As yet the utility of the elephant to man has, measured by his qualities, been but small. The creature has a marvellous strength, great intelligence, and remarkable docility. In proportion to the power which he can apply to a task, he is not an expensive animal to maintain. He can endure a considerable range of climate, and enjoys a tolerable immunity from disease. The reason for the relatively inconsiderable use of these creatures is probably to be found in the fact that they are not adapted for ordinary draught purposes, nor are they well suited to the needs of the caravan, for which the camel or the pack-mule is much better fitted. In ancient warfare, before the invention of gunpowder, elephants carrying archers or javelin-men upon their backs were greatly valued for the effect of their charge against an enemy and for the fright with which they inspired horses. Against the unsteady ranks of Oriental armies they were often most efficient in breaking a line of battle. Even the Roman troops, when they first encountered them and before they knew how to meet their charges, found them very formidable. It was soon learned that if their onset was stoutly resisted, they were likely to become unmanageable in the uproar of the fight, and to do as much damage to friends as to foes. It is only in certain peculiar tasks that, in modern days, the elephants have any economic value, and in the most of this work their strength is likely to be replaced by various engines.

The two existing species of elephants are, as before remarked, the survivors of a long lineage, represented in the geological record by the remains of many extinct forms. Some of these lost species were far smaller than those of to-day; one at least was no larger than our heavier horses. If by the breeder's art the existing varieties could be caused so to change as to give us once again this relatively diminutive form, the creature would be sure to find a place of importance in our ordinary arts. The trouble is that the very long life of this animal is naturally associated with a slow growth. It requires indeed almost the lifetime of a generation to bring the individual to an adult age. It is therefore not surprising that, as the wild forms can readily be won to domestication, these creatures have not been the subject of any of those interesting processes of selection which have so far affected for the better the characteristics of nearly all the other domesticated animals.

In every other regard than those mentioned above, the elephant appears to be an excellent subject for improvement by choice in breeding. The individuals vary much as regards their physical and mental qualities. Probably no other wild mammal exhibits such differences in the mental features as does this highly intellectual creature. The physical individuality does not seem to be as striking as the mental, but even here we note a range, at least as regards size, which is unusual in the wild forms bred under similar conditions. The general elasticity of the group is shown by the considerable differences which may be traced in the herds which occupy different parts of the field over which the species range. As yet these local peculiarities have not been carefully studied; but from an examination of the tusks in the ivory warehouse at the docks in London, I have found that those shipped from particular ports in Africa and Asia differed both in form and texture, so that the experts were able to tell from which district they came. The evidence, in a word, appears to show that the creature tends to vary; and it is a safe presumption that the forms would prove as responsive to the breeder's art as those of our horses, cattle, sheep, or dogs.

As a whole, the elephant has been almost as little associated with the life of our own race as the camel. Neither of these creatures has ever played any considerable part in European affairs. From the disappearance of the last of the mammoths in the closing stages of the Glacial time until the invasions of Italy by Pyrrhus and by Hannibal, elephants were practically unknown in Western Europe. They have never been used in peaceful occupations on that continent, and have had only a trifling place in its military arts. It was probably due to this separation of our eminently experimental race from the realm of the elephants that no efforts have been made systematically to breed them in captivity, and thus to win varieties in which the form might become better adapted to economic needs, and the remarkable mental powers of the creature be brought to their utmost development. As yet the only Europeans who have had much to do with elephants are the British, who in their civil and military service in India have been thrown in contact with these animals. Generally, however, these people have been only temporarily domiciled in Asia, and probably on this account have not become interested in the problems which this noble beast presents to all those who appreciate the animal world. We lack, indeed, the observations which might have been made with admirable effect by British observers in India during the two centuries in which that people has had to do with the lands in which elephants abound.

The elephant of Africa is still a tolerably abundant animal. Its numbers, though doubtless diminished by more than one-half within this century, are probably to be counted by the hundred thousand. Nevertheless, in less than a hundred years the field which they occupied has been greatly reduced; and between the ivory hunter and the sportsman of our brutal race armed with guns of ever-increasing deadliness, it will certainly not require another century of free shooting to annihilate the African species. In view of the present condition of the life of these noble beasts, it seems in a high measure desirable that a thorough-going effort should be made to extend the domestication to the point where the form will not only be won from the wilds, but will be a permanent element in our civilization, in the manner of our common flocks and herds. It will be an enduring shame if, by neglect of our opportunities, the utmost is not done to attain this end. It appears fit that this task should be undertaken by the British Government, which in modern days has displayed a skill and forethought in the administration of its Indian provinces unexampled in the history of colonies. Owing to the slow breeding-rate of the elephant, it may require more than a century for experiments to attain any definite result, so that the task is clearly beyond the limits of individual endeavor.

Among the humbler helpers of man, the pig holds an important place. He has had no small share in the betterment of the estate of his masters. One of the large questions which beset men in their unconscious endeavors to lay the foundations of civilization was that of food-supply. No sooner does a population become sedentary than the wildernesses about its dwelling-place are rapidly cleared of the large game, so that the chase affords but little save amusement. Therefore a provision in the way of meat has to be obtained from domesticated animals. The flocks and herds supply this need, though in a costly way. Sheep have a value for their wool; horned cattle develop slowly, and are, moreover valuable, the oxen for their strength and the cows for their milk. Horses are too valuable to be used for food, save in times of exceeding stress; and none but the lowest savages are willing to send their faithful dogs to the pot. From the beginning of his experience with man the pig has been found the cheapest and most serviceable domesticated animal as a source of food-supply.

We can trace the origin of our domesticated pigs more clearly than in the case of the most of the other subjugated animals. The creature is evidently descended from the wild boar of Europe and Asia; and though long under domestication and greatly varied from its primitive stock, it readily reverts to something like its original form when allowed to betake itself once more to the wilds. The domestication of the species appears to have been accomplished at several different points in Asia and Europe. The forms which are found in eastern Asia differ from those which are kept in the western portion of the great continent, and may have their blood commingled with that of another species which is native in that part of the world.

Among our domesticated animals the pig is exceptional in the fact that it has been bred for its flesh alone; for although the hide is valuable and the hair serves certain purposes, as in the manufacture of brushes, these uses are only incidental and modern. They have not affected the plan of the breeder, whose aim has been to produce the largest weight of flesh in the shortest time, and with the least expenditure of food. In this peculiar task the success has been remarkable, the creature having been made to vary from its primitive condition in an extraordinary manner. In its wild state the species develops slowly, requiring, perhaps, three or four years to attain its maximum size. It never becomes very fat, but remains an agile, swift-footed, and fierce tenant of the wilds. Under the conditions of subjugation the pig has been brought to a state in which its qualities of mind and body have undergone a very great change. In the more developed breeds, even the males, when kept about the barnyard, are quiet-natured and not at all dangerous. The creatures have become slow-moving; they attain their full development in about half the time required for the growth of their wild kindred, and when adult they may outweigh them in the ratio of four to one.

The effect arising from the food-supply which our pigs afford is well seen in the use which is made of their flesh in all the ruder work of men, at least in the case of those of our race. Our soldiers and sailors are to a great extent fed on the flesh of these creatures, which lends itself readily to preservation by the use of salt. So rapidly can these animals be bred, owing to the number of young which they produce in a litter and the swiftness of their growth, that sudden demands for an increase in the supply, such as occurred at the outbreak of our civil war, can quickly be met. If the need should arise, the quantity of pork produced in this country could readily be doubled within eighteen months. This is the case with no other source of flesh-supply, and this fact gives the pig a peculiar importance.

Owing to the remarkably complete domestication of this animal, and also to the fact that it is omnivorous, the creature has ever been a favorite with the cotter class. Those folk, who can afford neither sheep nor horned cattle, can often provide the food for pigs, and thus, in turn, be much better fed than they would otherwise be.

It is only within two centuries that our pigs have attained to anything like the domestication in which we commonly find them. Of old they were allowed to range the forests, much as they do in certain parts of our Southern States at the present day. In some parts of Europe, particularly in the southern portion of the continent, this method of rearing and feeding is still common. It was and is advantageous, for the reason that the creature, by its remarkably keen sense of smelling and its singular capacity for overturning the ground, is able to provide itself with abundant food in the way of grubs and roots which are not at the disposition of any other animal. It was only as the public forests disappeared that pigs came to receive any considerable part of their provender from the products of tilled fields. In this stage of our agriculture, when all the land was possessed, the life of the pig was necessarily more restricted, and he became the denizen of a pen. In the earlier state there was no cost for his keeping; in the latter, except so far as he could be fed from the waste of a household, he is an expensive animal.

It is with this last state of the pig, when he became the most housed of our domesticated animals, that the work of the breeder really began. The aim of those who have developed the pig has been, as we have said, to obtain the most rapid growth along with the greatest weight of fat, and to accomplish the results with the least expenditure in the way of food. Although the animal has been subjected to selective experiments, looking to these ends, for not more than a century, or say about forty generations of the species, the amount of variation which has been attained is singularly great, the form and habits having been changed more rapidly, and in a larger measure, than in the case of any other of our domesticated animals. It may fairly be said that this creature is more obedient to the will of the practical selectionist than any other with which we have experimented.

It is commonly assumed that our pigs are among the least intelligent of the creatures which man has turned to his use. This impression is due to the fact that the conditions in which these animals are kept insure their degradation by cutting them off from all the natural mental training which wild animals, as well as the other tenants of the fields, receive. In the state of nature or in the condition of domestication which existed before pigs became captives in their pens, they were among the most alert and sagacious animals with which man has come in contact. Their wits were quick and their sympathies with their kind remarkably strong. Trainers have found these creatures more apt in receiving instruction than any other of our mammals, and the things which they can be made to do appear to indicate a native intelligence nearer to that of man than is found in any other species below the level of the apes.

As there is little in the books of anecdotes of animals concerning pigs, I venture to give an account of a learned individual of this species whose performances I had an opportunity of observing in much detail. The creature, an ordinary specimen about three years old, had been trained by a peasant in the mountain district of Virginia who made his living by instructing animals for show purposes. He stated that in selecting pigs for education it was his practice to choose those characterized by a considerable width between the eyes and whose skulls projected in this part of their periphery to a more than usual degree. He said that from many experiments he was satisfied that there was a very great difference in the capacity of the animals to receive training, and that the above-mentioned indices afforded him sufficient guidance in his choice.

In the exhibition about to be described there were but three persons present, myself, another spectator, and the showman. A score of cards were placed upon the ground, each bearing a numeral or the name of some distinguished person. These cards were in perfect disorder. I was allowed, indeed, repeatedly to change their position and to mix them up as I pleased. The pig was then told to pick out the name of Abraham Lincoln and bring it to his master. This he readily did. He was asked in what year Lincoln was assassinated. He slowly but without correction brought one by one the appropriate numerals and put them on the ground in due order. Half a dozen other questions concerning names and dates were answered in a similar way. Each success was rewarded with a grain of corn, and for his failures the creature received a reasonable drubbing. It was evident that the animal had to consider in making his choice of the cards. At times he was evidently much puzzled and would indicate his perplexity by squealing.

It seemed clear that the master of this learned pig did not guide the movements of the animal by other indications than words. The questions, in some cases, had to be reiterated in a loud voice in order to insure attention. Several times during the performance the pig rebelled, broke from the tent, and was with difficulty recaptured. The creature disliked this task in the manner of a lazy school-boy, and at the end of an hour of exercises seemed utterly overcome by his labor. He ran into the box where he was ordinarily confined, and when dragged forth, neither rewards nor punishments would quicken him to further work.

The above-described exhibition made it plain to me that the pig can be taught to understand a certain amount of human speech and to associate memories with phrases substantially as we do ourselves. It is perfectly clear that the performance which I witnessed was not a mere routine action, for I had a number of questions asked over again so as to make it sure that the creature acted with reference to each separate inquiry. The behavior of the animal during the performance seemed clearly to indicate mental effort and not mere automatic memory. His attitude when trying to determine which of two cards to take distinctly showed that he was intently viewing the figures and endeavoring to come to a decision. I am aware it has been suggested that learned pigs discriminate between the cards by peculiarities of odor which have been given to these bits of paper. I sought carefully to find if such was the case, and though I have a very keen sense of smell I found nothing which led me to suspect that this device was used. Even if such were the case, the rationality of the animal's action would be none the less clear. The showman assured me that he never used any such means in training pigs. He seemed, indeed, to treat the suggestion with contempt.

Although experiments in the training of pigs show that they have rather remarkable intellectual capacities, the most human feature in their mental organization is found in the keen sympathy which they exhibit with the sufferings of their own kind and the willingness with which they encounter danger in protecting their comrades. It usually requires close observation for the naturalist to determine the existence of this motive among the other wild or domesticated mammals. In fact, the traces of it are very slight indeed, and are generally to be attributed to the care of parents for offspring or of the males for their harem—a disposition which, though akin to the defence of the kind, is nevertheless of a special and peculiar nature. Even among our domestic dogs, whose sympathies have been developed in a remarkable degree and who will sacrifice their lives to defend or rescue the human beings with whom they are familiar, there appears to be but little disposition to support members of their species who may be assailed. With pigs, however, as is well known to all those who have observed their habits, the characteristic cry of distress of their fellows proves very exciting and stimulates all the adults, both male and female, who hear it to hasten in defence of their kinsmen. It is a noteworthy fact that while most other animals when in danger utter no distinct or continuous cry, the pig gives voice in a vociferous and insistent manner, as if he had a right to expect the sympathy and help of his species. The cry goes with the custom of defence which in this species has attained a better foundation in the sympathetic motives than in any other mammal below the level of man.

It is perhaps due to their relatively high intellectual organization that the excessively domesticated pigs are liable to suffer from attacks of mania. This is most commonly exhibited by the sows, which at times will destroy their young shortly after they are born. The sight of their progeny seems to infuriate them in a curious manner. One sow which I owned killed three successive litters; another fine animal of the Berkshire breed, a very amiable, indeed affectionate, creature, was carefully watched at the time she first bore young, precautions being taken to prevent her from harming them; she would willingly allow them to suckle, provided she did not see them, but the moment she laid her eyes upon them she was seized with the strange fury.

Although this singular perversion of the natural instincts of maternity sometimes occurs among the pigs which are allowed to roam together in herds, it seems to be far more common in those conditions where the animals are confined in pens without contact with their kind, and where they have no chance to recognize the young as members of their species or to acquire that interest in them which they would gain in the society of the herd. It is also clear that this maniacal habit is inherited; according to my observation it is common among the Berkshire, and relatively rare in other less specialized varieties.

The intelligence of the pig is also shown in the readiness with which the creature changes its habits to meet varied environments. Thus the pigs which range the woods in the western and southern parts of the United States have learned to catch the crawfish which abounds in the shallow streams in those parts of this country. They will wade up a brook, turning over the stones and driftwood as they go, catching with a quick movement the crustaceans which they have thus dislodged from their cover. Along the shores of the Bay of Fundy, the pigs, accustomed to follow the tide out, picking the chance food which is thus exposed to them, have learned carefully to avoid the risk of being caught by the returning waters. With the first splash of the turning tide they hasten inshore until they have attained safe ground.

One of the best evidences of the mental state of these animals is found in their actions when assailed by dogs or other beasts of prey. Pigs, though wary and sensible of danger, seem exempt from the extreme fear which leads to panic, and fight, even before being brought to bay by long chasing, in a discreet and valiant manner. Where a number of them are attacked by dogs or other enemies, they will form a circle with their heads out, each supporting the other in such a manner that the ring cannot readily be broken. Their thick-skinned forequarters and stout tusks provide them with excellent instruments with which to resist an assault.

The sagacity of the pigs is probably, in part at least, to be attributed to the fact that in their native state they are communal animals, all the species of their family being accustomed to live gregariously, so that for ages they have had the training which every social organization, however simple, affords. They are, moreover, omnivorous feeders, accustomed to subsist on a great variety of food—a habit which seems in all cases to promote the development of the intelligence in animals.

Although the pigs by their nature afforded the best opportunity for developing an intellectual animal which has come to us through our domesticated creatures, no effort whatever has been made by selection to develop the latent mental capacities of this species. It is perhaps the only form of those which man has subjugated which by his treatment he tends to degrade. In the time to come, when men will be held to a better accountability for the treatment of their captives, the condition of these animals will afford a fair field for the reformer's care.

The geologist who is acquainted with the mammalian life of the Middle Tertiary period readily notes the fact that the variety in genera and species appears to be much greater than it is at the present time. A great number of forms, differing somewhat widely from those now in existence, then abounded in the Americas and the Old World. It may at first sight seem unfortunate that man did not have the chance to essay his domesticative arts on that older and apparently richer life. A closer examination, however, leads us to see that the species of that time, though more numerous than those of the present, were on the whole less fitted for our use than the fewer but more completely differentiated kinds with which we have had to deal. The multitude of kinds which we find in the Mesozoic period indicates that the life was in a state more experimental than that to which it has attained. A host of forms on their way towards the specialization which has now been attained have been removed from the sphere, in the manner of a scaffolding from a completed structure. That which has been left remains because it has successfully accomplished the task of reconciliation with environment, or, in simpler phrase, because it has learned to do things which were useful and profitable in a more perfect manner.

As an illustration of the fact that the animals of to-day are better fitted to be the help-meets of man than were their ancestors of an earlier time, we may note the state of the horse at the time when that genus was undergoing its development in the region about the upper waters of the Missouri. As may be imagined, the long and difficult passage from the five-toed to the single-toed form was slowly accomplished, and to its doing went a great many temporary forms, which served, we may say, as stepping-stones for the ongoing. So far as we can judge, these intermediate forms were small, rather frail creatures, which probably could not have been made to serve any purpose useful to man. It was not until the mechanical system of the large single toe with the wonderfully developed nail, which makes up the foot and hoof of the horse, had been attained, that the creature becomes fit for the wonderful work we have persuaded him to do in our civilization.

A comparison of the skulls of the Tertiary mammals and those of our own day indicates that in certain of the important series, and presumably in them all, the brain has increased in size from the earlier to the later times. This increase in brain capacity has doubtless been attended by a decided gain in the measure of intelligence, a gain which has doubtless served to make the modern representatives of the series fitter for man's use than their ancestors were. For, while the number of our very useful domesticated forms may seem at first sight to be dull of wit, none of them are really low in the intellectual scale as we apply it to the brute; in fact, a considerable measure of intelligence is absolutely required as a condition for true subjugation. This is seen by the fact that nothing like a real adoption into our social system has ever been accomplished except with a few of the higher orders of mammals and birds, species which have an intellectual capacity that we recognize as akin to our own. Thus, so far as we can see, man's appearance on this stage was, so far as it relates to the possibility of companionship with the lower life, exceedingly well timed. He came at a period when the life was ready to give him and to receive from him a large measure of help. If his advent had been much earlier, he might have had less trouble in his contests with the larger carnivora; but if there had been a lack of beasts to obey his will, it is doubtful whether he could himself have won his way above that primitive life.



DOMESTICATED BIRDS

Domestication of Animals mainly accomplished by the Aryan Race; Small Amount of Such Work by American Indians.—Barnyard Fowl: Mental Qualities; Habits of Combat.—Peacocks: their Limited Domestication.—Turkeys: their Origin; tending to revert to the Savage State.—Water Fowl: Limited Number of Species domesticated; Intellectual Qualities of this Group.—The Pigeon: Origin and History of Group; Marvels of Breeding.—Song Birds.—Hawks and Hawking.—Sympathetic Motive of Birds: their AEsthetic Sense; their Capacity for Enjoyment.

It is an interesting fact that about all the work of domestication which has been done by man has been accomplished by the peoples of Asia and mainly by the Aryan race. The American Indians tamed the llama and alpaca and a few species of native plants; even where their habits were prevailingly sedentary they domesticated no birds. It was left for Europeans to make use of the wild turkey. Our primitive people had the same chance to tame ducks and geese as the folk of the Old World. They appear, however, to have lacked all capacity for such endeavors. The same lack of disposition to capture and tame wild creatures is noticeable among the characteristic peoples of Africa; all of which serves to show that the domesticating art, at least as applied to animals, is peculiar to the higher-grade folk of the Old World.

Of all the birds which have been domesticated, our common barnyard fowl has been by far the most useful to man. It has become in a way interwoven with his life to a degree found only in a few of our barnyard animals. Next after the pigeons and the pigs it has been most deeply impressed by the breeder's art. The wild species whence it sprang is a small creature, laying but few eggs and with but a slight tendency to accumulate fat. From this parent stock varieties have been bred which attain in some cases to eight or ten times the weight of the ancient form. They have, moreover, lost the fierce combative spirit which characterizes their ancestors and which by selection has been preserved and intensified in our breeds of game-cocks.



It is an interesting fact that our barnyard fowl is the only species of a large family of birds which has been truly domesticated. The kindred pheasants and grouse, though abounding in the Old World and the New, and much disposed to abide about the cultivated fields, appear to be rather untamable. However well cared for, the wilderness motive seems never to have been eradicated. The domesticability of the cock, as is that of most other wild animals, is doubtless to be explained by the conditions of the life in which it has dwelt for ages before it was introduced to the society of man. In its wild state this bird had already to a great extent lost the power of flight, using its wings only for escaping from four-footed pursuers or to attain the branches of the trees in which it sought safety in the night time. With this measure of loss of the flying power, the creature abandoned the habit of ranging over a wide field, and thus was made more fit for domestication. Moreover, in their wilderness life these birds dwelt in more established communities than their kindred species. The most of these wild forms do not keep together through the year, but scatter after the young are able to shift for themselves. The Indian species of Gallus, however, from which our cocks and hens descend, have organized their life so that the individuals remain associate in a friendly way throughout the year.

A part of the fitness of this creature to cast in its lot with man arises from the fact that they have very sympathetic natures. This is shown by the way in which the cocks will fight for their hens, even against their dreaded enemies, the hawks; and by the manner in which the mother, overcoming her natural fears, will do battle for her brood. It is shown also in the curious mingling of gallantry and kindliness with which the cock will call a hen to give her some choice bit of food which he has captured. As he grows older and becomes Philistinish, we may note that, after the manner of unfeathered bipeds, he is often disposed to indulge his selfishness, and summons his flock only to see him devour the morsel. Even in old age, however, the males of the varieties which are nearest the parent stock maintain their helpful motives and will struggle with infirmity to beat off a bird of prey.

The sympathetic and affectionate quality of our barnyard fowl is perhaps best indicated by the singular variety and denotative value of their various calls and cries. Those who know these birds well will find no difficulty in recognizing about a score of diverse sounds, each of which indicates a particular turn of their mind. Almost all of these different notes have slight variations of expression which fit particular situations. Thus the crow of these birds, which may seem to the unobservant a very unvaried sound, discloses to those who have lovingly studied them at least half a dozen distinct modifications. In the fledgling male who just begins to feel the spirit of his kind, and who goes through his performance in the adolescent way, it is a cheap and often pitiful call. From the open roost in the trees, where the birds are gradually aroused by the slow-coming day, we can often hear the note of the half-awakened cock, as full of the sense of slumber as the speech of a sleeping man. As the creature gradually awakens, his cry becomes more resonant until it has the true morning ring. Brave as is this note of the full day, it is not to be compared with the crowing of a game-cock, the most splendid braggart sound of all the animal world.

The really sympathetic notes of our fowls are uttered in their ordinary intercourse. Here the gradations of sounds have a range and fineness which, it seems to me, we can observe in no other creature below the level of man. Attention, astonishment, fear, commonplace distress, exultation, and agony are all set forth with cries which we, in a way, recognize as appropriate. Although some of these sounds relate to the larger experiences of the creatures, the most instructive of them are uttered in their ordinary intercourse, where they clearly maintain a kind of consensus in the flock by unending small bits of emotional speech, the notes being shaded in a wonderful way. These fine variations of utterance can sometimes be observed to be related to slight differences of situation. Thus the cackle of a hen when she leaves her nest after laying an egg is quite different from that which is made by the same hen when, during the period of incubation, she quits her eggs in search of food and water.

It is not unlikely that the eminent domesticability of our common fowls is in a way associated with the singular variety of their notes. This variety indicates that the creatures are in constant and effective communication with one another; in a word, they are very sympathetic. With this intellectual helpfulness naturally goes the love of the domicile and a disposition to submit to control.

So nice and well understood are the differences between the sounds which these birds give forth, and so well are their notes appreciated by their companions, that the creatures may well be said to have a language. Though it probably conveys only emotions and not distinct thoughts, it still must be regarded as a certain kind of speech. The modes of expression indicate that in this creature, as in the other feathered forms, the intellectual life consists largely in the movements inspired by the emotions. On the rational side our fowls seem weaker than many other less interesting species. In their nesting and other habits there are no evidences of constructive ingenuity; and in all my observations on them I have never seen any evidence which showed either considerable powers of memory or a capacity to act in any complicated way with reference to an end. It is evident, however, that they make a very good classification of the world about them. They have, for the limited field over which they roam, a keen topographic sense; they never are lost, and this in connection with their sympathetic homing instinct prevents them from wandering from their accustomed places to take up again with a wilderness life.

In their adhesion to domestication our common fowls differ in a remarkable way from all other of our captive animals except the dog, and these birds are even more ineradicably attached to man than their older companion. While the dog will sometimes become half wild, or, as we may phrase it, undomiciled, fowls seem incapable of maintaining themselves apart from human care. In much ranging of the wilderness I have never found one of these creatures more than a thousand feet away from a human habitation. When we consider how common must be the chances of their going astray, and how easy it is in many parts of the country, as in our Southern States, for them to obtain in the wilderness food throughout the year, the fact that they never go wild is indeed remarkable. It can only be explained by the great development of the homing instinct which man has brought about in their sympathetic souls.



Although our unnatural process of breeding has done much to degrade the original beauty of the cocks and hens, destroying the delicate coloration of the feathers as well as the admirable blending and contrasts of their pristine hues, it seems likely that the effect on the physical and mental development as a whole has not been unfavorable. Though less courageous, they are stronger creatures than in their wild state; they are clearly more fecund; they are gentler natured; and, so far as I have been able to compare the high-bred with the primitive forms, their range of expression through the voice has been much increased, a feature which may be noted in other domesticated species of birds, as, for instance, in the canaries. The most remarkable alteration which has been brought about in the minds of these creatures consists in the very great diminution in the combative motive of the males. In the wild forms, as well as in the kindred variety of the game-cock, this impulse to battle attains a truly phenomenal development, the like of which is probably not to be found in any other creature. The male birds begin their warfare before they are more than half grown, and in their adult state will attack anything which they can conceive to be an enemy. They will, with slight provocation, assail any of the other domesticated species of birds, and even the lesser mammals, such as the dogs and cats. They will fight their own image in a looking-glass. I have had game-cocks attack my hand when it was held near the ground and given an up-and-down movement in imitation of their antagonist's head.

I once reared a game-cock by hand, keeping him secluded from his kind until he was adult. I then placed him in a large collection of barnyard fowl where there were half a dozen mongrel cocks, a drake of the muscovy variety, several ganders, and two turkey-gobblers. Immediately and in rapid succession he settled his accounts with the males of his own kind. He shortly overcame the drake and the ganders. He then devoted what was left of his forces to battles with the turkeys. Here he found himself in great difficulty, for the reason that these great birds would seize him by the head and lift his body off the ground. However, he soon learned an ingenious trick which protected him from this danger. When gathering breath in the intervals between his assaults, he would hover himself between his antagonist's legs, keeping step with the awkward creature in its efforts to get away from him. In a few days he wore out these doughty foemen and remained the battered master of the field.

Although the indomitable valor of the game-cock may be in some measure due to the selection which the breeder has applied to the variety, there can be no question that it is essentially natural to the species and is the result of an age-long habit which in the native wilds of the creature did much to insure its safety. The antiquity of the state of mind may be judged by the perfection to which the spurs have attained and the remarkably skilful and definite way in which the creatures use them. The spur, which has arisen from the development of the scales and underlying bone of the bird's leg, is a singularly perfect structure, the finish of which cannot be judged in the degraded form in which it is found in our ordinary barnyard species. Although in its construction this weapon is admirably devised, it is placed in a position where only a remarkably well-addressed movement can give effect to its blow. Those who have watched game-cocks in combat have had a chance to see the vaults by which the creature, partly turning in the air, is able to throw the spur in such a manner that it shares the impulse of the body when it strikes the antagonist. This peculiar craft has been in good part lost among our common varieties. Their spiritless contests differ as much from those of the game-birds as do the fist fights of untrained men from the contests of skilled pugilists.



Although to persons unaccustomed to the spectacle the combats between game-birds may seem disgusting, almost every one must admire the valor, grace, and address which such scenes exhibit. Except where the brutal custom of putting steel points on the spurs prevails, the birds rarely receive fatal wounds. The defeated cock is soon brought to confess his inferiority and takes himself away. At no other time in the life of these birds does their organic beauty appear to such advantage as when they are struggling with each other. Then alone do we perceive the singular efficiency of their bodies and the quick as well as appropriate action of their instincts. They set themselves against each other in attitudes as well chosen and as peculiar as those of a well-trained fencer. Before the assault they often go through a singular performance, which consists in picking up bits of twigs or pebbles. These they cast into the air, an unmeaning movement which may be compared to the like meaningless though similarly graceful salute with which swordsmen preface their contests. Then, with their legs flexed so that they may be ready for the spring, and with the rather stiff feathers about the neck erected so as to serve as a shield, they creep toward each other until they are separated by the distance appropriate for the spring. When fairly placed for battle they begin a system of fence which is intended to provoke the enemy to an untimely assault. The art of the game appears to consist in persuading the adversary to venture an attack where his force will be spent in the air, so that a blow can be given him before he has time to recover position. The issue depends much on the endurance of the birds. Their movements require so much energy that one of them is apt to become exhausted before the other is quite spent. In rare cases, only one of which has been seen by me, a weary bird will feign death for a minute or so and thus obtain new strength with which to renew the combat, profiting also by the confusion which he will bring upon his adversary by his sudden revival.

Although the combatant motive which we find in the males among our barnyard fowls has doubtless been developed through their combats with each other, the valiant spirit which has come from it often leads the creatures to attack the enemies of their flock. I have seen a nimble game-cock strike a hawk which was pouncing to its prey, delivering the blow some feet above the surface of the ground, and this so effectively that the marauder was driven away in a sorely hurt condition. I have seen males of the game variety attack a number of other larger animals which in any way threatened their charges.

Although our barnyard fowl are almost the only ground birds which have ever been brought to a state of perfect domestication, there are several other species of the same group which have been taught in a measure to adhere to man. Of these perhaps the longest in domestication is the peafowl. This creature, though it has edible, indeed we may say savory flesh, has retained its small place in civilization solely on account of its extraordinary beauty. For its size it is doubtless the most beautiful of animals, its plumage, especially the magnificent display of the tail, exceeding that of any other natural object. There are other birds of small size which vie with the peacock in the details of ornamentation. Those jewels among the feathered tribes, the humming-birds, have a more delicate beauty. The birds-of-paradise and the lyre-birds have a grace in the attitudes of particular feathers which is unequalled; but for splendor none of them approach the peacock in his best estate.



The peacock is a native of Southern Asia, a realm in fact in which the species of the group attain an uncommonly rich development. The creature appears to have been domesticated some thousands of years ago, but has undergone no considerable changes in its experience with man. It has in truth not been completely tamed. It does not willingly remain near the dwellings of man, but prefers to abide apart, only resorting to the home when in need of food. It is very intolerant of the other barnyard creatures, and often becomes possessed of a kind of mania for slaying their young, not for food but from pure spirit of mischief.

Intellectually speaking, the peacocks are much below the cocks and hens; although they flock together, their sympathies do not seem quick; their cries and calls do not number a fifth part of those which we hear from our chickens, and their notes are prevailingly very discordant. Their cry of defiance, answering to the crow of the cock, is one of the rudest and least sympathetic sounds which is heard among the birds. Its only merit is that it can be heard very far. It is readily audible at the distance of a mile when it breaks the stillness of a summer night. At present the bird seems out of favor. At best it is a beautiful but annoying ornament to pleasure-grounds. It is likely, indeed, that it may in time become limited to its native wildernesses and to zoological gardens.

From Africa we have derived one rather uncommon tenant of our barnyards and fields, the guinea-hen. This creature, though of convenient size, hardy, and commendable from the number of eggs it lays, has never won a large place in the esteem of our rural people, and is now not much kept, except in some parts of the Southern States of this country. The difficulty with this creature, as with the peacock, is that it is not truly domesticated; though it will not betake itself altogether to the woods, it prefers to maintain a half-wild habit. It will not, if it can possibly avoid it, lay its eggs in any place where they are likely to be found by man. Moreover, their rude and little-modulated cries are in the summer season almost incessant, and the din which a considerable flock can produce is exceedingly vexatious. They thus do not fit the needs or comfort of man to the degree which is likely to give them a permanent place among his associates.



The last considerable addition to our barnyards has come to us in the form of the turkey. This species has the peculiar distinction of being the only animal form of definite use to man over a wide field which has been contributed from the life of the New World. Although the creature was much hunted by our North American Indians, and is of a type which lends itself to domestication, it does not appear to have become a companion of man until it was taken from the West India Islands to Europe shortly after the discovery of this country. Thence the domesticated form appears to have been returned to this country, where it has been a favorite in a measure unknown in the Old World. Ornithologists deem the Cuban turkey, whence our tame form came, to be specifically distinct from those which are found on the mainland of this continent. Although these kinds are distinguishable by plumage, they are probably only varieties of a common species. This is indicated by the fact that our tame flocks readily intermingle with their wild kindred.

The ease with which the turkey becomes domesticated is remarkable. In this regard the creature may be compared to our cocks and hens. In both cases the tamableness is doubtless to be explained by the fact that the primitive forms dwelt in permanent association, the movements of which were in a way controlled by the adult males, and by the fact that the forms had abandoned the use of wings for wide-ranging flight. The change which has been brought about in the turkeys with their adoption into the human association has been slight. No distinct varieties of breeds have been originated, though here and there the observer may note slight local variations in the coloration of the plumage, which are probably due to varying admixtures with the wild forms of our forests. Thus in Kentucky and other parts of the South, where the opportunities for the intermingling of blood of the tame and wild forms are frequent, the domesticated creatures often resemble so nearly the wilderness forms that even the wary hunter may make mistakes as to whether the bird he sights be fair game or not. Unless carefully watched, a drove of these creatures on the border of the wilderness is apt gradually to return to the wild state, the three or four centuries of life about the home of man not having been sufficient to do away with their ancient love of freedom.

Among the English folk of North America the turkeys found a large place as an element of the food-supply. It has become curiously associated with the Puritan festival of Thanksgiving, an institution which has spread throughout the United States and which has in a way taken the place of the harvest-home festivities of the Old World and bygone ages. It is probable that the relation of this bird to our national festivities has done much to keep it in use in this country. It is a well-recognized fact that it is costly to keep and that the eggs are not desirable for culinary use. The species requires a wide range. It does not do well in the confined conditions in which cocks and hens can readily be maintained. It therefore is not likely to be kept in any region where the agriculture is of a high grade. It is best suited to farms where there are considerable areas of half-wild pastures.

Although the turkey is a truly gregarious form, its mental endowments are of a lower grade than those of most social birds. Their calls are few in number and have little of that conversational quality which we note in those of our ordinary barnyard fowls. Although the males contest the field with each other by personal combats, they are not very valiant, the creatures trusting for favor with the females rather to the parade of their plumage and the pomp of their carriage than to the wager of battle. In the matter of show they are, however, very effective, being surpassed only by the peacock in the splendor of their attire. In their domesticated state they lose much of the beauty which they have in the wilderness, as they do their pristine dimensions. Those who have hunted our wild species are likely to remember scenes where in some forest glade they have beheld a gobbler displaying his graces to an admiring harem. As he struts about with his tail feathers erect and his neck arched back, now and then pausing to utter an exultant gobble, the spectacle is one of the most amusing displays of animal pride which the naturalist has a chance to behold.



Recent experiments in ostrich farming seem to indicate that we are on the eve of introducing into our "happy family" the noblest remaining member of that group of great birds which characterized the life of the later geological periods. As yet the efforts in taming ostriches are too new for us to tell just what the effect of man's skill on the development of this creature will be. It is evident, however, that the creature can be won from its wilderness state, at least to something like the imperfect companionship with man which has been attained by the guinea-fowls and turkeys. All we know of the variations in plumage of birds indicates that the breeder's art may bring about great changes in the highly decorative feathers for which this bird is to be reared. It is also probable that with the better food which domestic conditions imply, this wanderer of the desert may be brought to attain a very much greater size than it wins in the hard life of its native land. If the form should prove as plastic as that of our ordinary barnyard species, we may indeed succeed in developing a variety approaching in dimensions the gigantic moa of New Zealand, or the aepyornis of Madagascar, those magnificent creatures of the past which passed away just before their native lands were known to our race. The variations in size of the wild ostrich appear to indicate that this interesting result may be attainable.

Next after the cocks and hens the most important birds of economic value have come from the water fowl. In this field there are great opportunities for domestication, only a few of which have been adequately used. The aquatic birds, save for the fact that they are in all cases inspired with a more or less strong migratory humor, lend themselves to the shaping hand of man more readily than most other forms. These creatures have the habit of association in a much more perfect way than our ground birds. They normally dwelt in rather close order and in relations which are necessarily very sympathetic. Whoever has watched the flight of wild geese must have remarked the beautiful way in which they arrange at once for close companionship and for safety in the violent movements which impel their heavy bodies at high speed through the air. In the order of their flight the alignment is more perfect than in the march of trained soldiers. Each bird keeps as near to his neighbor as possible; but manages always to preserve the interval which will insure against a collision of the strong and swift-moving wings, an accident which might well disable them for flight. I have repeatedly undertaken to confound their motion by firing a rifle bullet at the head of the moving wedge. Although the sound of the projectile, if well directed, will disturb their processional order, it never brings confusion. The startled birds sink down or rise above the plane of the air in which their comrades are moving, but they never strike against them.



The admirable sense of interval which the wild birds exhibit in their flight is to be seen also when they move over the surface of the water, where the fleet of living forms is always so arranged that each individual does not interfere with its neighbor. I recall with much pleasure an occasion when, from a ship becalmed in a thick fog off the southern shore of Labrador, within sound of the breakers, I undertook to find something about the lay of the land and the chance of harborage by paddling in a small boat toward the shore. I had hardly lost sight of the ship when my boat glided into an assemblage of eider ducks, where the mothers, with their fledgling young, were lazily swimming to and fro, as if to practise the ducklings in the art of swimming. Each brood appeared to have its own space of water, and between each of the chicks there was likewise a less but equally well measured interval. The same features of orderly association, which I have just noted in the swimming and flying of these wild birds, may be seen in a somewhat degraded state in our domesticated varieties of the group. They all indicate in these forms a keen sense of their neighbors and a habit of association based upon sympathetic emotions.



The sympathetic quality of our water fowl, at least in that part of the emotion which leads them to be concerned with the afflictions of their species, appears to be more distinct than in the case of our ordinary barnyard fowl. Geese, as is well known, will make common cause against an intruder from whom harm to the flock may be expected. Their simultaneous din when anything occurs to arouse their enmity is commemorated in the ancient myth concerning the aid which they gave in the defence of the walls of Rome. There are anecdotes apparently well attested where water fowl have borne away a wounded comrade which had fallen before the huntsman's fowling-piece. In Smiles's "Life of Edwards" there is an often-quoted story which appears to be trustworthy and sufficiently illustrates this point. A hunter, having shot one of a flock of terns, which fell wounded into the water near the shore, waded in to seize it. Suddenly two of the terns came to their wounded companion, seized him by either wing, and bore him toward the open sea. When these two helpers were weary, the sufferer was lowered into the water, and, in turn, seized by two other birds which were fresh for the labor. Working in succession, these birds carried their companion to a rock some distance from the shore. When the hunter endeavored to approach the rock, yet others of the species seized the cripple and bore him far beyond reach.

Although too much value must not be given to the numerous anecdotes concerning the sagacity of water fowl, the great mass of these stories, as compared with the poverty of the anecdotes concerning the better-known barnyard creatures, seems to establish the fact that their intelligence is much greater than that of the land birds. This superiority can probably be attributed to the fact that their life requires much more definite adaptation of means to ends than in the simpler conditions which are met by the forms which dwell in the fields. The circumstances of their life are something like those of the seals among mammals. They have to do with the conditions of the air, the land, and the water; and as they generally undertake long migrations, the range of the things they have to accommodate themselves to is great, and the effect of their labor is decidedly educative.



As yet, from the great number of species of water fowl man has really domesticated but two characteristic groups, the species of geese and of ducks. Swans have been brought to a state where they tolerate the presence of man, though they rarely establish any really intimate relations with him. Some other species, as, for instance, the grebe, have been taught to dwell about the homes of man, accepting food from his hands. It is likely that more of these water fowl would have come into human associations were it not for the fact that they are naturally migratory, and when, after a season of domestication, they join a passing flock, they never return to the place where they have been kept.



The swan, like the peacock, has been bred for ornament rather than for use. In fact, the bird has no other merit than its exceeding grace. We cannot believe that much pains was ever taken with this creature to break up the migratory instincts which are common in the wild kindred species. We have to suppose that the bird in its pristine form was without the impulse to undertake distant journeys in the winter season, or that it abandoned ancient habits with no great difficulty. We obtain some light on this point by noting the fact that among the migratory species it not infrequently happens that, while the greater number of individuals undertake the annual journey, certain of them will remain on the ground where they were born. Those which remain would be more likely to mate with those which were like-minded than with others that journeyed afar. In this way small local breeds might well be originated which would differ from their migratory kindred not only in the measure of the wandering instincts, but in the capacity for flight which their kindred preserve. There is some reason to believe that this process of selection naturally and somewhat frequently takes place. In certain cases it may lay the foundation of new species, or at least of distinct varieties; more commonly, however, the individuals which have abandoned the migratory life are likely to perish from the severity of climate or the other unfavorable conditions that their mates avoid by their wanderings.



Although many of the free-flying birds of the land are or have been kept captive because of the pleasure which men have found from their songs, their grace, or their quaint ways, only one of these has really been gained to domestication. In the pigeon, man has made what is on many accounts the most remarkable of all his conquests over the wild nature about him. While the breeder's art has led many forms, some of them on several divergent lines, far away from their primitive estate, in no other field has it accomplished such surprising results as with the doves. The original wild form of this group is a native of Europe and Asia, where the species Columba livia, or rock pigeon, is still common, and whence it may be readily won anew to domestication. It is a small, plain-colored, rather invariable and inconspicuous bird about the size of our American dove. In its wild state it dwells in small flocks, nesting by preference in the crannies of the cliffs, and exhibiting no striking qualities which make it seem a desirable subject for domestication. We note, however, that even in this primitive condition the creature has certain physical and mental qualities which have been the basis of its adoption by man as well as of the wide changes which it has undergone at his hands.

It is a characteristic of all the doves that their young are born in a very immature state, and for some time after they come from the egg they have to be supplied with food which has been partly digested in the crop or upper part of the stomach of the parent. For the proper rearing of the brood there is required the assiduous care of both parents. Therefore quite naturally we find among these birds that the pairing habit is well developed, and as they rear several broods each season, that the mating is for life. Although there are numbers of birds in various orders which are accustomed to the monogamic habit, it happens that the pigeon is the only animal which man has ever won to true domestication in which the sexes can be thus permanently united. In the dovecote, however many birds it may contain, the breeder can be always sure as to the parentage of the young which he is rearing. This affords an admirable basis for the practice of his art, which is still further favored by the fact that pigeons reproduce rapidly and the progeny are ready to mate in a few months after they come into the world. Thus the species affords really ideal conditions for that process of selection on which the improvement of all domesticated animals intimately depends.



Selective breeding of pigeons began in India, as the records seem to show, more than two thousand years ago. Though other animals have been brought to domestication at much earlier times, this appears to have been the first of them to be subjected to deliberate efforts on the part of their masters, which were intended to bring about in a methodical way certain changes in their forms and habits. The most curious part of this great endeavor which has been applied to breeding pigeons is found in the fact that the ends sought have no utility, but afford satisfaction from the point of view of pure diversion or the gratification of taste. We are well accustomed to the action of such motives upon our flowering plants of the garden, but the pigeon is the only animal where fancy has labored for thousands of years for its gratification. The breeders of pigeons from remote antiquity to the present day appear to have had no definite purpose in all their pains. They have taken the chance variations in form and habit and endeavored to extend these sports of nature by a careful system of mating those in which the singular features were most evident. Thus the fan-tail breed has been developed until the creatures display their unornamental tail feathers with all the dignity with which a peacock shows his marvellous decorations. The pouters have in some unaccountable way learned to take air into their crop; and the habit has been developed by selection until the bird destroys all trace of his original shapeliness, though he seems to take pride in his diseased appearance. The tumbler, probably derived from some ancestor afflicted with a disease of an epileptic character, manages to go through his convulsions in the air without serious consequences and apparently with some pleasure to himself. There are over one hundred less conspicuous varieties, of which only one deserves notice, and this for the reason that it has some possible utility to man and is now much attended to. This is known as the carrier pigeon.



In early time, before the invention of the railway and telegraph, some ingenious breeder of pigeons, observing the constant way in which these creatures returned to the place where they were bred, invented the plan of using them to convey information. This service was found convenient not only for ordinary correspondence, but was exceedingly valuable where a place was beleaguered by an enemy. In such cases carrier pigeons could often be used to convey information across the otherwise impassable lines. Even in modern times, as, for instance, during the last siege of Paris, these swift and sure flying birds proved of great use in keeping up communications between the people of the invested town and the French armies in the field. Letters in cipher, sometimes photographed down until the characters were microscopically fine, were made into packages of small weight in order not to impede the flight of the bird, carefully affixed to its body, and thus sent away. Very generally these curious shipments came to the hands of those for whom they were destined. The birds can be trusted to fly at night; they retain for a long time the memory of their home, and spare no pains to return to it.

The homing power of the carrier pigeon appears to be a special development of a natural capacity, as is also its swiftness and endurance in flight. Our other breeds and the wild species whence they have all come are not disposed to undertake long journeys; they rarely, indeed, wander far from their abiding places. Our experience with the carriers shows how readily the creatures may be educated to perform feats which they were not accustomed to do in their wild state. Something of the same elasticity of constitution may be observed in the bodies of our pigeons as they have been affected by selection. Not only has the plumage been greatly altered by the breeder's art and in pursuance of his plans, but the form and proportions of the bones have coincidently and unintentionally been greatly changed. So considerable are these alterations that if these creatures were submitted for dissection to a naturalist who knew nothing of the history of the bird, he would have no hesitation in classing them as belonging not only in different species, but as members of diverse genera.

It must be regarded as unfortunate that the experiments which have been made on pigeons have been limited to their features of form, color, and slight peculiarities in their habits. If the breeders had sought to modify the intellectual parts with anything like the insistence which they have given to the development of these bodily peculiarities, we might now have a most valuable store of knowledge as to the limitations of animal minds. The facts gained in the breeding of the carriers show clearly that certain of the instincts of these birds can be readily modified. There is every reason to suppose that their mental capacities in other directions have something of the same pliability.



Although the pigeon is the only free-flying form which has been won to intimate relations with man, there are numerous other species of these volant creatures which have been reduced to partial domestication, though they cannot be trusted to abide with us without being more or less completely caged. Experience has shown that by far the greater part of the arboreal birds may be kept and will breed in captivity. From the host of these feathered creatures men have from time to time selected species which grace their habitations by their beauty, their song, or by the sympathetic relations which they form with their captors. Our successes in these efforts toward domestication of these birds have been most eminent with those varieties which in their wilderness state have a well-developed social life, which abide in families or flocks, and have the pairing habit well affirmed. The reason for this has been already indicated. It is due to the sympathetic motive which is developed in such communal life, and is manifested in the friendly relations with each other which the creatures maintain. A good instance of this is to be found in the crows and their kindred, a group of extremely sociable creatures, which are endlessly engaged in chattering communications with each other. All these forms are highly domesticable, and if for any reason they had proved permanently attractive to men they would doubtless have been brought into the state of willing captives.

Although some of the free-flying or tree birds have been kept for their beauty alone, the greater part of them have commended themselves to man because of their voices. It is hardly necessary to tell the reader that the birds, of all animals, are most provided with means of expression through the voice. There is hardly a species which has not a greater range of notes or calls than the most vocal of our wild mammals, and many varieties are impelled to tuneful expression in a measure which no other creature, not even man, exhibits. In most cases these utterances are pleasing to the human ear, for they have the quality which we term musical. Therefore it is not surprising that the most of our captive birds have been chosen for their song.

It seems clear that the song of birds, like their calls—the two shade indefinitely into each other—expresses a sympathetic emotional consciousness of the actions going on about them, particularly of the life of their kind. In general these utterances are directed toward their kindred of their own species. In many cases, however, as among the imitative birds, the sounds which they utter indicate a curiously keen interest in the actions of their masters or other human affairs. The mocking-birds and some other species will, with great assiduity, endeavor to copy any sound which they happen to hear. I well remember watching a mocking-bird which was listening with rapt attention to the noise produced by a man sharpening a saw with a file. The poor bird would hearken with great attention until he thought he had caught the note, and then endeavor to reproduce it. As may be imagined, the measure of his success was small. He was fully conscious of his failure, and would beat himself about the cage in evident chagrin, returning again and again to try the hopeless task.

Wherever the vocal organs of caged birds permit them to imitate human speech they are apt to devote a large part of their labor to this task, paying little attention to other less meaningful sounds. It appears to me that they perceive in a way the sympathetic character of language and therefore take a peculiar pleasure in copying it. It is hardly to be believed that they ever get a sense of the connotative value of words, but it is not to be doubted that they sometimes attain to a certain appreciation of the denotation of simpler phrases. In this task they do not exhibit as much sagacity as the dog, a creature which learns to understand the purport of rather complicated sentences. Nevertheless, their capacity for imitating speech is a fascinating peculiarity, one which has greatly endeared them to bird fanciers.

Those who have observed the talking birds have doubtless noted the fact that their capacity for remembering and uttering words varies greatly. I am inclined to think that in the same species some individuals can do such tasks several times as easily as others. If these speaking forms could be brought to breed in captivity, and something like the selective care were given to their development that has been devoted to the varieties of pigeons, we might well expect to attain very remarkable results. If anywhere in the animal world there is a chance to open communication by means of speech with the lower creatures, it should be here.



At one time among our ancestors it was accustomed to make much use of the larger hawks in hunting. Curiously enough this amusement, more refined and elaborated than any other form of the chase, has gradually fallen into disuse among Europeans. So far as I have been able to learn, the only region in which it is well preserved is in northern Africa, a country in which the custom was probably introduced from Spain during the occupancy of that peninsula by the Moors. From the literature of this art of hawking, even after we allow much for the exaggeration of unobservant men, it seems certain that the training of these fierce birds was carried to a point of singular perfection. The creatures learned to do their duty in a very skilful way, and they readily acquired habits of obedience, under circumstances of excitement, more perfect than those which we succeed in instilling in any animal but the dog. When we consider the natural qualities of the hawk, and note that when well trained he flew at only the designated game, and came back to the master when a bit of hide or other lure was thrown into the air as a signal, we may fairly believe that the creature displayed an extraordinary fitness for receiving instruction. The facts are the more remarkable because these hawks were not bred in cages, but were taken from the wild nests; so that there was none of that gradual accumulation of inheritances under the conditions of selection which have brought about the obedience of our really domesticated animals.

The remarkable way in which the art of hawking has disappeared from our civilization deserves more than a passing notice, though it appears to be inexplicable. It is evident that it was a tolerably ingrained habit, at least among the English-speaking people, for it has left a very deep impress upon the language. There are far more phrases derived from the custom than can be traced to any other of the sportsman's arts. At least one of these collocations of words which has escaped from the minds of grown people still holds a place among the boys of this country. When two lads are fighting we often hear the bystanders say, by the way of encouragement to one of the contestants, "Give him jesse." The use of this curious phrase prevails in all parts of the United States, but after much inquiry I have failed to find a trace of it preserved in England. There seems to be little doubt that these words are due to a custom of beating a hawk which failed to do its duty with the thongs or jesses by which it was attached to the wrist of the falconer. Giving another jesse thus came to be equivalent to giving a person a strapping.



Whatever may have been the reason for abandoning this beautiful and in a way noble sport, its disuse must be deemed most unfortunate by all the students of animal intelligence, for it has deprived us of precious opportunities in the way of observations on the mental peculiarities which exist in a most interesting group of birds. In these days, when there is a fancy for reviving the customs of our forefathers, it might be well for some persons of leisure to give their attention to restoring the arts of falconry. Enough of the practice and of the traditions is left to make it an easy task to reinstitute all the important parts of the custom. Moreover, those who essayed the matter would have access to a much greater range of rapacious birds than our forefathers, who had to content themselves with the limited number of wild species which inhabit the continent of Europe. Especially on our Western plains, where game-birds abound and the country lies wide open, sportsmen would find an admirable field in which to follow the bird they flew. Not only would the restoration of hawking give us a sport much more skilful and refined than the fox chase, but it would reintroduce the cultivation of the only creature which, having once been brought to the service of man, has been permitted to return to its ancestral wild life.

The most striking and by far the most interesting quality exhibited by our birds is found in their sympathetic motive. In this spiritual quality, so far as it relates to their own kind, the feathered creatures are clearly in advance of all other species, including even man. A single fact, one of great generality, will serve to make this statement clear. Among the birds we find the only cases of true marriage which are known in the animal kingdom. In the greater number of the species the union is for a season, but among many it is for life. In the case of certain varieties of paroquets, the union is so indissoluble that, according to common report, a report which seems much better verified than the most of those concerning the habits of animals, neither member of the pair will survive the death of the other. Man, with all his striving towards a better social state, has, as a whole, not yet attained to the enduring affection for the mate which is evinced by the greater part of the birds.

In this same connection, we may note that the aesthetic appreciation among the birds appears to have attained a far higher level than it has won in any other creatures. There can be little doubt that the exquisitely beautiful plumage, the unparalleled shapeliness of form and grace of carriage, as well as the melodies which are uttered by so many species, all owe their development to a process of sexual selection which has led the discerning females to prefer the more ornamental of the males who sought them as partners. If any one will examine the exquisite shapes and gradations of color which are exhibited in the tail of the peacock, or of the lyre-bird, or even the coloration of the game-cock, he may perhaps imagine how prodigious must be the development of the aesthetic sense in these species, in order that it may take account of every little betterment which leads towards more perfect beauty. As it will take the generations of aesthetes many generations before they are able to "live up to" the level of their culture which is attained by the peacock's tail, it is not unreasonable for us to hold that in the appreciation of simple beauty in form and in color, the birds are far ahead of ourselves. It must not be supposed that our aesthetic culture is to be reckoned below that of birds, though in our case the work embodies the delineation of ideas, while in the birds it is a matter of pure ornament. Nevertheless, taking the evidence which shows the way in which these creatures appreciate beauty in the three realms of form, color, and sound, it seems to me clear that while their intellectual life is low, their purely emotional experiences are probably more vivid than those of ordinary men.

As the joy of life is, in the main, even in ourselves the result of emotional experiences, we may fairly reckon, even on a priori ground, that the birds win a measure of happiness, though it be that of an unconscious kind, which is granted to no other living beings. Psychologically described, they might well be termed the group built for joy. Their bodies are, on the whole, the best constructed of all animals, except the insects. They suffer little from disease. We all see that their intercourse with each other is freer and merrier than that of other creatures. The wide range of their notes shows that in most forms they appreciate every little difference in the pleasure-giving changes of the day or the weather. They rejoice in the coming of each morning; they are sorrowful with the advent of each evening. They echo the distress of their kind in a readier way than any other forms. He is indeed a poor naturalist who overlooks this trait; for however deeply he may have delved, he has not won the jewel unless he appreciates this element of an unending joy which the bird-life continually offers him. From that life we may well believe that man is hereafter to derive some great and fruitful lessons.



USEFUL INSECTS

Relations of Man to Insect World.—But Few Species Useful to Man.—Little Trace of Domestication.—Honey-bees: their Origin; Reasons for no Selective Work; Habits of the Species.—Silkworms: Singular Importance to Man; Intelligence of Species.—Cochineal Insect.—Spanish Flies.—Future of Man relative to Useful Insects.

Although the relations of man to the insect world are prevailingly those of hostility, there are a few of these multitudinous creatures which have been more or less completely adopted into his great society. Although not more than half a dozen out of the million or more species in this subkingdom have thus been brought to the uses of civilization, the forms are interesting not only for what they give, but for the promise of further contributions when this great problem of winning help from the insect world receives adequate consideration.

As a whole, the insects are not well fitted to serve the needs of man. Owing to certain peculiarities in their organic laws they, fortunately for ourselves, are very limited in size. Although some of them afford savory food and are occasionally eaten by savages, and even by civilized folk when pressed by hunger owing to the famines which the invasions of these animals occasionally produce, they can never be of any value as sources of provisions, except through the stores which they accumulate in the manner of the bees. All that we have won, or are likely to win, from this realm is from the filaments which the creatures spin, the wax or honey which they accumulate, the coloring or other matters which their bodies afford, or the help which they may give us in our struggle with invading species of their class.

Probably the first insect to be brought into friendly relations with man was the honey-bee. This creature, like the most of our domesticated animals, is a native of the great continent of the Old World, though it has now been conveyed to all the flowery lands of the world where the season is long enough for it to win its harvest. In its wild as well as in its tame state the honey-bee dwells in one of the most perfect and highly elaborated of insect societies. It is a member of the group of membranous-winged insects known to naturalists as Hymenoptera, an order which includes all the elaborate societies of the class except the colonies of white ants. It is characteristic of all these colonial insects that, from the experience of ages, they have learned the great principles of the division of labor and of profit sharing towards which mankind are now clumsily stumbling; the great work which their societies are able to do is accomplished by a complete specialization of function and a perfect share in the commonwealth. So far has this elaboration gone, that in the bees the work of reproducing the kind is allotted to forms which do no labor; all the work of the hive being effected by individuals which are sterile, and whose sole function it is to toil unendingly for the profit of the great household.

While the greater part of the kindred of the bees either construct the nests for their young in the manner of our wasps or hornets, building them entirely in the open air, or excavate underground chambers in the fashion of our bumble-bees, our domesticated form at some time in the remote past adopted the plan of choosing for its dwelling-place some chamber in the rocks, or cavity in a hollow tree which could be shaped to the needs of a habitation. Owing to the size of these cavities, they were enabled to form societies composed of many thousands of individuals; while the species which adopted nests, in other conditions, were much more limited as regards their numbers. Thus the bumble-bee, which abides underground, dwells in very small communities, probably for the reason that the conditions of the soil it inhabits make it difficult to excavate and maintain large rooms. It is this habit of resorting to hollow spaces, as well as the instinct to store up honey in wax cases, which has made the common bee valuable to man.



At best the opportunities which the wilderness affords, in the way of fit dwelling-places for the swarm which goes forth from a hive, are much less than can readily be provided by art. In almost all cases the wild bees have to expend a great deal of labor in searching for a fit residence; and after such is found it requires a great deal of toil and expenditure of the costly wax in order to shape the cavity so that it may comfortably accommodate the multitude, and be reasonably safe from the attacks of other insects. Thus it has come about that the bee has, in a way, welcomed the interference of man with his ancestral conditions; and, though the species exists in the wildernesses of its native land, the domesticated varieties have so far taken up with man that in other countries they do not wander far from the limits of civilization. Now and then an uncared-for swarm which cannot find accommodations about the parent hive will betake itself to the wilderness; though it generally continues to seek sustenance from the abundant flowers of the tilled fields where it finds species, such as clover and buckwheat, from which it has been long accustomed to win the harvest of pollen and honey.

In North America the honey-bees, which were brought by the early settlers, and which had been kept on the frontier by the pioneers of our civilization, have always extended, in wild swarms, a little distance into the wilderness. But, at most, they appear to have wandered only for a few miles beyond the homestead, going no further away than would permit their use of the cultivated plants. The aborigines early learned to regard the insect as the avant courier of European men. When they came upon an individual of the species they always knew that some white man's dwelling stood nearby. Those who are familiar with the solitudes of our Appalachian forests must often have remarked, in the stillness of a summer day, the hum of a swarm from some forest or domestic hive in its search for a dwelling-place. Those who have followed up the movements of these migrating colonies have had a chance to perceive how long is the search before they find a fit abiding place. Doubtless by far the greater part of these searchers for a home fail of their quest, and the wandering swarms perish without finding a suitable shelter.

In certain kinds of woods, as, for instance, those occupied by pine trees or other species which do not develop spacious hollows in their trunks, and where there are no crannied rocks—all the swarms which seek habitations there are foredoomed to destruction. If by chance the colonies wander too far, they generally find the wilderness so ill provided with plants which may furnish them with the sources of wax, honey, or other necessaries, that they cannot maintain their life. Thus it is that the bee, though domiciled with us rather than domesticated, has become united in its fortunes with civilization. In this position they have shown a remarkable adaptation to extremely varied conditions. They can withstand any climate which permits the development of the vegetation to which they need have access, provided the growing season continues long enough to accumulate their store. In the tropical lands they harvest so little honey that they are not profitable to man, and in the high north they need all their summer's accumulation to maintain them through the long winter. Thus, though they may range almost as far as man through the gamut of climates, they are profitable to their masters only in the middle latitudes. They commonly do not do well close to the sea, and cannot be kept on inconsiderable islands for the reason that they are, in their wanderings, likely to be lost in the waters.

The bee, like the other social insects, evinces a wide range of instincts which are intimately related to the economy of the hive; but these motives appear to be of an unchangeable character. They show no tendency to undergo the modifications which we observe to take place in our birds and mammals when they are brought under the influence of man. The only case in which they show any distinct effect from their contact with man is found in their evident recognition of those who care for them. They soon learn that their master is not to be feared, and, therefore, need not be resisted; but, beyond this dumb acceptance of a situation, they exhibit no trace of sympathetic recognition of our kind. It is clear that their mental endowments, though considerable, are very much more remote from our own than are those of the vertebrated animals with which we have formed a friendly association. Moreover, the type of life of the creatures in a way excludes them from any kind of share in human society. Each of them is, from its birth to its death, entirely devoted to the interests of its little commonwealth. Every impulse of their being relates to the economy of their hive. While we know little about instinct, we know enough of its manifestations to state that the real unit of this species is not the individual insect, but the colony to which it belongs. The separate form is hardly more than a bit of machinery so arranged that it may operate at a distance from the engine of which it forms a part. On this account it appears to be impossible for us ever to attain to any kind of sympathetic relations with these creatures.

Even more important than the bees are those insects which, in their immature state, yield us silk. The so-called silkworms, like the bees, originated in Asia, and have long been in the care of man. Beginning their experiments in spinning with the wool of animals and the various accessible vegetable fibres, men have ever been seeking materials which could serve them in the weaver's art. At one time or another they have tried an exceeding variety of materials; in modern days more than a score of insects have been experimented with in the endeavor to obtain fibres which could be turned to use. So far, however, the Bombyx mori—the form which, as its specific name indicates, feeds upon the leaves of the mulberry tree—is the only one which proves really serviceable. The advantages of this species are found in a peculiar assemblage of qualities, each of which is necessary to make it fit for the ends it attains at the hand of man.

The mulberry silkworm can readily be bred in confinement. The eggs are easily gathered and preserved, and are so readily kept that they may be sent the world about. At a given temperature they with infrequent failures hatch; and if sufficiently fed with the fresh leaves of the mulberry, will in a short time attain to as perfect a development as though they grew, not in close rooms, but in the open conditions of the trees. When of adult size, the grubs proceed to spin themselves in, forming a thick cocoon composed of threads of a material which, though as soft as paste when emitted from the body, hardens so as to form a strong and even thread. If the insect be allowed to remain for a sufficient time in the cradle which it has spun for its second birth, the body within the chrysalis case will proceed in a manner to dissolve; and in the milky fluid thus produced, where only faint traces of its former state remain, the beautiful image or perfect form will arise. In the economic use of the creature, however, except as far as a supply of eggs may be desired, it is necessary to prevent the completion of its development; for in escaping from the chrysalis case, the butterfly cuts many of the delicate threads, so that the silk is made unserviceable. It is necessary to wind it off before the insect escapes. In this part of the work we notice the most perfect adaptation of the creature to the needs of man. While the silk threads from the cocoons of other species which might prove of value cannot be easily reeled off, those of the silkworm, when placed in hot water, readily separate, and can be gathered in a condition for spinning. Thus, while some success has been attained by carding the cocoons of other species, thereby making a fibre which has a certain utility, the silkworm alone yields material fitted for delicate fabrics.



At the present time in Europe, Asia, and America there are probably not far from ten million people who depend in large measure upon the product of the silkworm for their livelihood. Although the product of their industry and that of the insects combined is not nearly as indispensable to man as those which are won from the hair of animals or the fibres of plants—for silk is a luxury rather than a necessity—the value of the work done by these humble creatures is greater than that effected by the largest of our domesticated animals, the elephant. If the philanthropic economist were forced to choose which of these creatures should pass from the earth, he would have to accept the loss of the greater and far nobler animal.

So far as regards their intelligence, the silkworms are much below the level of the bees. Though they dwell in an aggregate way they have scarcely a semblance of social order, and are without the wide range of peculiar instincts which we invariably find among the commonwealth animals. The order of Lepidoptera, in which these creatures belong, though the most beautiful, appears to be from an intellectual point of view the least advanced of our insects. Their instincts are all on a low plane; they have no kind of mutual labor, and however much advance we may make by selection in developing their bodies, there is no reason to expect that we shall affect their intelligences.

The cochineal insect, a species which has the habit of feeding upon the cactus, is used for a dye stuff, for which service the brightly colored body is appropriated. Although the creature is deliberately planted where it is to feed, and thus is in a way submitted to culture, it cannot fairly be said to have been entered in the domesticated circle of man. In a similar way the so-called Spanish fly—which really belongs among the beetles—whose ground-up bodies are used for producing blisters, is merely appropriated to our use without any process of subjugation. The fact remains that, so far as our dealings with the insect world have gone, we have really won but two of the million or more of forms to captivity; and our relations with these have nothing of the humanized nature which marks our intercourse with truly domesticated creatures.