Stories about Animals Part 8

The following account of hunting the hippopotamus is given by Dr. Edward Russell: "One of the animals we killed was of an enormous size. We fought with him for four good hours by night, and came very near losing our large boat, and probably our lives too, owing to the fury of the animal. As soon as he spied the hunters in the small canoe, he dashed at them with all his might, dragged the canoe with him under the water, and smashed it to pieces. The two hunters escaped with difficulty. Of twenty-five musket b.a.l.l.s aimed at the head, only one pierced the skin and the bones of the nose. At each snorting, the animal spouted out large streams of blood on the boat. The rest of the b.a.l.l.s stuck in the thick hide. At last, we availed ourselves of a swivel; but it was not until we had discharged five b.a.l.l.s from it, at the distance of a few feet, that the huge animal gave up the ghost. The darkness of the night increased the danger of the contest, for this gigantic enemy tossed our boat about in the stream at his pleasure; and it was a fortunate moment for us that he gave up the struggle, as he had carried us into a complete labyrinth of rocks, which, in the midst of the confusion, none of our crew had observed."

In Egypt they have a singular mode of catching the hippopotamus. They throw large quant.i.ties of dried peas on the bank of the river along which the animal is expected to pa.s.s. He devours these peas greedily.

The dry food disposes the animal to drink; and after drinking, the peas swell in his stomach, and the poor fellow is destroyed.

"I have seen," says a traveler, "a hippopotamus open his mouth, fix one tooth on the side of a boat, and another on the second plank under the keel--that is, four feet distant from each other--pierce the side through and through, and in this manner sink the boat." When the negroes go a-fis.h.i.+ng, the same traveler informs us, "in their canoes, and meet with a hippopotamus, they throw fish to him; and then he pa.s.ses on, without disturbing their fis.h.i.+ng any more. Once, when our boat was near sh.o.r.e, I saw a hippopotamus get underneath it, lift it above the water upon his back, and overset it, with six men who were in it."

"We dare not," says another traveler, "irritate the hippopotamus in the water, since an adventure happened which came near proving fatal to the men. They were going in a small canoe, to kill one of these animals in a river, where there were some eight or ten feet of water. After they had discovered him walking at the bottom of the river, according to his custom, they wounded him with a long lance, which so greatly irritated him, that he rose immediately to the surface of the water, regarded them with a terrible look, opened his mouth, and with one bite took a great piece out of the side of the canoe, and very nearly overturned it, but he plunged again almost directly to the bottom of the river."

The Weasel.

Great numbers of weasels, it seems, sometimes unite together, and defend themselves pretty resolutely against the attacks of men. A laborer in Scotland was one day suddenly attacked by six weasels, who rushed upon him from an old wall near the place where he was at work at the time.

The man, alarmed, as well he might have been, by such a furious onset, took to his heels; but he soon found he was closely pursued. Although he had in his hand a large horse-whip, with which he endeavored to frighten back his enemies, yet so eager were they in pursuing him, that he was on the point of being seized by the throat, when he fortunately noticed the fallen branch of a tree, at a little distance, which he reached, and s.n.a.t.c.hing it up as fiercely as possible, rallied upon his enemies, and killed three of them, when the remainder thought it best to give up the battle, and left the field.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE FERRET WEASEL.]

A similar case occurred some years ago near Edinburgh, when a gentleman, observing another leaping about in an extraordinary manner, made up to him, and found him beset and dreadfully bitten by about fifteen weasels, who still continued their attack. Both of the men being strong and courageous, they succeeded in killing quite a number of the animals, and the rest escaped and ran into the fissures of a neighboring rock. The account the unfortunate man gave of the beginning of the affray was, that, walking through the park, he ran at a weasel which he saw, and made several attempts to strike it, remaining between it and the rock, to which it tried to retreat. The animal, in this situation, squeaked loudly, when a sudden attack was made by the whole colony of weasels, who came to the rescue of their companion, determined to conquer or die.

Mr. Miller, in his Boy's Summer Book, tells us a little about what he had seen and heard of the habits and disposition of this family. He says, "They are a destructive race of little savages; and one has been known, before now, to attack a child in his cradle, and inflict a deep wound upon his neck, where it clung, and sucked like a leech. They are very fond of blood, and to obtain this, they will sometimes destroy the occupants of a whole hen-roost, not caring to feed upon the bodies of the poultry which they have killed. They will climb trees, attack the old bird on its nest, suck the eggs, or carry off the young; for nothing of this kind seems to come amiss to them. They are great hunters of mice; and their long, slender bodies are well adapted for following these destructive little animals in their rambles among the corn-stalks in the field. In this way, the weasel renders the farmer a good service occasionally, though he never asks to be rewarded with a duck or chicken, always choosing to help himself without asking, whenever he can get a chance. Oh! if you could but see a weasel attack a mouse, as I have done. By just one single bite of the head, which is done in a moment, and which pierces the brain before you can say 'Jack Robinson,'

the mouse is killed as dead as a red herring, before he has time to squeak or struggle. It is no joke, I can tell you, to be bitten by a weasel; and if you thought, when you caught hold of one by the back, that you had him safe, you would soon find your mistake out; for his neck is as pliable as a piece of India rubber. He would have hold of your hand in a moment."

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE HAWK POUNCING UPON THE WEASEL.]

I have just come across a funny story about the adventure of a weasel and a hawk. It seems that a hawk took an especial fancy to a weasel that he saw prowling about a farm-yard. His hawks.h.i.+p happened to be pretty hungry at the time, and concluded he would carry off the weasel, and make a dinner of him at his leisure. So he pounced upon the fellow, and set out on his journey home. I should not wonder if he had a nest in the woods not far off. The weasel, however, submitted to his fate with no very good grace. He thought that two could play at that game. He twisted around his elastic neck--to use the language of the writer I mentioned--poked up his pointed nose, and in he went, with his sharp teeth, right under the wings of the hawk, making such a hole in an instant, that you might have thrust your finger in. The hawk tried to pick at him with his hooked beak, but it was no use.

The weasel kept eating away, and licking his lips as if he enjoyed himself; and the hawk soon came wheeling down to the ground, which he no sooner touched, than away ran the weasel, having got an excellent dinner at the expense of the hawk. He was not a bit the worse for the ride; while Mr. Hawk lay there as dead as a nail. The biter was bitten that time, wasn't he? It was a pretty good lesson to the hawk family not to be so greedy, though whether they ever profited by it is more than I can say. From the account that a little girl gave me of the incursions recently made upon her chickens, I judge that they did not all profit by it.

[Ill.u.s.tration: CHAPTER END DECORATION]

The Squirrel.

I had a pretty little red squirrel of my own, when I was a little boy.

My father bought a cage for him, with a wheel in it; and Billy, as we used to call him, would get inside the wheel, and whirl it around for a half hour at a time. It was amusing, too, to see him stand up on his hind feet, and eat the nuts we gave him. Billy was a great favorite with me and my brother. By and by, we let him go out of the cage, and ramble wherever he pleased. He became as tame as a kitten. He would go out into the corn-field in autumn, and come home with his mouth filled with corn, and this he would lay up in a safe place for further use. Once the old cat caught him, and the poor fellow would have been killed, if some one had not been near and rescued him from the grasp of his enemy.

We indulged Billy a good deal. We had a box of hickory nuts in the garret, and he was allowed to go and help himself whenever he pleased.

He was pleased to go pretty often, too; and he was not satisfied with eating what he wanted out of the box. The greedy fellow! One day he carried off nearly all the nuts there were in the box, and hid them away under the floor, through a hole he had gnawed in the boards.

He was a great pet though, for all that. We could not help loving him, mischievous as he was. He used to climb up often on my shoulder, and down into my pockets; and if there was any thing good to eat thereabout, he would help himself without ceremony. Sometimes, when he felt particularly frolicksome, he leaped from one person's shoulder to another, all around the room.

The more we petted this little fellow, and the more good things we gave him, the more roguish he became. At length he exhausted all my father's patience by his mischief. One of his last tricks was this. He gnawed a hole in a bag of meal, and after eating as much as he could (and this was but little, for we fed him as often as he needed to eat, and oftener too) he carried away large quant.i.ties of the meal, and wasted it. He never worked harder in his life, not even when he was trying to get away from the jaws of the old cat, than he did when he was scattering this meal over the yard. Well, we had a sort of a court about Billy, after this. My father's corn-house was the court room, and my father himself was the judge. We all agreed that Billy was guilty, though we differed as to the punishment that ought to be inflicted. The question seemed to be, according to the language they use in courts of law, whether the theft was a _petty larceny_ or a _grand larceny_. Alas for Billy and Billy's friends! My father decided, in his charge to the jury, that the crime must be ranked under the head of grand larceny, and the jury brought in a verdict accordingly. My father p.r.o.nounced the sentence, which was that the offending squirrel must die that same day.

Billy seemed to be aware of what was going on, for he did not come near the house again till almost night; and when he did come, one of my father's men shot him, and just as the sun was going down he died. For a long time after that, I cried whenever I thought of poor Billy.

Among the many juvenile friends with whom I have had more or less correspondence, as the editor of a young people's magazine, is one who resides at Saratoga Springs. I pa.s.sed a few days at this watering-place last summer, and called on Master William, for that is the name of my friend--who introduced to me a pet squirrel of his, called d.i.c.k. d.i.c.k did not perform many very surprising feats while I was present, though I did not at the time set that circ.u.mstance down as any evidence of a want of smartness on the part of the squirrel; for I well remembered that it was a very common thing for pets sustaining even a much higher rank in the scale of intelligence, to disappoint the expectations of those persons who think all the world of them, when they--the pets--are ushered into the presence of strangers, for the purpose of being exhibited, and, indeed, I have some faint recollection of thus disappointing an over-fond nurse, not unfrequently, on similar occasions. There are some propositions the truth of which it is quite as well to a.s.sent to, when one hears them stated, without waiting for proof; and among these propositions I cla.s.s those which relate to the unheard-of sagacity and genius of a darling pet. I make it a point to admit, without demonstration or argument, that there never was another such a creature in all the world. Moreover, I saw plainly enough in d.i.c.k's keen, black eye, that he knew a thing or two, and I could easily understand how he might greatly endear himself to his little patron. Nor was I at all surprised when I recently heard of the death of this favorite, that my young friend cried a great deal; and I am sure I shared in some measure his grief. Poor d.i.c.k! I immediately wrote to w.i.l.l.y, to solicit a short biography of his favorite, for my stories about animals. The request was kindly responded to by w.i.l.l.y's aunt, from whom I received the following sketch:

"When d.i.c.k first became a member of the family, he was shy, resentful, and very capricious; but by degrees all these faults gave place to a sort of playful drollery, that called out many a laugh. His cage was a fine, large, commodious place, well lined with tiers, and furnished with every convenience that he could have desired in a habitation, not excepting a big wheel, which is by general consent esteemed a great luxury for a squirrel. But he often liked a change, and when the door was left loose, he would soon find his way out. Then he had many hair-breadth escapes--sometimes from dogs, who looked upon him as lawful prey; sometimes from frolicsome and thoughtless boys, who forgot how much a squirrel suffers who is worried almost to death. Sometimes he has been nearly abducted by strangers, who saw with surprise so small an individual at large, and quite unconscious of the perils of a public street in a watering-place. On one of these occasions, when he was playing with his little master, and skipping from bough to bough on the large trees that sheltered his home, he bounded from a branch to the roof of a three-storied house adjoining, and running across, jumped from one of the angles to the court below, landed on all fours, stopped a second or two to decide if he were really alive or not, then quietly trudged home to his cage. If he wanted a change, d.i.c.k had odd ways of showing himself dissatisfied with his condition. In the summer, when his house was too much exposed to the rays of the sun, he would give a queer little cry, which, if no one heeded, he would lie down flat, all extended, and gasp, as if each moment was his last; and no coaxing could bring him to himself, until he was removed, cage and all; then immediately he would jump up, frisk about, sit on his haunches, and laugh out of his eye as merrily as if he had said, 'I know a thing or two--don't I, though?' These manoeuvres were a clear sham; he could fall into one in a twinkling, at any time. How many times he has led the children of the family, and the big children too, through beds of beans, beets, and cuc.u.mbers, and through the tomato vines and rose-bushes; and when we were in full chase, just ready to believe that he had eluded us quite, and was gone forever, lo! there sat d.i.c.k in his wheel, as demure as a judge, and looking as wise as possible at those very silly people, who would be running about so fast, on such a warm day. He never liked any infringement upon his personal liberty; this he always resented; but he would pretend to hide away, and come and peep at you, or jump up behind you, stand on the top of your head or shoulder, play all manner of pranks about your person, get clear into the pocket of any friend, who was likely to have a supply of nuts. He would answer to his name, follow when called, in the house, out of the house, any where, play all about the large house-dog, Tom--pat him on the ear, gently pinch his tail, poise himself on his back, and pretend to sleep by the side of him. But if any one caught him, or held him, as if he were imprisoned--alas! what a struggle ensued--and then, I grieve to say it--he would _bite_."

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE SQUIRREL.]

The most common squirrels in this country are the gray, the red, and the striped, or chipping squirrel. The latter is the smallest of the three; and as that species are not hunted so much as the rest of the genus, they are very abundant in the woods. Many and many a time, when a child, have I been deceived by the cunning of the chipping squirrel. The little fellow has a hole and nest in the ground. The hole is very frequently either directly under or very near the stump of a tree which has been cut down or was blown over by the wind. Well, the little fellow is accustomed, or he was accustomed, when I was a little boy, to sit good-humoredly on this stump, and sing for hours together. His song has nothing very exquisite in it--it is simply "chip, chip, chip," from the beginning to the end; and his notes are not only all on the same key--a monotony which one might pardon, if he was particularly good-natured--but they are all on the same point in the diatonic scale.

However, like many other indifferent singers that I have met in my day, our striped vocalist goes on with his music, as if he thought there never was another, or certainly not more than one other quite as finished a singer as himself. Well, the boy who is unacquainted with the tricks of this little fellow, as was once my own case, steals along carefully toward the stump, thinking that the squirrel is so busy with his music, that he is perfectly unconscious of any thing else that is going on, and that it is just the easiest matter in the world to catch him. Half a dozen times, at least, I have tried this experiment, before I became satisfied that I was not the only interested party who was wide awake. "Chip, chip, chip," sings the squirrel. He does not move an inch.

He does not vary his song. His eyes seem half closed. The boy advances within a few feet of the squirrel. He reaches out his hand to secure his prize, when down goes the striped vocalist into his hole, always uttering a sort of laugh, as he enters his door, and seeming pretty plainly to say, though in rather poor Anglo-Saxon, it must be confessed, "No, you don't."

Whoever takes the pains to dig into the earth, where the striped squirrel has made his nest, will find something that will amply repay him for his trouble. The hole goes down pretty straight for some feet; then it turns, and takes a horizontal direction, and runs sometimes a great distance. Little chambers are seen leading out from this horizontal pa.s.sage, each chamber connected by a door with the pa.s.sage, and sometimes with other chambers. In each of these rooms, the squirrel stores up different varieties of nuts and other provisions. In one you will find acorns; in another hickory nuts--real s.h.a.g-barks, for our chipping squirrel is a good judge in these matters; and in another chestnuts, a whole hat-full of them, sometimes. There is quite as much order and regularity in the store-houses of the chipping squirrel, as there seems to be about the premises of some lazy and careless farmers one meets with occasionally.

Accounts are given of the ingenuity of the squirrels in Lapland, which would be too astonis.h.i.+ng for belief, were they not credited by such men as Linnaeus, on whose authority we have them. It seems that the squirrels in that country are in the habit of emigrating, in large parties, and that they sometimes travel hundreds of miles in this way, and that when they meet with broad or rapid lakes in their travels, they take a very extraordinary method of crossing them. On approaching the banks, and perceiving the breadth of the water, they return, as if by common consent, into the neighboring forest, each in quest of a piece of bark, which answers all the purpose of boats for wafting them over. When the whole company are fitted in this manner, they boldly commit their little fleet to the waves--every squirrel sitting on its own piece of bark, and fanning the air with its tail, to drive the vessel to the desired port.

In this orderly manner they set forward, and often cross lakes several miles broad. But it occasionally happens that the poor mariners are not aware of the dangers of their navigation; for although at the edge of the water it is generally calm, in the middle it is always more rough.

The slightest additional gust of wind often oversets the little sailor and his vessel altogether. The entire navy, that perhaps but a few minutes before rode proudly and securely along, is now overturned, and a s.h.i.+pwreck of two or three thousand vessels is the consequence. This wreck, which is so unfortunate for the little animal, is generally the most lucky accident in the world for the Laplander on sh.o.r.e; who gathers up the dead bodies as they are thrown in by the waves, eats the flesh, and sells the skins.

I read an interesting story, awhile ago, which came from the Gentleman's Magazine, about a squirrel who was charmed by a rattle-snake. The substance of the story was something like this: A gentleman was traveling by the side of a creek, where he saw a squirrel running backward and forward between the creek and a large tree a few yards distant. The squirrel's hair looked very rough, showing that he was very much terrified about something. His circuit became shorter and shorter, and the man stopped to see what could be the cause of this strange state of things. He soon discovered the head and neck of a rattle-snake pointing directly at the squirrel, through a hole of the tree, which was hollow. The squirrel at length gave over running, and laid himself down quietly, with his head close to the snake's. The snake then opened his mouth wide, and took in the squirrel's head; upon which the man gave the snake a blow across the neck with his whip, by which the squirrel was released. You will see by this story, which comes to us well authenticated, that snakes possess the power of charming, whatever some people may think or say to the contrary. This is only one among a mult.i.tude of facts which I could relate in proof of the existence of such a power among many of the serpent race. But we are conversing about quadrupeds now, and we must not go out of our way to chase after snakes.

A squirrel, sitting on a hickory-tree, was once observed to weigh the nuts he got in each paw, to find out which were good and which were bad.

The light ones he invariably threw away, retaining only those which were heavier. It was found, on examining those he had thrown away, that he had not made a mistake in a single instance. They were all bad nuts.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE GIRAFFE]

The Giraffe.

Leaving our friends the squirrels, to whom we have certainly devoted quite sufficient attention, we pa.s.s along to quite a different race of animals--that of the giraffe or camelopard. This is a n.o.ble-looking animal, as you see plainly enough by the engraving. The tongue of the giraffe is exquisitely contrived for grasping. In its native deserts, the animal uses it to hook down branches which are beyond the reach of its muzzle; and in the menagerie at Regent's Park, many a fair lady has been robbed of the artificial flowers which adorned her bonnet, by the nimble and filching tongue of the rare object of her admiration. When attacked, notwithstanding the natural defence of horns and hoofs, the camelopard always seeks escape in flight, and will not turn to do battle except at the last extremity. In such cases, he sometimes makes a successful defence by striking out his powerful armed feet; and the king of beasts is frequently repelled and disabled by the wounds which the giraffe has thus inflicted with his hoofs. His horns are also used with effect, and a side-long sweep of his neck sometimes does fatal execution.

Some years ago, a giraffe was sent from Egypt to Constantinople. His keeper used to exercise him in an open square, where the Turks flocked daily, in great crowds, to see the extraordinary animal. Seeing how inoffensive he was, and how domestic he became, the keeper took the animal with him through the city; and wherever he appeared, a number of friendly hands were held out of the latticed windows, to offer him something to eat. When he came to a house where he had been well treated, if no one was at the window, he would tap gently against the wooden lattice, as if to announce his visit. He was extremely docile and affectionate; and if left to himself, he always frequented the streets where he had the most and best friends.

The Monkey Tribe.

Of course my readers are in some measure familiar with the tricks of this large and notorious family of animals. But one is not easily wearied with their antics. They afford us, the most sober and sedate of us, an immense amount of material for amus.e.m.e.nt. I confess I have stopped in the street, many a time, to see a sage monkey go through his grotesque manoeuvres, under the direction of a tutor who ground out music from a wheezing hand-organ, and have been willing to undergo the penance of hearing the music of the master, for the sake of witnessing the genius of the pupil. I can conceive of nothing more excessively ludicrous than many of these exhibitions. But I must not detain the reader from the stories any longer.

A foreign gentleman of distinction having to attend the court of Louis XVI. of France, took with him his favorite monkey. Soon after his arrival, he was invited to attend a great ball at Versailles; and anxious to perform his part with credit in that fas.h.i.+onable country, he engaged one of the first dancing-masters in the city to teach him the latest mode. Every day he employed several hours in practicing his lessons with the tutor, so as to be _au fait_, as the French people have it--quite at home in the ball-room. Pug made his observations very attentively, watching all his motions. He also scrutinized the musician very closely, as he was engaged in instructing the gentleman, and playing on his violin. At the close of his lesson, the foreigner was in the habit of going to his mirror, and of practicing before it, by himself, for a considerable time, till he was in a measure satisfied with his performances, and pretty sure, we may suppose, that he would make a fine figure at court when the ball should come off. One day, after the gentleman had been exercising in this manner, and had just left the room, the monkey, who had been looking on with interest, as usual, left his post of observation, took up the violin, which had been left there by the musician, and commenced playing and imitating the dancing of his master, before the mirror. There is no knowing how much of a dancer he would have become, if he had been allowed to practice as much as he desired. As it was, however, his training for the ball was very suddenly terminated by the entrance of a servant into the room, while the student was in the midst of his performances.

A monkey tied to a stake was robbed by the crows, in the West Indies, of his food, and he conceived the following plan of punis.h.i.+ng the thieves.

He feigned death, and lay perfectly motionless on the ground near to his stake. The birds approached by degrees, and got near enough to steal his food, which he allowed them to do. This he repeated several times, till they became so bold as to come within the reach of his claws. He calculated his distance, and laid hold of one of them. Death was not his plan of punishment. He was more refined in his cruelty. He plucked every feather out of the bird, and then let him go and show himself to his companions. He made a man of him according to the ancient definition of a "biped without feathers."

An organ-grinder, with his monkey, being taken before the mayor of New Orleans, for exhibiting themselves without a license, the monkey was so polite to the mayor, took off his cap and made so many bows to his honor, that the two were permitted to depart in peace. It is said that no lawyer would have managed the case better than the monkey did.