort, and by the quickest and shortest routes.

Suppose a wolf or a wild hog could not tell how many dogs were attacking it? There would be no way for it to defend itself. If four dogs attack it, they are counted and the tactics used that would be useless in other cases. If four dogs attack, two on each side, it retreats, with face toward the enemy. If a dozen dogs are in the attacking force, the hog becomes confused, loses all idea of number, and wildly bites at any enemy that comes nearest. Man in a similar condition would use practically the same tactics.

Cats undeniably count their kittens. If the mother loses one of three or four, she searches for it immediately. When dogs are chasing a hare, if they raise another, they become very confused, as if they did not know which to follow. Many shepherd dogs know if a sheep is missing from the flock and go to hunt it.

The efforts of scientific investigators, who work with so many learned theories, have been less successful in discovering the real facts about animals than of laymen, largely because the scientists have not yet learned that arithmetical notions are more difficult than geometrical ones. Our industrial civilisation has caused us to lose the idea of the insignificance that number has in animal life compared to the idea of size. Most animals have a remarkable sense of size; they measure time and distance better than civilised man. A hyena, for example, knows just how near he dare approach an unarmed man.

A sense of time is common among animals that daily eat at fixed hours. A donkey was accustomed to being fed at six o'clock in the morning, and when on one occasion his master did not appear on time, he deliberately kicked in the door to the barn and proceeded to feed himself.

Animals are capable of measuring lapses of time in which they are particularly interested. Houzeau claims that a female crocodile remains away from her eggs in the sand for twelve to twenty days, according to the species, but returns to the place exactly on the day they hatch.

Although we should hesitate to affirm that all animals have an extensive knowledge of figures and numbers, yet it can hardly be denied that the elephant, donkey, horse, dog, and cat, if given the proper training, become good mathematicians. It is undeniable that they have a love of mental acquisition, and it seems that the Creator has given to every animal, as a reward for its limitations in other respects, a definite innate knowledge and desire to advance educationally. There is in the breast of every animal an irresistible impulse which urges it to advance in the scale of knowledge. Where the animal is blessed with other mental powers, there is found a perfect harmony--of tact, intuition, insight, and genius--all that man himself possesses.

VII

THE LANGUAGE OF ANIMALS

_"Who ever knew an honest brute
At law his neighbours prosecute,
Bring action for assault and battery
Or friends beguile with lies and flattery?"_

The fact that all animals possess ideas, no matter how small those ideas may be, implies reason. That these ideas are transmitted from one animal to another, no one can doubt in the light of our present scientific knowledge. "Be not startled," says the distinguished animal authority, Dr. William T. Hornaday, "by the discovery that apes and monkeys have language; for their vocabulary is not half so varied and extensive as that of the barnyard fowls, whose language some of us know very well." The means by which ideas are transmitted from one animal to another can be rightly described by no other term than _language_.

It is evident that there are many kinds of language: the written; the spoken; the universal, which implies the motion, sign, and form language; the language of the eye, by which ideas are exchanged without words or gestures; and lastly, a mode of expression little known to the human world, but universal among animals. This language is spoken by no man, but is understood by every brute from the tiniest hare to the largest elephant; it is the language whereby spirit communicates with spirit, and by which it recognises in a moment what it would take an entire volume to narrate. In its nature it differs essentially from all other languages, yet we are justified in thinking of it as a language because its function is to transmit ideas from one animal to another. Every form of language is used by animals, and each has its own peculiar language or "dialect" common to its tribe only, though occasionally learned by others. All the emotions--fear, caution, joy, grief, gratitude, hope, despair--are disclosed by some form of language.

It would be interesting to know how the use of the word "dumb" ever became applied to animals, for in reality there are very few dumb animals. Doubtless the word was originally employed to express a larger idea than that of dumbness, and implied the lack of power in animals to communicate successfully with man by sound or language. The real trouble lies with man, who is unable to understand the language spoken or uttered by the animals.

The gesture language is commonly used by many of the tribes of Southern Africa, and some of the Bushmen are unable to converse freely after dark, because their visible gestures are needed as an aid to their spoken words. Only a few years ago there were almost as many different languages among the North American Indians as there were different tribes, and yet each tribe had a sign-language which any Indian in any part of the world might understand. In fact it was so simple that it might be practically mastered in a few hours, and through it one might converse with the Indians of the world without knowing a single word of their spoken language. And this is exactly what the animals do with their universal language.

Who does not understand the meaning of a dog when he approaches his master, after receiving a reprimand for some misdemeanor, with downcast head and lowered tail? Or who could fail to interpret the glee when he has done a noble deed and been praised by his master? His is the language of gesture and look, and is very similar to that in use by our deaf-and-dumb men throughout the world.

The Hindoos invariably talk to their elephants, and it is astonishing how they understand. Bayard Taylor says that "the Arabs govern their camels with a few cries, and my associates in the African deserts were always amused whenever I addressed a remark to the dromedary who was my property for two months; yet at the end of that time the beast evidently knew the meaning of a number of simple sentences. Some years ago, seeing the hippopotamus in Barnum's museum looking very stolid and dejected, I spoke to him in English, but he did not even open his eyes. Then I went to the opposite corner of the cage, and said in Arabic, 'I know you; come here to me.' I repeated the words, and thereupon he came to the corner where I was standing, pressed his huge, ungainly head against the bars of the cage, and looked in my face with a touch of delight while I stroked his muzzle. I have two or three times found a lion who recognised the same language, and the expression of his eyes, for an instant, seemed positively human."

Every one familiar with the habits of dogs believes that they have a language. Certain shepherds are quite particular about the company their dogs keep. This story is told of a couple of shepherds meeting in a market-place in Scotland, each accompanied by his dog, one of which was a sheep-murderer, the other a faithful and respectable dog. They seemed to strike up a great friendship, "and soon assumed so remarkable a demeanour in their conversation that their owners consulted together on their own account, and agreed to set a watch upon them. On that very evening both dogs started from their homes at the same hour, joined each other, and set off after the sheep." It is unquestionable that these dogs had a sufficiency of language to understand each other. The criminal had invited his innocent young friend to join him in his mischief, and they agreed upon the time to meet and each kept his appointment. It is likely that there was not an audible sound uttered during their conversation, but that they used the language of look and gesture, and while it was not understood by their masters, it was entirely comprehended by themselves.

Another instance of canine language is given by John Burroughs, who says that a certain tone in his dog's bark implies that he has found a snake.

There is an old maxim which says: "The empty wagon makes the most noise," and it is interesting to note that the loudest-mouthed and most loquacious of all the animals are the lemurs, who are the least intelligent members of their great family. They chatter, scream, squeak, and grunt from morning till night, and two of them can make more noise than a cageful of apes and monkeys. The orangs and chimpanzees, on the other hand, exceptionally wise and gifted linguists, seldom utter a word or cry, except under extraordinary circumstances, and then briefly.

Prof. Richard L. Garner, who has spent much time in studying the language of animals, has attracted a great amount of attention through his special study of the anthropoid apes. He has lived among these animals in a steel cage in their native haunts and has used a phonograph to record their language. Prof. Garner told recently of an exceptionally intelligent ape, named Susie, whose home used to be at the Zoological Park, under the care of the Zoological Society, and he claimed that Susie could speak "in her own language" at least five words. They were "yes," "no," "protest," "satisfaction" and "contempt."

Mr. George Gladden, writing in the _Outlook_ on the chimpanzee's voice, did not exactly commit himself as to his belief regarding this matter, but he says: "Now, although Mr. Engeholm (for four years in charge of the Primates House in the New York Zoological Park) has not been able to discover that his apes use any language, correctly speaking, he is confident that the chimpanzees Susie, Dick, and Baldy comprehend the definite meaning of many words, and that their minds react promptly when these words are addressed to them in the form of commands. This capacity is more highly developed in Susie than in any other of the apes in this particular group....

"It is difficult, of course, to determine from the commands which an animal will obey precisely how many words employed in these commands are plainly understood; but I have endeavoured to do this tentatively in the case of Mr. Engeholm's commands to Susie, all of which I have seen her obey repeatedly and promptly."

Mr. Gladden enumerates about forty-three commands which he claims to have seen Susie obey promptly. And he further states that the belief which many students of animal psychology hold that an animal gets more of the meaning of a command from the gesture which accompanies the command than he does from the actual words by which he is commanded, is false, and he adds, "as to this, I can testify that of the forty-three commands ... thirty-six may be, and generally are, unaccompanied by any gesture whatever. How, then, does Susie comprehend those commands unless through her understanding of the meaning of the words in which they are conveyed?"

The distinguished phrenologist Gall had a dog whose memory was remarkable, and he thoroughly understood words and phrases. "On this subject I have made," says Gall, "the following observations: I have often spoken intentionally of things which might interest my dog, avoiding the mention of his name, and not letting any gesture escape me which would be likely to arouse his attention. He always exhibited pleasure or pain suitable to the occasion, and by his conduct afterwards showed that he understood perfectly well."

Col. W. Campbell in his _Indian Journal_ gives two remarkable instances of language and unity of work among animals which he saw at Ranee Bennore, while he was on a hunting trip. He witnessed, one morning, a striking case of wolfish generalship, which in his belief proved that animals are endowed to a certain extent not only with reason but are able to communicate their ideas to others. He was scanning the horizon one morning to see if any game was in sight when he discovered a small herd of antelopes feeding in a nearby field. In another remote corner of the field, hidden from the antelopes, he saw six wolves sitting with their heads close together as though they were in deep conversation.

He knew at once that they were also seeking venison for breakfast and he determined to watch them. He concealed himself behind a clump of bushes, and the wolves who had evidently already decided upon their mode of attack began their manoeuvres: one remained stationary, while the other five crept to the edge of the field and one by one took the most advantageous positions, the fifth concealing himself in a deep furrow in the centre of the field.

The sixth, which had made no previous movements, dashed at the antelopes. The swift, graceful creatures, trusting in their incomparable speed, tossed their heads as if in disdain of so small an enemy and galloped away as though they were riding on the winds with their enemy far behind. But as soon as they reached the edge of the field, one of the hiding wolves sprang up and chased them in an opposite direction, while his fatigued accomplice lay down to recuperate. Again the light-heeled herd darted across the field, evidently hoping to escape on the opposite side, but here again they met another crafty wolf who chased them directly toward another of the pack. The chase had begun in earnest, the persecuted antelopes were driven from place to place, a fresh enemy springing up at every turn, till at last they became so terrorised with fear that they crowded together in the center of the field and began running around in diminishing circles.

During all this performance, the wolf which was hidden in a furrow in the centre of the field had not moved, although the antelopes had passed around and over him dozens of times. He well realised his time for action had not yet come and crouched closer and closer awaiting a signal from his fellow hunters to spring into their midst, and down one of the weakened antelopes.

At this point Col. Campbell shot one of the wolves, and the other five ran away and allowed the antelopes to escape. Surely no human combination could have shown greater reason and concerted action than was shown by the wolves under such conditions. Each had a particular post assigned, and evidently some means of communication was used in indicating their respective locations. Each had a definite part to play in the complex scheme--so that their language quite evidently expressed abstract ideas. That these ideas were carried out shows that the wolves were capable not only of laying ambitious plans for capturing prey, but of carrying them out as well.

"That beasts possess a language, which enables them to communicate their ideas," says Thomas Gentry, "has been clearly shown. It is just as apparent that they can act upon the ideas so conveyed. We have now to see whether they can convey their ideas to man, and so bridge over the gulf between the higher and the lower beings. Were there no means of communicating ideas between man and animals, domestication would be impossible. Every one who has possessed and cared for some favourite animal must have observed that they can do so. Their own language becomes, in many instances, intelligible to man. Just as a child that is unable to pronounce words, can express its meaning by intimation, so a dog can do the same by its different modes of barking. There is the bark of joy or welcome, when the animal sees its master, or anticipates a walk with him; the furious bark of anger, if the dog suspects that any one is likely to injure himself or master, and the bark of terror when the dog is suddenly frightened at something which he cannot understand. Supposing, now, that his master could not see the dog, but could only hear his bark, would he not know perfectly well the ideas which were passing through the animal's mind?"

There is no doubt that animals understand something of our human language. They may not be able to comprehend the exact words used, but it is evident they get the meaning to a certain extent. I once had a small Mexican dog sent me from Mexico; he seemed not to understand what was said to him, until a friend called who spoke to him in Spanish, whereupon he showed his delight and became at once a friend to the man who spoke his own language.

The Rev. J. G. Wood tells the following incident, which forcibly illustrates the ability possessed by animals to commune with each other. "While I was living in the country with a friend, a most interesting incident was observed in the history of the dog. My friend had several dogs, of which two had a special attachment to, and an understanding with, each other. The one was a Scotch terrier, gentle and ready to fraternise with all honest comers. The other was as large as a mastiff, and looked like a compound between the mastiff and the large rough stag-hound. He was fierce, and required some acquaintance before you knew what faithfulness and kindness lay beneath his rough and savage-looking exterior. The one was gay and lively, the other, stern and thoughtful.