Chapter V: Part 5

OF the various works of man, there are few of which he has more reason to be proud than the transformation under his hands of the wild dog into the domesticated animal. The change was not early effected; during Scriptural times it had made but little progress. The term “dog” is everywhere used as one of opprobrium. “Is thy servant a dog that he should do this?” is in itself sufficient to show that the possibility of the dog being possessed of many virtues had never occurred to the speaker. The dog was, indeed, regarded down to comparatively modern times in three lights only: as a scavenger, as a guard against wild beasts, and as an assistant in the chase, and it is thus that he is still viewed in the East and by uncivilised peoples. It must be owned that the wild dog, or the dog such as he exists on sufferance in Oriental communities, has but few higher claims, that he is by nature but little in advance of his cousins the wolf, the jackal, and the coyote, and that he is cowardly, cringing, and ferocious according to circumstance. His virtues, in fact, are at this stage altogether latent; he has been cowed by a long course of misapprehension and ill-treatment, and displays only his worst qualities. It is as difficult to recognise him as a near relation to the civilised dog as to see the connection between a Digger Indian and a Shakespeare or a Newton. It is, then, no small credit to man that he has discovered and brought out the grand qualities of the dog, and that in making him his companion and his friend he has developed virtues equal to those he himself possesses.

It may be said that there never was a man who possessed the proud stateliness of the St. Bernard, the unerring sagacity of the sheep-dog, or the courage and tenacity of the bulldog. The vainest masher is not daintier in his ways than the Italian greyhound, or more soft and affectionate than the Blenheim. In point of fun and vivacity the terrier in its many varieties stands higher, while in the exhibition of unwearied devotion, fidelity, and affection, the whole race put man to shame. Although rejoicing in undivided affection, the dog is yet contented with an occasional word from his master, he always renders prompt and cheerful obedience, is ready to spring up a score of times from the most comfortable sleep by the fireside in answer to his master’s voice, and is willing at once to abandon the most comfortable quarters to brave all weathers if his owner will but deign to take him with him. He will face any odds in his defence, and will die in his service. Even roughness and unkindness fail to shake his devotion, and in adversity as in prosperity his fealty is unbroken. The dog is a fine discriminator of persons, and while a well-attired stranger who approaches his master’s house will be greeted with silence, or perhaps with a slight wag of welcome, his back will bristle and his demeanour become unmistakably hostile as soon as he perceives a tramp approaching. Dogs are judges of character too, and no coaxing or blandishments will seduce them into friendliness with one of whose disposition they disapprove, and it must be owned that, like children, they are seldom mistaken in their intuitive likes and dislikes.

A flesh-eater by nature, the dog adapts itself readily to the habits of those around. His preferences are for meat, but few things come absolutely amiss to him: bread and cheese, fish, pies and puddings of all sorts, vegetables, and even fruit, are eaten by him with apparent relish, and he needs but very little education to take to beer, wines, and spirits. As might be expected from the analogy of man, the big dog, as a rule, is much more gentle, patient, and good-tempered than the small one. The latter is ready upon the smallest provocation to become excited or pugnacious; he seems to be on the look out for affronts, and ever on the watch to assert himself. The big dog, upon the contrary, is generally quiet and dignified, and very slow to wrath. While careful breeding has brought about great varieties in size, form, and appearance, its effects upon the dog’s mental organisation can scarcely be traced, save for such differences of disposition as are the result of size rather than race. The St. Bernard and the toy terrier, the pug, the poodle, the Dachshund, and the spaniel, although differing as widely from each other in appearance and shape as if they belonged to different families, are yet identical in their possession of the virtues and methods of dogdom. Their habits may differ slightly, some seeming to find their chief happiness in lying asleep on a soft cushion, others in an incessant pursuit of rats and other vermin, some in accompanying their masters to the chase. There are dogs whose greatest joy is a swim, others whose chief object of life seems to be to pick a quarrel and then fight it out. But these differences are no greater than those we find existing in men—even in men of the same race. It does not require a very wide range of acquaintance to enable us to fix upon a man whose tastes correspond respectively to those of one or other of these types of dogs, and, indeed, the list might be almost indefinitely extended. This is not remarkable, since it is man who has made the dog what he is. No such varieties of character are to be found in the wild dog, and even the semi-civilised dog of Constantinople, or other Eastern towns, resembles his brethren as closely as one sheep in the fold does another.

The Red Indian expects confidently that his faithful hound will be his companion in the chase in the country of the Great Manitou, and there are not a few Englishmen who, deep down in their hearts, believe that the separation between themselves and their affectionate friends and loyal servants will not be an eternal one. They would repudiate the idea that there was a future before other animals, unless an exception were made in behalf of a favourite horse; but the dog has assimilated himself so closely to man, has become so much his companion and friend, that it is not difficult to a real lover of the dog to suppose that it too may have a future before it. At any rate, in a comparison between the dog and the man, the advantage is not always with the latter; and few would deny that in point of intelligence, of generosity, and nobleness of disposition, of fidelity to duty, of patience and of courage, there are some dogs that are infinitely the superiors of some men. It was not so long ago that, in discussing the muzzling question, a man writing to a newspaper said, “Better a thousand dogs should die than one man!” There are very few men who, appreciating dogs, would at all agree with this opinion. There are men whose lives are more valuable than those of a thousand dogs, but there are others whose lives would be dearly purchased by that of one dog.

It is possible that if admitted to as intimate a companionship with man, other animals might make as rapid a rise as the dog has done; but there are few so well suited for that companionship. The cat accepts kindness, but declines to be in any way bound by it. It may like petting, and may even run to greet a master or mistress, and follow them over the house; but the cat takes little interest in their conversation, and keeps its thoughts strictly to itself, and its inscrutable face is a mask which cannot be penetrated. But beyond the cat the choice is limited. Rats and mice are easily tamed, but would never overcome feminine aversion. Sheep lack the liveliness necessary for a pet. Cattle are too large for our present style of house; while the giraffe, whose eye is probably the most lovely of those of any of the brute creation, would scarcely feel at ease in a drawing-room. Lions, tigers, and other members of the cat tribe have been made pets when young, but become dangerous as they gain their strength. The monkey is too intolerant of cold to become a pet in this country, and his restlessness and love of mischief are against him. The mongoose, perhaps, if more common, would be the most formidable rival of the dog. It is admitted to possess a high degree of intelligence, to be easily tamed, and very affectionate; but it could take the place only of the smaller varieties of dogs, and would fail from its want of voice as a guard, and be of little use in a tussle with burglars. Take him altogether, there is no animal possessing one tithe of the qualifications of the dog for the various purposes for which he is used by man, being capable of acting alike as a woman’s pet, as a man’s companion, as an assistant in the chase, as, in some countries, an animal of draught, as a vigilant sentry, as a powerful and valiant ally, and as the most faithful and truest of friends.

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SHEEP.

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THE position of the sheep in the scale of the animal creation has not yet been assigned. Naturalists, who are guided by mere externals, have, indeed, agreed that the sheep is a quadruped, that it is herbivorous and ruminant; but, after all, this does not help us much. Physically, the sheep may stand high; mentally, it appears to be about on the level of the garden slug. The sheep eats continually, and when he is not eating, he is chewing; this gives him a thoughtful appearance; but no savants have ever ventured a suggestion as to the subject of his thoughts. He has his good points as a producer of wool and mutton, but the garden slug is edible and nourishing, and the caterpillar yields a most valuable product for clothing; therefore this fact cannot be considered as bearing upon the subject of his place in the scale of creation. In its wild state the sheep is said to be sagacious, but the stories of huntsmen, like those of fishermen, are to be received with marked distrust. If the sheep is sagacious in its wild state, why should it become so densely stupid when domesticated? The dog and the negro improve immensely in intelligence from contact with man, and are both capable of attaining a high degree of reasoning power. Dogs cannot, indeed, speak, but they certainly understand much of human speech, and learn to read the wishes of their masters at a glance. Negroes attain to the point of being able to preach sermons—a low test of intellectuality certainly, but still a proof of some intelligence.

It is difficult to believe, then, that the sheep can have deteriorated mentally from contact with civilisation, and it must be assumed that any supposed sharpness of the creature in its wild state must be due solely to the fact that it is difficult to approach, and crafty in eluding pursuit. But in these qualities the domestic flea is surely its superior; and most insects, either by feigning death, by speed in running or flying, or by tricks of hiding themselves from observation, show higher powers of self-preservation than the most enthusiastic admirers of the sheep can claim for it. It is true that the sheep makes up for its lack of intelligence by its preternatural gravity and thoughtfulness of demeanour. Were every quadruped half as wise as the sheep looks, it is clear that the dominion of man over the animal creation would be played out. The ovine vocabulary is limited. The sheep has, in fact, but one sound, which it is so proud of that it is continually making it. Whether calling its offspring, or protesting against being driven along a high road, or as an utterance of opinion as to the appearance and speed of a passing railway train, it raises this cry with precisely the same inflection and vigour.

Attentive observers have been of opinion that, like the dog and cat, the sheep expresses emotion by different movements of its tail; but none have attempted to classify these varieties of motion or to analyse the emotion contained by them. Like most timid creatures the sheep is crassly obstinate, and will object to be driven into a pen, even though the interior be scattered thickly with the succulent turnip, and nothing short of prodding with a stick, assisted by barking on the part of a dog and bad language on the part of the shepherd, will induce it to enter. The animal, except in early youth, has no idea of humour; and even on the part of the lamb, playfulness is expressed only by a little frisking of an incoherent character. It has been said that the sheep is capable of attachment to persons; and an American ballad specifically states, that a lamb belonging to a young person of the name of Mary followed her wheresoever she went. The fact, however, that the circumstance should have been considered worthy of chronicle in verse shows its great rarity. One of the peculiarities about sheep is the extreme similarity of feature which characterises the individuals of the same breed. Nature, which so loves variety that it is said that no two leaves in a great tree are exactly alike, gave up the sheep as hopeless. The straight forehead and nose, the lack-lustre eye, admitted of no variety short of complete change, and even the interference of man, although it has created many varieties in size and coat, has done nothing to alter the face; it remains in its normal state of uniform stolidity. Lambs, indeed, recognise their mothers among a flock; but it is probable that the sense of smell rather than of sight enables them to do so.

Even the poets, who have managed to say something for most animals, have been unable to invent anything favourable concerning sheep; and silly has been their favourite epithet for it. The poet who has apparently devoted most attention to their doings, goes so far as to say that a flock, of which he is writing, on a certain occasion left their tails behind them. This, of course, must only be regarded as a metaphor, his meaning being that they were wholly destitute of memory. Scriptural authority would seem to show that the sheep is a superior animal to the goat, and no doubt it is less given to mischievous tricks; but as this is due to a want of sufficient intelligence to devise a mischievous trick, it can hardly be considered a feature worthy of high commendation. Some have supposed that the sheep throughout its life is oppressed with a sense of duty which deadens all other faculties. Having in some mysterious manner become possessed of an hereditary knowledge that the object of its life is to furnish mutton, it sets itself deliberately to work to prepare for the butcher’s knife. To this end, it is always eating when it is not sleeping. Its stolidity is assumed because it knows that energy is destructive to the formation of fat. Unfortunately for the reputation of these animals, their breeders have regarded them solely in the light of producers of mutton and wool, and have endeavoured to improve them only in this respect. Had they turned their attention to developing their mental qualities, the consequences might have been different; but naturally the sheep, finding that no efforts were being made to improve its intelligence, accepted the place in the animal creation that man assigned to it, and has taken no pains to improve itself. There is no saying what a society for the improvement of the intelligent faculties of sheep might not effect, and if its efforts did but produce some change in the expression of their faces it would be a boon to mankind. There is a limit now to the pleasure which any one save a breeder can obtain from the contemplation of a flock of sheep, and this simply from the want of variety. It is true that Phyllis and Daphne, and many other maidens, have taken to the tending of sheep; but as it is palpable that the attractions of the calling were the shepherds and not the sheep, this proves nothing.

To be able to obtain a fair idea of the stupidity of sheep it is necessary to see them, not when engaged in tranquil mastication, but while driven upon a high road. The manner in which they persist in placing themselves under the wheels of any passing waggon or cart is remarkable, and would seem to show that even the instinct of self-preservation, which is so marked in their wild state, is altogether lost in the domestic animal. Singularly enough, they are addicted to the childish pastime of follow-my-leader, and wherever one goes the rest will follow, even if it be in a jump over a cliff to certain destruction. It has been urged in favour of sheep that they are affectionate mothers, and will defend their offspring against attack on the part of dogs. This, however, can scarcely be considered a fair reason for placing them high in the scale of animals, as some insects, such as ants and bees, will defend their young even to the death; while as to the affection of the sheep, any one who has watched it suckling its lamb must have been struck at the absolute indifference of its attitude and its evident mute protest against the proceeding. There are many other points which might in an exhaustive essay upon the sheep be touched on, for example the ridiculous feebleness of its attempt to be a formidable and dangerous assailant, as expressed by short stamps of the feet, a pretence which fails to impose upon any one. Enough, however, has been said to show that the sheep, although classed as a quadruped, is really as an animal an impostor, and that its true place in the scale according to its mental attributes should rather be among the molluscs than the vertebrates.

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THE BEE AND THE WASP.

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IT is undeniable that the bee occupies a far higher position in the regard of man than the wasp. The bee is held up as an example to the young for its strict attention to business, its forethought and prudence. It has been made the object of much study; its habits and manners have been watched in hives specially constructed; and the behaviour of the bees towards their queen and towards each other has been as minutely investigated and described, and is, indeed, almost as well known, as are the customs of the ancient Greeks or Romans. The wasp, on the other hand, is regarded with absolute hostility. It is viewed as an idler, as an irritable and hot-tempered creature, with no fixed aims and ends, prone to unprovoked assaults, a disturber of picnics, an intruder in the domestic circle—a creature, in fact, to be promptly and summarily put to death if opportunity offer itself. This hasty and unjust conclusion is, in fact, the result of man’s natural selfishness. He does not really admire the bee because the insect stores up food for its winter use, but because he is able to plunder that store, and to make it available for his own purposes. The squirrel, the field-mouse, and many other creatures lay up stores for winter; but, as man is not particularly fond of dried nuts or shrivelled grain, he does not consider it necessary to profess any extreme admiration for the forethought of these creatures. The wasp is perfectly capable of storing up honey for its winter use, did it see the slightest occasion for doing so; but the wasp is not a fool. It knows perfectly well that its life is a short one; that it will die when the winter season approaches. Its instinct doubtless teaches it that only a few of the autumn-born females will survive to create new colonies in the spring, and that as these females will pass the winter in a dormant state in some snug recess beyond the reach of frost, there is no occasion whatever to prepare stores of food for their use. Did the wasp endeavour to emulate the bee, and store its cells with honey, it would rightly be held up to derision as an idiot, as the only creature who imitates the folly of man in continuing to work until the last to pile up riches for others to enjoy after its death. If it is admirable for the bee, who lives through the winter, to collect for his use during that time, it is no less admirable in the wasp, who dies before the winter, to avoid the absurd and ridiculous habit of collecting stores which he cannot profit by.

In all other respects the wasp is the equal, if not the superior, of the bee. The latter is content to establish its home in any place that comes to hand. Even if man provides a hive for it, the bee has not the sense to utilise it until man takes the trouble to bring the habitation and to shake the swarm into it. If the hive should not be forthcoming the bees will establish themselves in a hollow tree, in a chimney, in the roof of a house, or in any other place that appears convenient, and then and there begin to build their combs and prepare for the reception of brood and honey. The wasp, on the other hand, more industriously sets to work to build its own house, walls and all, and the labour required for such an undertaking is enormous. Wood, the material it uses, is obtained by gnawing posts, gates, rails, or other timber that has lost its sap. This is chewed up by the wasp’s strong jaws into a paste, and spread out with its tongue in layers finer than tissue paper. Layer after layer is spread, until the house, which varies in size from that of an apple to one as large as a man’s head, is made rain- and weather-tight, a model of symmetry, and a marvellous example of the result of patient and persevering labour, a white palace, by the side of which anything the bee can do is but poor workmanship. The arrangement inside the structure is at least equal to that which the bee can accomplish in the most perfectly-constructed hive. The cells are as regular and as carefully arranged, and it is kept with the same scrupulous care and cleanliness. It is not necessary for the wasp to collect honey and pollen for the use of its brood, for these are fed upon insects, the juicy caterpillar and the plump body of the blue-bottle being the morsels which they mostly affect. In the capture of its prey for the use of its young, the wasp works as assiduously as does the owl to gather in field mice for the sustenance of its offspring; and each capture, after being carried to the nest, is stowed away in the cell with the egg, until it is full, and then the entrance securely sealed.

The queen wasp is, in point of activity, energy, and intelligence, far ahead of the queen bee. As soon as the latter leaves her cell a perfect insect, she is waited upon by a crowd of workers, who provide her with food, attend her every movement, and forestall her every wish, and her functions are confined solely to the laying of her eggs. The queen wasp, on the contrary, is the founder as well as the mother of her colony. When she wakes up from her lethargy in the spring, she sallies out to find a suitable spot for her future kingdom. Having fixed upon it, she proceeds to build her cells unaided. She has to feed herself while engaged on this labour, and when a certain number of cells are completed she has then to store them with food sufficient to support the grubs, until, their second stage completed, they are ready to issue out and to take their share in the work. Even when she has an army of children, she continues to set them an example of labour and perseverance, supervising the operations and working diligently and continuously herself. She is the life and soul of her community, and if by any accident she dies before the other females, which are hatched late in the season, appear, the community is entirely disorganised, the neuters cease from their labours, and the whole colony perishes. Nature, too, has done much more for the bee than for the wasp, for the former naturally secretes the wax from which it forms its cells, while the wasp has no such faculty, and has to construct its cells as well as its house from the paper it manufactures.

The wasp is as fond of sweets as is the bee, and while a portion of the community are engaged upon the work of collecting materials, manufacturing paper, and building, the others collect sweets from flowers or fruit. Having filled themselves with these, they return home, and on entering the hive mount to the upper cells, and there disgorge the contents of their honey bag for the benefit of the workers. The bee is industrious, it may be admitted, but it is industrious in a quiet and methodical way. There is no hurry about the bee, and any one who watches it at work will be inclined to admit that it does a good deal of pottering about. The wasp has no time for this sort of thing; it knows how much there is to be done, and that there is not a single moment to be wasted. The queen is laying her eggs; there are the materials for the houses to be collected, ground up into paste, and spread; there is food for the grubs to be gathered, and supplies for the builders to be brought in. The work has got to be done, and there is no time to be fooling about. There is, then, no reason whatever for surprise, and still less for blame, that when the wasp is interrupted in its work it loses its temper at once. It is angry when, having entered at an open window, and gathered from a jam-pot, a dish, or a jug—for the wasp is not particular—a supply of food, it finds that its way back to its hungry friends is barred by a strange smooth obstacle, through which it cannot pass. Many men know to their cost how small a thing rouses the temper of a woman engaged in the arduous operations of washing or cooking, and are careful in avoiding the neighbourhood of the wash-house or kitchen upon such occasions; and yet they make no allowance whatever for similar irritation on the part of the busy wasp! Again, blame is imputed to the wasp because it waxes wroth if it be flapped at with a handkerchief or hat; but surely there is nothing surprising in this? Men take offence at practical jokes, especially practical jokes of a dangerous kind; and the wasp naturally regards these wanton attacks upon it, when actively engaged in the business of the community, as dangerous impertinences, and is not to be blamed for resenting them. The more one examines into the habits of the bee and the wasp respectively, the more one is convinced that the high esteem in which the former is held by man is simply the result of man’s love for honey; and that the balance of superiority is wholly upon the side of the wasp, who is a more energetic, a more vivacious, a more industrious, and a more intelligent insect than the bee, and should on all these accounts occupy a far higher place in man’s esteem and regard than it possesses at present.

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THE BEAR.

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NATURE, in creating the bear, bestowed upon it many good gifts. It is strong, robust, and hardy. It is warmly clad, and, moreover, can escape the hardships of winter by indulging in a prolonged sleep. One gift, however, was denied it—that of grace; altogether, few animals are more clumsy in their gait and movements than the bear. It is strange that, this being so, the bear should be one of the few animals man has taught to dance. The majority of bears are vegetable eaters. Their claws are not, like those of the feline tribe, formed to tear or slay an enemy, but are designed for digging up the roots that form a large portion of its sustenance. As might be expected from the fact that it is a vegetarian, the bear is generally of an easy temper, and would be glad to leave man alone, if man would but let it alone. This amiability of temper by no means arises from want of courage. If their cubs are in danger, bears will attack against any odds, and if wounded are amongst the most formidable and savage of assailants. The polar bear, living as it does upon seals and fish, is by no means so peacefully inclined as the various species that exist on roots and fruit. It does not wait to be attacked, but at once takes the offensive, and there are few more formidable foes. Bears are fond of sweets, the Asiatic as well as the American species both hunting diligently for the hives of wild bees, which their thick coats enable them to take in defiance of the efforts of their indignant owners. In captivity the animal is readily tamed. Unfortunately the bear possesses but few qualities that would render him of great use to man; had it been otherwise, doubtless it would have been tamed and kept in herds, for there seems no reason whatever why it should not have been as completely domesticated as the sheep and the ox. As, however, its hair is too coarse for working up into textile fabrics, and its milk-giving capacity is small, man has viewed it solely as an animal for the chase, and has hunted it down ceaselessly, the cubs only being occasionally preserved for exhibition in the Zoological Gardens, or with travelling showmen. In the latter case the bear shows great docility, readily learning to obey its master, and frequently manifesting a lively affection for him.

[++ Illustration: Muzzled Bear]

Next only to the monkey, the bear is unquestionably the most human of animals in its motions and gestures. In a state of nature, indeed, it rarely rises to its hind feet except for the purpose of attack; but the fact that it is able to walk upon them, and that it frequently sits up on its haunches, and uses its fore paws as hands either for the purpose of putting food to its mouth, scratching itself, or rubbing its head, gives it a very human appearance. If wounded, too, it will sit up, and place its paws over the wound just as a man will do.

The American Indians held the bear in very high respect. This did not, indeed, prevent them from hunting it, but, before feasting on its flesh, they would always make a speech, begging its pardon, and deprecating its anger, upon the ground that they did not kill it from illwill, but simply from necessity. The bear dance, in which those engaged in it imitated the movements of the animal, was a religious ceremony, and generally the bear was regarded with respect far beyond that paid to any other animal. It is unfortunate for the bear that it did not from the first cultivate its power of walking upon its hind legs, for there can be no doubt that had it done so it would have stood much higher in the esteem of man. Valuing himself somewhat highly, man is naturally disposed to value animals that approach most nearly to him. The monkey is deified in some parts of India, and the bear might have stood in as high a position, had it but accustomed itself habitually to walk upright. It is true that it has none of the sprightliness of the monkey, but its gravity, its evidently good intentions, and the somewhat rustic awkwardness of its gait, would certainly seem to mark it as intended to be a more genial and friendly companion to man than the skittish and erratic monkey. The polar bear and the North American grizzly, the latter fast approaching extinction, come under a different category altogether, and even the accomplishment of walking upright would have gone but a short way towards endearing them to man. The polar bear, indeed, differs widely from other species. In spite of his great bulk and power, he has none of that awkwardness that distinguishes the various land bears. He can run with considerable swiftness. He is perhaps the best swimmer of all quadrupeds, and is quick and active in his movements; but, upon the other hand, his face expresses none of the easy good temper of the ordinary bear, but it is at once fierce and sullen, watchful and alert.

[++ Illustration: Bears Climbing]

The bear more than any animal conveys the impression of incompleteness, and it is difficult to avoid the belief that being slow of temperament it has taken much longer in its passage upwards from the germ than have other creatures. This being the case, it would be unfair to judge the bear as awkward or clumsy when in fact it is simply incomplete; and it is probable that in the course of another million years or so, when the cycle of its changes is accomplished, it will be an altogether different animal, distinguished for the grace of its movements, and for its still closer resemblance to man. The bear is perhaps more highly appreciated in Germany than elsewhere, it may be because the habits of the people approximate more closely to his than do those of the natives of other countries. At any rate it bears a conspicuous position in their folk-lore, and figures prominently in many a legend and story. It is probable that the tale dear to English children of the three bears was derived from German sources. The bear has by general consent been voted to be the characteristic emblem of Russia, doubtless because the peasants, wrapped up in skins in winter, with hoods of the same over their heads, do present a very striking resemblance to him. The bear was once common in England; its bones are found plentifully among those of other cave-inhabiting animals, and it was still numerous in the island when the Romans first conquered Britain; it vanished, however, even before the wolf, and has been nearly exterminated throughout Western Europe. It figured in the Roman arena, where it was probably goaded to a savagery altogether alien to its nature. It may be assumed that it was at one time regarded in the Old World with something of the superstition with which it was held in the New, being the only animal after whom two constellations have been named. Were there three of them, we should possibly be able to arrive at a satisfactory explanation of the children’s story. It is remarkable that both bears are placed by the ancients in close proximity to the pole, probably in delicate allusion to its climbing powers, as to the present day no bear pit is considered complete unless provided with a pole. It is evident that the ancient astronomers were wags, and while apparently bent solely upon giving names to the constellations, were quietly poking fun at the unlearned. It would be difficult otherwise to account for the position assigned to Ursa Major and Ursa Minor, for there is nothing whatever in the position of the stars forming these constellations that in any way indicates the figure of a bear, the outlines of the various animals in the constellations being purely imaginative and arbitrary. It is somewhat singular that the bear did not figure among the signs of the zodiac, when such comparatively insignificant creatures as the ram and the fish were pressed into the service. Summing up the bear, it may be said that its good qualities predominate over its evil ones, and that it is man’s fault rather than the bear’s that they do not dwell comfortably and sociably together.

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THE SPIDER.

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THE want of balance in man’s appreciation of things, and the unreasonable nature of his prejudices, are in nothing shown more strikingly than in the view he takes of the spider. His objection to the spider is based upon the fact that it kills its prey and devours it. So do the great majority of creatures on earth. The next objection is that it catches it in a net; but for every fly the spider catches the fisherman will take a thousand fish, also in a net, and no one imputes it to him as harm. The fisherman, indeed, is regarded with a sort of special affection by the community. He is spoken of as the hardy fisherman, the honest fisherman, and, at any rate in his case, the fact that he catches his fish in a net is not considered in any way reprehensible. Then, it is urged against the spider that, having set its net, it hides from view, and, having enticed the fly into its bower, rushes out and devours it. But how about man? The fly-fisher casts cunningly devised and tempting lures over the fish, while himself keeping, as far as possible, hidden from view. The trawler arms himself with glittering imitations of fish, studded with deadly hooks; the wild-duck gunner paddles up noiselessly in a punt, and shoots down his birds while feeding; or hides himself in a bower, and brings them down as they pass unsuspectingly overhead. Man uses craft, and skill, and cunning to capture his prey of all sorts, and exults in his success. He would laugh to scorn the accusation that he was a lurking assassin, and yet he assumes a tone of lofty moral superiority towards the spider, who uses the gifts nature has bestowed upon him not for sport or amusement, but for existence. No spider is recorded as having employed a large body of his friends to drive up two or three thousand half-tamed flies to be slaughtered by him as a form of amusement. We have no doubt that such spiders as may be engaged about their business, within view of slaughter so perpetrated by human beings, must quiver in their webs with righteous indignation. Let us, then, have no more maudlin sentimentality about the cruelty of the spider. It obtains its food by the chase, and in so doing exhibits a skill, a dexterity, and a patience unsurpassed by any living creature.

The spider has a wonderful power of adaptability to circumstances. The great fat-bodied spider of our gardens is necessarily slow-moving, and therefore builds its web and waits. There are others less burdened by nature who are fierce and active, who hunt their prey on a sunny wall as a dog might hunt a rabbit, quartering the ground with restless activity, and pouncing upon the prey with the spring of a tiger. Some for preference build thick webs in dark corners, festooning cornices with filmy drapery, to the annoyance of good housewives. Others, tiny creatures these, will throw out a few threads, and, floating upon them, allow themselves to be wafted vast distances through the air. There is the water spider, who, long before man invented the diving bell, dwelt below the water, building its nest there like a thimble, open at the bottom, and then laboriously carrying down little globules of air and releasing them beneath it, until the water is expelled, and it can dwell in the little silver bell it has prepared for itself. Then, too, there is the spider who builds for itself a box in the ground with a hinged lid as skilfully contrived as any of man’s inventions, and, holding this tightly down, can defy the efforts of any foe likely to assail it. Not even the ant shows a wider intelligence, a more perfect aptitude for using the tools with which nature has provided it, and a greater power of adapting itself to circumstances than does the spider, and yet, while the ant and the bee are held up as examples to our children, the spider is passed over as an objectionable creature, of no account.

The spider is capable of being tamed, and has before now been made a pet of by prisoners, who have so domesticated it that it would come at their call, take food from their fingers, and come to treat them with absolute fearlessness, if not affection. It is not to be pretended that the spider possesses no bad qualities. Were it otherwise, it would stand on a far loftier level with man. With individuals of its own species it is exceptionally quarrelsome, and will not only kill, but eat a conquered adversary. It is, undoubtedly, an advanced socialist. So long as its supply of the viscid fluid from which it constructs its web holds out, it will build its house and defend it against all comers. But when this is exhausted, it immediately adopts radical principles, and upon the theory that there is no right in property, proceeds at once to rob a neighbour of the fruits of its labour, and to instal itself in the property from which it has ejected the owner. It is a little singular that the socialists have not adopted the spider as the badge and emblem of their creed, in recognition of the identity of their principles.

Unhappily, a far darker blot than this rests upon the character of the female spider, who is much larger and more powerful than the male. She is an excellent mother, and will defend her bag of eggs with her life; but she is a mournful example of the working of the rights of women carried out to the fullest extent. This can never occur in the human race, because, fortunately for man, he is the stronger. Were it otherwise, we may be sure that that section of females who clamour for equality would be content with nothing less than absolute supremacy. The female spider lives up to this. Being the stronger, she does not argue with her husband, but when she has no further use for him she simply kills him and eats him. Looking at the matter from man’s point of view, we are unable to find any justification for this conduct. Our escape from the fate of the male spider is largely due to the fact that our females are less strong than we: indeed, in spite of physical weakness they not unfrequently hold us in subjection, and occasionally rule us with a rod of iron. Metaphorically, they may devour us by their extravagance; but they have, happily, no ability to carry out to the fullest the methods of the female spider. The spider, it must be owned, stands almost, if not altogether, alone in the commission of this crime of uxoricide. So strange an exception is this to the general rule of nature, that one is driven to suppose that the female spiders must, perhaps in remotely distant times, have suffered from terrible treatment and ill usage at the hand of the males, and that having in course of ages attained to greater strength than is possessed by their mates, they now revenge upon them the wrongs of their far back ancestors. We do not assert that this is absolutely the true explanation of their conduct; but it is clear that some events of an altogether exceptional kind must have occurred in the history of the spider to bring about so unexampled and unnatural a state of things among the two sexes, and to embitter to such a degree the female against the male. It is lamentable to have to record so evil a trait in the character of one of the most intelligent and intellectual of insects, but it would be unfair to other and less highly gifted creatures were we to pass it over in silence.

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THE GNAT.

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HAD the gnat been endowed with as great a power of making itself obnoxious as its first cousin the mosquito, it would have been the subject of anxious inquiry and investigation by man. As it is, it attracts but slight attention, and lives and dies in undisturbed obscurity. In this respect it closely resembles what are called the working classes among man. The noisy spouter, the obnoxious demagogue, the troublesome striker attract attention; the vast patient herd live and die almost unnoticed. There is no reason for supposing, however, that the gnat takes the neglect of man to heart, fond as he undoubtedly is of man’s companionship. In this respect he stands almost, if not quite alone among created things, for the attentions paid to man by the flea, the bug, and the mosquito are strictly selfish. Gnats, however, appear to be purely disinterested in their attentions, and to regard the doings of man with pleased and curious interest. They will attend him in his walks, flying in a cloud over his head or a pace or two in front of him; while their interest in him when engaged in fishing, sketching, or other pursuits is unbounded. They do not, like the midge, interfere with him in any other way, but keep at a respectful distance. A young couple strolling through a lane as the shades of evening are falling are a spectacle specially attractive to gnats. They will frequently on such occasions form themselves into filmy clouds, rising and falling in rhythmical measure, expressive of satisfaction and goodwill.

The summer evening gnat must not be confused with a cousin of his which occasionally infests low-lying and marshy neighbourhoods. This bears both in point of size, appearance, and habits, a much closer relation to the mosquito than to the gnat, and it may, indeed, be termed the English mosquito. It is many times larger than the gnat which is the subject of our remarks, has dark limbs and body, a stinging proboscis, and a bare head. The gnat is scarce more substantial than a cobweb, and has upon its head a lovely plume. It is silent, or, at least, if it utters a sound, its vibrations are too rapid for the ears of man to detect.

The life of the gnat, although short, would seem to be more full of pleasure and enjoyment than that of any other creature. Other insects that consort together in large numbers do so for mutual convenience or protection. Multitudes are needed for the various work of the bee, wasp, and ant cities. Caterpillar communities dwell together, partly because they were born so, but probably more because the web, their common work, is a protection against their enemies, and specially against their most deadly foe, the ichneumon. The aphis feed crowded in close herds, but their power of locomotion is so small that they live and die where they were born. Gnats, however, congregate simply to enjoy the companionship of their friends. Their gatherings are great balls and dances. Flying in a soft cloud scarce more palpable than steam, and ever changing in form, they rise and fall in constant motion, and it is impossible to doubt that this action partakes, to some extent, of the character of a dance. A faint, low hum accompanies the motion, caused partly, perhaps, by the beating of the innumerable gossamer wings, partly by the whispered conversation or song from innumerable throats. Naturalists have puzzled themselves in vain for any explanation of the object of these dancings. The natural one, that it is the outcome of a joyous and happy disposition, an exercise expressive of pleasure and happiness, is too simple to be received with approval by the scientific mind.

Man does not so rejoice in his existence. He has not such unbounded satisfaction in the companionship of multitudes of his fellows, nor throughout all nature is there any parallel to the great gatherings and dancings of the gnats. Flies, indeed, do join in sportive chases and flights, but these are engaged in by few individuals only. Flights of starlings and some other gregarious birds approach more nearly to the gnat assemblies, and are also frequently marked by rhythmical fallings and risings; but they are comparatively short outbursts of playful joyousness, and not comparable with the constant and prolonged dances in which the gnat spends the greater portion of its existence as a perfect insect. Well may the gnat be transparent, for it is doubtful whether it takes any solid food from the time of its emergence from its pupa case to that when, its existence terminated, it drops lifeless on the surface of a stream. It drinks, however, and a dewdrop is sufficient to afford refreshment to thousands.

The gnat’s life, like that of most insects, is a dual one; but unlike most others, the first—and much the longest portion—is spent in the water. The female gnat selects some quiet and sheltered piece of water, a stagnant pool for preference, and lays her eggs upon its surface. In form they may be compared to long small-bore bullets, pointed at the upper end. They are placed closely together and adhere lightly to each other, and when the tiny mass is examined through a magnifying glass it presents the appearance of a honeycomb studded with tiny points. If no accident befall it, the little raft floats until the young ones are ready to take to the water; then the lower ends of the tiny tubes open and the larvæ swim away. Their life in the water resembles that of most other aqueous creatures. They feed upon organisms even more diminutive than themselves, and are the prey of the smaller water beetles and tiny fish. The gnat larva obtains the animalculæ on which it feeds by means of two ciliated organs on the head. These are in constant motion, and create a current by which its food is drawn into its mouth. But, though an inhabitant of the water, the gnat even in this stage is obliged to breathe, and therefore frequently ascends close to the surface, where it draws in the air through a little tube situated at the apex of the body.

At the end of about fifteen days this state of its existence is completed, and it assumes the pupa state. It is now doubled up, and somewhat rounded in form, but it is, nevertheless, still active; it still breathes, drawing in the air by two little tubes, situated now on the anterior part of the body. When the perfect insect is formed inside the pupa case, the air contained within the latter causes it to float on the surface. The gnat breaks through the upper side and stands upon the skin it has quitted, which serves as a little raft until it has attained sufficient strength to fly. This is the most critical moment of the gnat’s existence; the fluid in which it has lately existed would now be fatal to it, and the tiniest ripple caused by a breath of wind, or the passage close by of a fish or water beetle, before the gnat has gained strength to fly, would upset the boat and drown its occupant.

Man has not been able to solve the problem whether thought as well as life is continuous during the three stages of existence of the gnat, or, indeed, in those of any other insect; and knows not whether the gnat has any remembrance of the very different existence it passed beneath the surface of the water over which, in its perfect state, it delights to disport itself. The fact that all insects deposit their eggs in situations unsuitable for their own existence, but suitable for that of the larvae, is no proof for or against the theory, since it may be the result of blind instinct only.

Whether man will ever be able to place himself sufficiently _en rapport_ with the lower creation as to be able to solve this and many other problems must be left to future ages to determine. So far, able as he is to acquire with more or less difficulty the languages of all other varieties of man, he has failed signally in comprehending that of even the birds and animals with whom he is most in contact. The dog and the horse are in this respect distinctly his superior, and the former, when admitted to close companionship, unquestionably understands at least the gist of his master’s words. As it is not the custom of the gnat to waste its strength by travelling ahead in a straight line, we have no means of determining the actual rate of speed at which it can fly. That it is very great is certain. A swarm of gnats caught in a heavy rain-shower will continue their gyrations apparently undisturbed, their sight and movement being so quick that they are able to dodge the raindrops in their descent; and at the termination of the storm, however heavy, their numbers will be apparently undiminished. This would seem to show an amount of speed and activity relatively unrivalled in any other living creature.

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THE ANT.

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