Chapter III: Part 3

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

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

[++ Illustration: Mother Goose and Dog]

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

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

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SLUGS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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THE PIG.

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[++ Illustration: Pig]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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CATERPILLARS.

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BUTTERFLIES and gnats, bees, ants, flies, crickets, and many other insects, have inspired writers of poetry or prose; but up to the present time, as far as we know, no one has made the caterpillar his theme. Yet, closely examined, many of the caterpillars are well-nigh as gorgeous in their raiment as the most beautiful of butterflies. The caterpillar is free from the flippancy and vanity of the butterfly—who spends by far the greater portion of its life in play and flirtation; it has business to do, and does it conscientiously, and is indeed a character to be admired, save in the matter of the destruction of choice vegetables, for which, after all, its mother, who deposited the egg upon them, is, in fact, solely responsible. The caterpillar is infinite in its variety of hue, but chiefly affects black, ashen grey, and white, bright greens, yellows and browns with rich bands or blotches of white, yellow and scarlet, and indeed almost every variety of brilliant colour. Sometimes it is soft, smooth, and hairless; at others covered with a short, thick, silken coat like velvet; and occasionally bristling with long, stiff hair, a very porcupine among its fellows. Caterpillars from the time they are born give evidence of the possession of two predominant faculties, the one an all-devouring appetite; the other, the knowledge of constant danger and the efforts to escape the eye of their teeming foes. This they do in accordance with varied instincts inherited from progenitors.

Some will hide on the under side of a leaf, others will eat into its substance, and establish themselves a domicile between the outer and inner tissue, proceeding at once to enlarge their house and to satisfy their appetites. Others, on the approach of danger, will curl themselves up, and drop to the ground, trusting to fortune to fall between two clods of earth, but, in any case, shamming death until the danger has, as they believe, passed away. Another kind, a greyish-brown in colour, and rough and knobby of skin, will stand upright, imitating so exactly the appearance of a little bent twig, that the keenest eye would fail to detect the difference; while a great many caterpillars guard themselves against unpleasant surprises by establishing themselves from the first in a place of concealment, and there passing the greater portion of their lives. When, as not unfrequently happens, the chosen hiding-place is in the heart of a bud just beginning to form, the results are naturally the death of the flower, and extreme exasperation upon the part of its owner. There is nothing pugnacious about the caterpillar, all its means of defence being more or less passive in their character. A not inconsiderable section no sooner leave the egg than they set to work to form themselves a shelter by turning over the edge of the leaf, and fastening it with silken threads, so as to form at once a house and a hiding-place. Lastly, there are the caterpillars who live in communities, and establish a rampart against their foes by throwing round their dwelling-place a thick curtain of silken threads, through which their insect foes cannot break, while even birds seem to hold it in high respect.

The mission of the caterpillar may be considered as two-fold: he has to reach the chrysalis stage, from which he will emerge as a butterfly or moth, and then perpetuate his species; and he is an admirable machine for the conversion of vegetable matter into a form in which it can be digested and relished by birds. He stands to the feathered world, indeed, in exactly the same position that the ox and the sheep occupy in relation to man. Although partial to seeds and fruits, birds are not vegetarians in the broad sense of the term, and many would starve had they nothing but leaves, whether of the rose or the cabbage, to devour; the caterpillar then comes to the rescue, and forms the intermediary link. He possesses an appetite of extraordinary voracity, and in the course of his not very long life eats many hundred times his own weight of vegetables, and converts them into a rich and luscious food for the birds. It may be said that, in some respects at least, the instincts of caterpillars must be defective, or, knowing that their plumpness is their danger, they would eat less. This is no doubt true, but as it is true also of sheep and bullocks, it can hardly be made the subject of reproach to the caterpillar.

But, after all, vast as is the number of caterpillars who go to feed the birds, it cannot be said that birds are by any means their chief enemy. Their great foe and relentless exterminator is the ichneumon, against whom none of their cunning devices of concealment avail, for he can discover them unerringly in their inmost lurking-places. The ichneumon varies in size as greatly as does the caterpillar himself. Some of them are as long as wasps, although with a slender body, no thicker than a bodkin; some so tiny that they can scarce be seen with the naked eye; but all are alike in their habits. Watch one, large or small, as he settles upon a leaf. Straightway he begins to hunt up and down with quick eager motion, like a dog quartering a turnip field for partridges. Up and down, below and above, prying into every cranny, he hunts, hurrying from one leaf to another until he finds a caterpillar. He wastes no time with him, but thrusts the long ovipositor through the skin, and places an egg there snugly. He repeats this two, three, or half a dozen times, according to his own size, and that to which the caterpillar will grow. His young ones must be fed where they are hatched, and it would not do to lay more than the caterpillar can support. What the sensations of the caterpillar are when thus treated no one has so far attempted to explain. It gives a little wince each time the operation is performed, and then pursues its vocation as quietly as if nothing had happened. There can be little doubt that it is profoundly discouraged; it must feel that all its efforts to elude the foe have been wasted. It doubtless knows that it has received its death wound, that it will never soar in the air as a bright-winged butterfly, and that its chrysalis state will be its last. It speaks well, then, for the sense of duty of the caterpillar, that it goes as doggedly on as before, eating as largely and steadily as if nothing had occurred, and showing no sign of pain or disturbance at the birth of foes, who soon begin to gnaw away at its interior. It is to be hoped, indeed, that it suffers but slightly. The organs of the caterpillar are simple. It is little more than a tube, and it is probable that its sensibility is slight. Still it is inevitable that it must suffer more or less; but it goes on until, just as it is about to assume the chrysalis state, or shortly after it has done so, it dies, and the little ichneumons make their way through its skin, and, after a brief repose, fly away to recommence the deadly work of their parents. It is calculated that fully 80 per cent. of caterpillars are slain by ichneumons.

The caterpillar is distinguished for its imperturbable good temper; no one has yet witnessed a good stand-up fight between two of them. Even when browsing in hundreds upon a leaf, each caterpillar continues its work of eating, wholly regardless of the multitude feeding around it. Its fellows may press it on every side, or walk across its back, without its evincing the slightest sign of irritability, or even dissatisfaction. It may be said that, after all, this host are its brethren, and that the nearness of the family tie produces this feeling of universal benignity. But family ties are not always found to have this effect, even among human beings, and, moreover, the caterpillar’s good temper and forbearance extend to individuals of entirely different species and families. The largest caterpillar coming across a small one makes no attempt to bully or interfere with it, and the whole race appear to be imbued with a spirit of admirable courtesy and gentleness.

The caterpillar, in confinement, develops qualities of a quite distinct nature to those which it exhibits in the wild state. The silkworm caterpillar, for example, is intolerant of noise of any kind, and the most absolute silence is maintained in the feeding house. It is not that noise excites irritability or anger, but it fills it with such disgust that it falls ill and speedily dies. Gardeners would be gratified, perhaps, were the wild caterpillar equally susceptible; as, in that case, two or three discharges of a gun would extirpate the whole race throughout the extent of a garden. The caterpillar is clearly worthy of much greater attention and study than it has yet received; and as we are told to look to the ant and the bee as examples of patience and industry, so we may advantageously take a lesson of courtesy and good temper from the hitherto little regarded caterpillar.

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THE DOMESTIC FOWL.

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THE males of the gallinaceous family may be regarded as types of what is best and most chivalrous in man, and the cock bird of the variety that has become domesticated by man has lost none of the qualities that distinguish his wild congenitors. He is among birds what the knight of chivalry was among the herd of humanity in the Middle Ages. Splendid in his appearance, erect and martial in gait, proud of his prowess, fierce in battle, ready to die rather than acknowledge his defeat, he is yet the mirror of courtesy among his dames. Not only does he guard them from all foes, but he watches over their safety with anxious care, leads them to the spot where food is the most abundant, and will even scratch the ground to procure dainties for them. He possesses, too, the faults of the human type; he is needlessly quarrelsome, and prone to take offence; he will challenge to combat a distant stranger with whom he has no dispute whatever, and will fight for fighting’s sake, while, if victorious, he indulges in a good deal of unseemly exultation and boasting at the expense of his foe. Whatever his hue, whether clad in brilliantly-coloured panoply or in burnished black, the cock is the type of the true warrior, with his bright eye, his martial mien, his readiness for battle, his obstinate courage, and the display of a certain foppery in the care that he bestows upon his appearance. While other birds fight with beak and wing, the cock is furnished by nature with a dagger, a formidable weapon, especially in that branch of the family in which the martial qualities are carried to their highest development—the game fowl. The cock can use his beak with effect, but it is upon his spur that he mainly relies for victory. Throughout the whole of the gallinaceæ the same characteristics are observable in a more or less marked degree. The male of the pheasant, grouse, blackcock, and their numerous cousins and relations, are all pugnacious to a degree, proud of displaying their airs and graces to their wives, and ready to answer the most distant challenge uttered by another male.

[++ Illustration: Domestic Fowl]

The period at which the fowl was first domesticated is lost in obscurity. The early Greek writers mention it as a bird held from remote antiquity in high honour, and Peisthetærus says that it is called the Persian bird, and at one time reigned over that country. It is to the East, then, that we must look for the ancestors of the domestic fowl, although it is not known how the breed was introduced into Greece or the South of Europe. It may either have come through Northern India, or Persia, or have been introduced by Phœnician traders. It figured early on Greek and Roman coinage, and was carried in the public shows of those nations. It was dedicated by the ancients to Apollo, Mercury, Æsculapius, and Mars and the Romans, good judges in matters gastronomic, had already discovered that it was best when fattened and crammed in the dark. Probably the Phœnicians brought it to Britain when they came for tin; at any rate, it was here before the invasion of Cæsar, who tells us that the Britons abstained from tasting the hare, the cock, and the goose, although they bred them for pleasure—probably, in the case of the cock, for its fighting powers. As poultry have been found domesticated in widely different localities, among peoples having no communication with each other, and even in islands in the South Seas, which must have been cut off from communication with the mainland for vast periods of time, it is evident that their domestication must have taken place in the very earliest times, or that there was a natural fearlessness and a desire for man’s companionship on the part of the fowl that marked it out as specially adapted to be his servant and purveyor.

The hand of man has brought about many changes in the bird by the intermingling of species, by careful breeding to render accidental peculiarities permanent, and by other methods; by these a great variety of breeds have now been established differing widely from each other in size and plumage. The breed in general, doubtless, owes its popularity partially to its appearance and courage, but still more to the flavour of its flesh, its great power of increase, and to its productiveness in the matter of eggs. Other birds lay as many eggs as they desire to have offspring. The hen is less selfish, and will produce a vastly larger number of eggs than she is able to hatch. As the wild bird is not so prodigal, it can only be supposed that this fecundity in the matter of eggs is upon the part of the hen a proof of gratitude for the food she receives from man, a trait which, in itself, should place her high in man’s estimation.

While the cock is, above all things, a warrior, the hen is the type of the careful housewife and affectionate mother. Nothing can exceed the care and attention she bestows upon her young—feeding them, guarding them, and teaching them with constant attention, and with occasional chidings when disposed to wander from her. She is no gadabout, and her whole thoughts are centred upon her duty. But although so affectionate a mother and submissive a wife, the hen is mindful of her position as the spouse of a warrior; and as the wives of the knights of old would, on occasion, don armour, and in their husbands’ absence defend their castles, so the hen is ready, when danger threatens, to face boldly the dog or the hawk in defence of her children. Neither the cock nor his spouse possesses the power of singing, although they can utter a large variety of sounds, from the gentle cluck of contentment, the incessant talk by the mother to her children, and her triumphant announcement of the laying of an egg, to the cock’s bold challenge to battle—the latter being as unique a sound among birds as is the bray of the donkey among beasts.

Poets have, with their usual inaccuracy, been accustomed to associate the crowing of the cock with the dawning of morn. The neighbours of persons who keep fowls know better. Unfortunately, the cock appears to be entirely unaware that it is possible to have too much even of a good thing, and is ready at all hours of the day or night to lift up his voice in defiance of all or any within hearing, or to accept the most distant challenge borne upon the air. This constitutes a grave defect upon the part of the cock. Among human beings we are accustomed to consider the constant braggart to be a coward. No such suspicion can attach to the cock; but it is a pity that he cannot be brought to understand that it is useless to be uttering defiances at all times, when the interposition of a strong wire netting renders combat impossible.

[++ Illustration: Hens]

The cock can, however, be silenced. Just as the donkey cannot bray without straightening its tail, the cock cannot crow without standing perfectly erect. A light plank, or even a lath, placed above his perch, so as to prevent him raising his head to the fullest, will effectually silence him. To the negro race the attractions of the domestic bird are simply irresistible, being shared, however, by those of the melon. In the United States it is found that even the most irreproachable conduct in every other respect, together with a close chapel membership, fail to brace him to resist their temptations, and that the fowl-house and melon patch are attractions irresistible to the negro. Indeed, a yielding to temptation in this respect is regarded by him as no more serious an offence than is the purloining of an umbrella or the cheating the Customs by an Englishman.

The domestic fowl, although itself affording delicate eating, is in no way particular about its own food, and is in this respect almost omnivorous. Insects, slugs, and worms are doubtless its natural food, but it delights in grain of all kinds, and will eat with avidity vegetable refuse and kitchen scraps of every description. Neither fish, flesh, nor fowl comes amiss to it, nor does it, as far as it is known, suffer from indigestion, although occasionally inconvenienced by over-eating. But as the greater part of humanity also suffer from partaking of a much larger quantity of food than is necessary for existence, it would be unfair to blame the fowl on this account. Upon the whole, the cock and his wife are, except for a tendency to be quarrelsome and an inordinate fondness for lifting up his voice on the part of the former, a couple deserving our highest admiration, alike for the courage and valour of the male, the domestic virtues of the female, and the assiduity which they display not only in the multiplication of their race, but in the provision of a large supply of most wholesome and nutritious food to man.

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THE SPARROW.

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IF, out of the whole feathered creation, one bird had to be selected as the national emblem, it is questionable whether, upon the whole, any could be found more suited to the position than the sparrow. He is a bold, daring bird; where he settles he speedily makes himself master of the position, and elbows out all rivals. He can adapt himself to all climates; he is prolific, and multiplies with appalling rapidity. He can make himself at home equally in town or country, and manages to thrive where other birds would die. He has, of course, some characteristics which Englishmen would perhaps repudiate, but it must be owned that the natives of every other country are almost unanimous in crediting us with their possession. He is quarrelsome, combative, self-sufficient, given to bullying the weak, and has an excellent opinion of himself. If a foreigner were asked to describe our national characteristics, some of these qualities would certainly be included in the list; and it is a question if any bird possesses so large a share of our national characteristics as does the sparrow. He is distinguished for his partiality to the neighbourhood of human abodes. The swallow may build as frequently against houses, but he only uses them as a convenience, and gathers his food or takes his pleasure entirely regardless of the inhabitants of the house against which he builds. The sparrow, on the contrary, would just as lief place his nest near a house as on it. He will build in a disused chimney, or a gutter, or rain-pipe; but if none of these places suit his fancy, he will establish his nest in the ivy covered wall near at hand, or in a clump of bushes, and, having so built, he proceeds to get at once benefit and amusement from his human neighbours. He regards their fruit trees and rows of peas as planted for his special benefit. He sits on the edge of the roof and observes man as he walks in his garden with evident interest and amusement, and discusses his peculiarities loudly and volubly with a friend on an adjoining roof. He is quite fearless of man’s presence, and will pursue his search for insects on the lawn within a few feet of him; and he relies confidently upon receiving offerings of food in hard, frosty weather in return for his friendship. He alone, of birds, makes himself thoroughly at home in the crowded streets, perfectly fearless of passing vehicles. He is gregarious by habit, and it is to be remarked that there is nothing selfish about him. Throw out a handful of crumbs upon the snow, and its first discoverer will joyously call his mates to share in it; and if fights do occasionally arise over the division, it is apparent that there is no malice about them, but that, like the Irish, the sparrow fights from high spirits and “a love of divarshun.”

While the sparrow is favourably viewed by the dwellers of towns and their suburbs, it must be owned that he is not regarded in the same light in the agricultural districts. He is eminently a Socialist, and inclines to the doctrine of equal rights. When he is comparatively few in numbers man does not grudge him the small share he claims, but when his numbers are legion it becomes another matter. The farmer regards his stacks and his crops as his private property, and when myriads of sparrows demand toll the agriculturist is apt to become rusty. He sees the sparrow only on his predaceous side, and has no leisure to investigate his amiable qualities. The few insects the sparrow may destroy in his leisure moments weigh but little in the farmer’s mind as against the loss of his crops of cherries, the general destruction of his peas, or a wholesale raid upon his corn stacks, and so he betakes himself to net and gun. This would seem hard upon the sparrow; but he has no right to take it amiss, for it is his own habit to wage a war of extermination against other birds wherever he obtains a footing. The native birds of North America are rapidly disappearing before the army of sparrows that have sprung from the few hundreds sent out to cope with the caterpillar which devastated the trees in the parks and open spaces in New York—just as the aborigines of the country have been almost wiped out by the Anglo-Saxon settlers. Even in this country he is fast driving out other and more useful birds; the tits and the finches abandon neighbourhoods where he abounds, and the house martin has almost disappeared from some localities. The consequences of this tyrannical conduct will, in the long run, recoil upon the sparrow himself. With the decrease of the insect-feeding birds, the pests of our fields and gardens will so multiply that, in self-defence, a crusade against the sparrow will be organised in all rural districts. The movement has, indeed, already begun in many localities, and in the future we may expect the sparrow to leave the country side, where he is neither liked nor appreciated, and to establish himself altogether in towns, where his sprightliness and fearlessness render him a favourite.

It may be admitted that his voice is not the strong point of the sparrow, but perhaps it is as well that this should be the case, for were he vocal the volume of sound would be unbearable in neighbourhoods where he abounds. There is, however, a cheeriness and good-fellowship about his confident and inquisitive little chirp, and occasionally in the days of his courtship he can emit a very cheerful little song. Although so domestic in his habits, the sparrow takes but little trouble with his nest. It is a ragged collection of odds and ends, and is evidently built on the assumption that his offspring will, like himself, have to be handy and shift for themselves, and that anything like luxury would be thrown away upon them. As a conversationalist the sparrow excels. His short notes are very numerous and varied, he is fond of learning the opinions of his neighbours, and of laying down the law himself. Animated discussions, warming sometimes into quarrels, arise frequently from these consultations upon the housetop; but they seldom last long. There is a rush into a bush and a hot pursuit, sharp angry cries, and a momentary tussle; and then, the matter having been arranged, the disputants separate amicably and proceed on their various business.

The flight of the sparrow is not elegant; he wastes no time in graceful curves and turnings, but hurls himself straight at his mark. He has none of the restlessness of the migrants; he has hard times here when the ground is frozen and food is scarce, but he takes the rough with the smooth, and has no thought of seeking warmer climes. Contenting himself with the shelter of a bush, he fluffs out his feathers, and reduces himself into the smallest compass, so that he is almost unrecognisable as the alert little bird with long neck and sprightly movements that we know in the summer. His confidence in the goodwill of man in the time of his distress is touching. Blackbirds, starlings, and thrushes will come to share the feast man throws out; but they never lose their fear of him, and are ready to take flight at the first sign of his presence. The sparrow and the robin will alone hold their ground, will light on the window sill fearlessly, and will, if encouraged, even come into the room through the open window; and the man must be hard of heart indeed who will refuse to give them the little they need to save them from perishing. Fortunately for the sparrow, his flesh is not particularly toothsome, and there is but little of it. Were it otherwise, it is to be feared that he would not be spared; but that as Goths are found capable of devouring that charming songster, the lark, still less respect would be shown to the friendly sparrow.

Doubtless, the bird would be a less imposing national emblem than the eagle, especially when the latter is adorned with two or three heads; but he would be at least as respectable a one. A cock sparrow rampant would be a not unfitting emblem of the push, the energy, the hardiness, the pluck, and the domesticity of the Englishman; and even its self-sufficiency and its cockiness should not be taken amiss by a nation who are, by the general consent of mankind, the most arrogant and self-sufficient people upon earth. Should anything happen to put us out of conceit with the lion, we cannot do better than instal the sparrow in his place upon the national arms.

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FLIES.

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