Darwin has very beautifully demonstrated the senses of touch, taste, and smell in the angle-worm; provisionally he denies it, however, the senses of sight and hearing.[32] I think he is in error as to these last two senses.

[32] Darwin, Formation of Vegetable Mould.

Angle-worms are nocturnal in their habits, hence, we should expect, from the very nature of things, to find them able to differentiate between light and darkness. And experiments show, very conclusively, that they are very sensitive to light. My vermicularium is made of glass, consequently, when one of its inmates happens to be next to the glass sides, which very frequently occurs, it is easy to experiment on it with pencils of strong light. If a ray of light is directed upon an angle-worm, it at once begins to show discomfort, and, in a very few moments, it will crawl away from the source of annoyance, and hide in some tunnel deep in the earth of the vermicularium. Again, when the worms are out of their tunnels at night, a strong light shining on them will at once cause them to seek their holes.

If the back of an earthworm be examined with a high-power lens (x500), small points of pigment will be seen here and there in its dorsal integument; these, I believe, are primitive eyes (ocelli). I think that the worm is enabled to tell the difference between light and darkness through the agency of these minute dark spots, which serve to arrest the rays of light, thus conveying a stimulus to nerve-fibrils, which, in turn, carry it to the sensorium.

Any country schoolboy will tell you that worms can hear. He points to his simple experiment (pounding on the earth with a club) in proof of his assertion. For, as soon as he begins to pound the ground in a favorable neighborhood, the worms will come to the surface "to see what makes the noise." Darwin assumes that the worms feel the vibrations, which are disagreeable to them, and come to the surface in order to escape them. I do not deny the possibility or the probability of this assumption; I do deny, however, that it proves that worms are deaf.

If the third anal segment (abdominal aspect) of a worm be examined, two round, disk-like organs incorporated in the integument will be found; these organs are supplied with special nerves which lead to the central nerve-cord. Experiments lead me to believe that these are organs of audition.

When I tap the earth of my vermicularium with a pencil, the unmutilated worms will come to the surface; but, when the organs described above are removed, the worms so mutilated will not respond to the tapping, but will remain in their tunnel. The worms are not appreciably impaired by such mutilation; on the contrary, they seem to thrive as well as those to which the knife has not been applied.

In creatures which possess, in all probability, the senses of touch, taste, smell, sight, and hearing, we would naturally expect to find some evidences of conscious determination; and we do.

Certain leaves are the favorite food of earth-worms, while certain other leaves are eaten by them, but not with avidity. When these two kinds of leaves are given to worms, they will carefully select the favorite food and will ignore the other, thus unmistakably evincing conscious choice. Their avoidance of light is probably the result of conscious determination, and not reflex, as some observers maintain.

Oysters taken from a bank never uncovered by the sea, open their shells, lose the water within, and soon die; but oysters kept in a reservoir and occasionally uncovered learn to keep their shells closed, and live much longer when taken out of the water. This is an act of intelligence due directly to experience without even the factor of heredity.[33] It is an instance of almost immediate adaptation to surrounding circumstances.

[33] Dicquemase, Journal de Physique, Vol. XXVIII. p. 244; quoted also by Darwin, MS.; by Bingley, Animal Biography, Vol. III. p. 454; and by Romanes, Animal Intelligence, p. 25.

A gentleman fixed a land-snail, with the mouth of the shell upward, in a chink of a rock. The animal protruded its foot to the utmost extent, and, attaching it above, tried to pull the shell vertically in a straight line. Then it stretched its body to the right side, pulled, and failed to move the shell. It then stretched its foot to the left side, pulled with all of its strength, and released the shell. There were intervals of rest between these several attempts, during which the snail remained quiescent.[34] Thus we see that it exerted force in three directions, never twice in the same direction, which fact shows conscious determination and no slight degree of intelligence.

[34] Consult Romanes, Animal Intelligence, p. 26.

A ground wasp once built a nest beneath the brick pavement in front of my door. The entrance of the nest was situated in the little sulcus, or ditch, between two bricks. While the wasp was absent, I stopped the entrance with a pellet of paper, and, when the little housekeeper returned, she was nonplussed for a moment or two, when she discovered that her doorway had been closed. The wasp, after examining the pellet of paper, seized it with her jaws and tried to pull it away; but, since she stood on the brick and pulled backwards (toward herself), the edge of the brick interposed, and she could not dislodge the obstacle. Finally, she got down into the little gully between the two bricks, and pulled the pellet away from the opening of the nest without any further trouble. Three times I performed the experiment, the wasp going through like performances each time. At the fourth time, however, she went at once into the little space between the bricks, and then removed the wad of paper without difficulty. I stopped the hole five or six times after this, but she had learned a lesson; she always got into the sulcus between the bricks before attempting to remove the paper. She had discovered the fact that she could not remove it when she stood upon the surfaces of the bricks, owing to the interposition of their sides, and that she could drag it away if she got down into the little ditch and pulled the paper in a direction where nothing opposed. In this instance there was not only conscious determination, but also a distinct exhibition of memory. It took the wasp some time to learn that she had to pull in a certain direction before she could remove the pellet of paper; but when she had once learned this fact, she remembered it. And this brings us to another quality of mind—memory—which will be discussed in the next chapter.



CHAPTER III

MEMORY

In discussing memory as it is to be observed in the lower animals, I think it best to divide the subject into four parts; viz., Memory of Locality (Surroundings), Memory of Friends (Kindred), Memory of Strangers (Other Animals not Kin), and Memory of Events (Education, Happenings, etc.).

Memory of Locality.—There can be no doubt but that the rhizopods observed by Carter displayed memory of locality. He distinctly asserts that he saw the actinophrys, after it had incepted a starch grain, "crawl away to a good distance" and then return to the spore-cell from which it was taking the grains of starch. The creature must have remembered the route to and from the spore-cell. The same must be said of the water-louse observed by myself, which not only came back to the source of its food-supply, but also returned to a certain lurking-spot at which it hid itself each time until it had eaten the hydra buds. It must be remembered that a journey of one inch, to these minute little creatures, is, comparatively speaking, an immense distance. Each grain of sand, each particle of decayed vegetable matter, etc., is, to these microscopic animalcules, a gigantic boulder, a mighty muck heap. These obstacles in the path undoubtedly serve as landmarks to the wandering myriads of microscopic animalcules.

It can be demonstrated that the snail has memory of locality. This creature is essentially a homing animal, as I will show in the chapter on Auxiliary Senses, consequently we would naturally expect to find it possessing memory of locality. An interesting observation by Mr. Lonsdale, an English observer, which has been often quoted, clearly proves that this creature does possess this psychical function. Mr. Lonsdale placed two snails in a small and badly kept garden. One of them was weak and poorly nourished, the other strong and well. The strong one disappeared and was traced by its slimy track over a wall into a neighboring garden where there was plenty of food. Mr. Lonsdale thought that it had deserted its mate, but it subsequently appeared and conducted its comrade over the wall into the bountiful food-supply of the neighboring garden. It seemed to coax and assist its feeble companion when it lingered on the way.[35]

[35] Darwin, Descent of Man, pp. 262, 263.

Marked bees and ants invariably return to places where they have found food-supplies, thus showing the possession of a memory of locality and route. It is very interesting to watch a marked ant during her journey back to her nest, after she has been carried away and placed among unfamiliar scenes and surroundings. At first, owing to her fright, she will dash away helter-skelter; but soon recovering, she will head in the direction of home, and moderate her pace until she creeps along at a very cautious and circumspect gait, indeed. Every now and then she will climb a tall grass-blade or weed and take observations. After a while she sees certain landmarks, and her speed becomes faster; soon the surrounding country becomes familiar, and she ceases to climb blades of grass, etc., now she is in the midst of well-known scenes, and at last she fairly races into her nest.

In this instance the ant is led at first by her sense of direction alone; as soon, however, as she comes to country which she has hunted over, and with which she is familiar, memory comes into play and the sense of direction ceases to act, or, if it acts at all, it acts unconsciously.

Sand-wasps build their nests in the ground, and, when leaving their tunnels in search of food for the prospective grubs, always circle about them and observe the lay of the land before taking their departure. Numerous sand-wasps build in the interstices between the bricks of a pavement in front of my house. When one leaves her tunnel she will fly about the orifice for several seconds (taking observations) before she finally flies away. When she returns, she hovers about the orifice, or, rather, in its neighborhood, until she is quite certain that it is the entrance to her home, when she will dart in with such rapidity that the eye can scarcely follow her movements.

On one occasion, I covered the pavement surrounding the entrance with newspapers, leaving, however, about three inches on all sides of the orifice uncovered. When the wasp returned she seemed to be completely at a loss what to do. She hovered about for at least an hour, and then flew away.

Thinking that this experiment was too great a tax on the wasp's intelligence, I tried the following, which seemed to me to be nearer a natural happening than the former experiment. I believe that, in studying mind in the lower animals, one's experiments should be as near nature as they can possibly be.

As soon as the wasp had left her tunnel, I covered the surface of the bricks and the interstices between them, for several feet around the orifice of the tunnel, with sand. This might have happened, naturally, through the agency of the wind.

When the wasp returned, it was perfectly apparent that she did not recognize her domicile. She flew here and there and round about, but she would not alight. Finally, I swept the sand away, when she at once flew to her nest and entered.

In my opinion, these experiments prove very clearly the presence of memory of locality in these insects. The sense of direction, which a vast majority of the lower animals possess in some degree, is, however, of material assistance to their memory; this special sense will be fully discussed in another chapter.

Most of the beetles are homing animals; that is, they have certain spots to which they will return after excursions in search of food. Heretofore, observers have held to the opinion that beetles made their homes wherever they happened to be; but close study of marked individuals, especially of Carabidae and Cicindelidae has taught me otherwise. Some of the long-horned beetles appear to be rovers, but these are always males, and their roving habits are due to sexual promptings. The females are, however, to a great extent, homing animals, and do not wander far after they have once established a home. Being creatures which recognize certain surroundings as home, they must, necessarily, have some memory of locality. This proposition is new, being formulated and advanced by myself alone, therefore I expect that it will be negatived by many investigators. All that I ask, however, is that marked specimens of the different genera be closely watched; I am confident that if this plan be followed, the truthfulness of this proposition will soon be universally acknowledged.

Reptiles and certain fishes are homing animals, and this habit is especially noticeable in the land or box terrapin. One of these animals had its home for many years in my lawn, and I have often satisfied myself in regard to its knowledge of locality. I have frequently taken it several hundred yards (its usual "using-place" is circumscribed at about one hundred yards) away from its home and set it free.

At first, led by its sense of direction, it would turn towards home and slowly crawl in that direction. It would not feed en route, but seemed intent only on arriving at its home as quickly as possible. Finally, when it arrived among familiar surroundings, it would begin to feed, but would still make its way homeward. It clearly and unmistakably indicated by its actions that it had a memory of locality.

This treatise on mind in the lower animals is, mainly, a study of psychical manifestations as they are to be observed in insects; therefore, the higher animals will only be studied incidentally. Suffice it to say that, among the higher animals, evidences of memory of locality are very abundant, and are so patent that they do not need discussion.

Memory of Friends (Kindred).—This phase of mind in ants has been closely studied and graphically described by Sir John Lubbock. Most of his experiments and observations have been verified by myself, therefore the reader will pardon me if I quote freely from his valuable work, Ants, Bees, and Wasps.

The observations of Huber, Ford, Lubbock, and other observers declare that ants can remember and recognize their kindred after having been separated from them for several months. "Huber mentions that some ants which he had kept in captivity having accidentally escaped, met and recognized their former companions, fell to mutual caresses with their antennae, took them up by their mandibles, and led them to their own nests; they came presently in a crowd to seek the fugitives under and about the artificial ant-hill, and even ventured to reach the bell-glass, where they effected a complete desertion by carrying away successively all the ants they found there. In a few days, the ruche was depopulated. These ants had remained four months without any communication."[36]

[36] Huber, p. 172; quoted by Lubbock, Ants, Bees, and Wasps, p. 120; also by Kirby and Spence, Introduction to Entomology, Vol. III. p. 66; also by Newport, Trans. Ent. Soc., London, Vol. II. p. 239.

On one occasion, I took ten Lasius niger and confined them in a specially constructed formicary so that they could not possibly leave the nest. I supplied these colonists with a gravid queen, so they very quickly became satisfied with their new home. Four months thereafter, I put three of these ants, previously marked with a paint of zinc oxide and gum arabic, into their former nest. They were at once recognized by their kindred, which began to caress them with their antennae and to remove the paint from their bodies. In the course of a half hour, the paint had all been removed, and I lost sight of them among the other ants.

A month after the performance of this experiment, I took three marked ants from the parent nest and placed them in the new nest. They were at once recognized by the colonists, which received them, as it were, with open arms and began to cleanse their bodies by removing the paint. In both of these experiments the recognition appeared to be instantaneous; there was no hesitancy whatever.

On the other hand, when performing like experiments with Lasius flavus, it took the ants (on two occasions) some little time to recognize their kindred; when the marked ants were put into the nest they were at once seized by the other ants, which pulled them about the nest for some time. They were finally recognized, however, and the paint removed from their bodies by the busy little tongues of their kindred.

This would seem to indicate that Lasius niger had a better memory than Lasius flavus; whether the failure of the latter to recognize their friends at once was due, however, to faulty memory or not, is a psychical problem that will, probably, never be solved.

Lubbock's experiments with Myrmica ruginodis clearly demonstrate that these ants can recognize their kin. Says he:—

"On August 20, 1875, I divided a colony of Myrmica ruginodis so that one half were in one nest, A, and the other half in another, B, and were kept entirely apart.

"On October 3, I put into nest B a stranger and an old companion from nest A. They were marked with a spot of color. One of them immediately flew at the stranger; of the friend they took no notice.

"October 18.—At 10 A.M. I put in a stranger and a friend from nest A. In the evening the former was killed, the latter was quite at home.

"October 19.—I put one in a small bottle with a friend from nest A. They did not show any enmity. I then put in a stranger, and one of them immediately began to fight with her."[37]

[37] Lubbock, Ants, Bees, and Wasps, p. 121 et seq.

These experiments show that Myrmica ruginodis recognize their kin at sight, and that they are able to remember and recognize one another after long separations.

Lubbock states that Lasius flavus accept others of the same species as their friends, no matter how great a distance lies between the nests. His experiments were made with ants taken from contiguous nests as well as those located some distance apart, and, in one instance, with ants taken from a nest in another part of the country. He states that, in the last-mentioned experiment, "in one or two cases they seemed to be attacked, though so feebly that I could not feel sure about it; but in no case were the ants killed."[38]

[38] Lubbock, loc. cit. ante, p. 124.

My experiments and observations with this ant are directly the reverse. As long as the individuals experimented with belonged to contiguous nests, and were, probably, derived from the same root-stock, there was no fighting; but, in the case of ants taken from opposite sides of the house, which, probably, sprang from two different sources, there was, invariably, much fighting, in which not a few of the combatants lost their lives. Whether or not the American species of Lasius flavus are naturally more pugnacious than the English species, I know not; if they are, then this fact will account for the difference in behavior of the two species to a certain extent, though not entirely.

Others of the social Hymenoptera—for instance, bees and wasps—remember kindred. On one occasion, I clipped the wings of a wasp, and, after she had learned that she could no longer fly, placed her on a strange nest. She was at once attacked, and was soon stung to death. I kept a wasp confined in a glass for three weeks, carefully feeding her meanwhile, and then placed her on the nest from which she had been taken. She was at once recognized by the other wasps, which caressed her with their antennae, and licked her with their tongues.

Bees, though they seem able to recognize kindred, and to remember them also for some time, do not show these faculties of the mind as plainly as do wasps and ants. This is probably due to the fact that bees are a later development, socially speaking, and are not as psychically mature as the other social insects.

In the higher animals the memory of kindred, especially in monkeys, is quite well developed, and is so well known that it does not need demonstration.

Memory of Strangers (Animals other than Kin).—The recognition of enemies can be noticed in animals quite low in the scale of life, and, although this psychical phase is almost universally instinctive, it carries with it certain elements of consciousness. As we ascend the scale, however, we discover that certain animals are capable of remembering other animals after a hostile encounter with them; thus, a pet squirrel remembered the turtle which had bitten him after two years had elapsed, and a white mouse showed, very plainly, that he had not forgotten the pet crow from whose clutches he had been rescued, even after three years had passed by. I might enumerate quite a number of instances like these, but think it hardly necessary; any one who has paid any attention to natural history has seen evidences of this phase of memory in animals. I will, however, give one more illustration of this form of memory, which, in my opinion, is quite remarkable. In my front yard, last summer, there dwelt a large colony of bumblebees. One day, in a moment of idleness, I tossed a tennis ball, with which I was teaching a young dog to retrieve, into the nest. The dog dashed after it, scratching up the ground and barking loudly; immediately the bees sallied forth, pounced upon the dog and stung him severely. During the entire summer this dog could never come near the nest without being stung; his companions, two in number, trotted to and fro on the path near which the nest was located without being noticed in the slightest degree by the bees. The disturber, and, to them, would-be ravisher and destroyer of their home, however, was always assailed and put to flight. He eventually learned to give that portion of the yard a wide berth, and could not be coaxed into coming within thirty yards of the home of his savage little foes.

Instances of memory of individuals, incited by friendship or regard, between animals of different species is quite rare among the lower animals (insects, reptiles, etc.), yet, I have fortunately been able to note this phase of memory as occurring in several animals, comparatively speaking, low in the scale of intellectual development. I have every reason for believing that even the toad remembers individuals, at least, it remembers the sound of some particular voice or whistle. It most certainly remembers localities and places, and that, too, when unaided by its sense of direction which it possesses in a high degree. A toad which I had under observation, and which I was in the habit of feeding, would come at my call or whistle, and this it learned to do after only two weeks of teaching. It would do this even in the middle of a hot summer day (toads feed at dusk and during the night), showing, thereby, that it remembered that this call meant food.

I have strong reasons for believing that certain spiders possess this phase of memory; at least, a certain lycosid once evinced such unmistakable evidences of a recognition of my individual person, that more than one observer became convinced that she knew me from other people. At the time these observations were made, I was confined to the house by sickness.

In my room and dwelling beneath my table was a large black spider, one of the most beautiful of her species. When I first made her acquaintance she was very timid, and would run to her den if I made the slightest motion. As time passed, however, she grew bolder and would come to the edge of the table which was close beside my bed, and regard me intently with her beady black eyes. Finally she became so tame that she would take flies and insects from my fingers. She learned to know me so well that she could easily tell the difference when others came into the room. When I would leave the room for a short outing, on my return I would find her waiting for me on the top of the table. When others entered the room, she would hide herself in her den, and remain there, very frequently, until they took their departure.

It has been known for quite a while that in the nests of ants there are always to be found other insects, which appear to dwell in perfect harmony with the real builders and owners of the domiciles. Some of these creatures (the aphides, for instance) are brought into the nests by the ants themselves, which use them as we do cows, milking from their bodies a clear, sweet fluid, which they greedily lap up with their tongues. But there are other animals in the teeming formicary which seem to subserve no useful purpose other than that of ministering to the ants' love of pets or playmates. One notable little alien in certain ant communities is a minute claviger beetle (so called from its peculiar claviger, or club-shaped antennae), which seems to be a well-beloved friend and companion, and which is always treated with great kindness.[39] These little beetles sometimes leave the nest, and may be observed sunning themselves at the entrance. The busy workers are never so busy but that they can spend a fraction of a second for the purpose of caressing their diminutive playmates. On one occasion, a swarm was about to take place in one of my formicaries. The young princes and princesses had emerged and had congregated about the entrance; they seemed loath to take wing and fly away on their honeymoon jaunt out into the unknown world. The workers were gently urging them to depart, sometimes even nipping them slightly with their mandibles. Several little clavigers could be seen running here and there and everywhere through the crowd of anxious workers and timid young males and females. They irresistibly reminded me of a lot of little dogs in a crowd of men around some centre of excitement or attraction. I have seen dogs, on more than one occasion, act in just such a manner. The ants, notwithstanding their evident worry and excitement, seemed to notice their little pets, and to give them, every now and then, an encouraging pat, as it were, on their backs or heads.

[39] Consult Lubbock, Ants, Bees, and Wasps, pp. 75, 76.

The clavigers are not the only pets in a formicary; several other species of beetles and one bug also live in ants' nests, and seem to occupy places in the affection of the masters of the home akin to those which dogs, cats, and other pets occupy in our own affections.

It has been asserted, most frequently by superficial observers, however, that the reptilian psychos is exceedingly low; this is a popular error, for many reptiles give evidence, on occasions, of a, comparatively speaking, high degree of intelligence. Especially is this true in regard to their memory of individuals.

I kept for some time in my room, some years ago, a male black snake (Bascanion constrictor). Whenever this creature became hungry, he would follow me about the room like a dog or a cat. He would wind his way up my legs and body, until his head was on a level with my own; he would then bow repeatedly, darting out his tongue with inconceivable rapidity.

He would never attempt to crawl up the legs of a visitor (some visitors knew "Blacky" quite well and were not at all afraid of him), thus showing that he knew me personally.

Again, a friend sent me two Floridian chameleons, which dwelt in my desk, and which, in course of time, became very tame. My desk is a combination bookcase and writing-table, and these creatures passed most of their time among the books, changing color so perfectly, especially when alarmed, that it took a very sharp eye indeed to descry them when they were quiescent. When I sat at my desk writing they would jump down on my head or shoulders and explore my entire body, running here and there and everywhere about me, sometimes tickling me with their sharp little claws until I, too, was forced into making a tour of discovery, in order to bring them once more to the light. But let a stranger enter the room, and, presto! they were gone in the twinkling of an eye. I left home on one occasion and was gone for two months. When I came to my room and sat down at my desk, I looked about for my little pets, and could not see them. I had come to the conclusion that they had either died or escaped from the room, when suddenly I saw a tiny little head peep out from between two books and as suddenly disappear. I pulled out a writing-pad and went to work, keeping a watch, however, for my shy little friends. They gradually became bolder and bolder, until all at once they seemed to recognize me, first one and then the other leaping to my shoulders. In a few moments they were making their usual tour over my person. In this instance these lizards remembered me after an absence of at least two months; it took them about two hours fully to recall my personality, yet they did it in the end.

Birds remember individuals, and testify their love or hatred for such individuals in actions that are unmistakable. Thus, an eagle in Central Park, for some—to me—unknown reason, took a great dislike to myself, and, whenever I approached its cage, would erect its crest and regard me in the most belligerent manner. On several occasions it even left its perch and flew to the bars in its desire to attack me. A large, handsome gobbler belonging to my mother has shown the house boy that it is war to the death between them. This turkey never fails to attack the boy whenever opportunity offers; no other person is ever molested by him.

A lady writes me as follows: "Last week my brother" (a lad of twelve) "killed a snake which was just in the act of robbing a song-sparrow's nest. Ever since then, the male sparrow has shown gratitude to George in a truly wonderful manner. When he goes into the garden the sparrow will fly to him, sometimes alighting on his head, at other times on his shoulder, all the while pouring out a tumultuous song of praise and gratitude. It will accompany him about the garden, never leaving him until he reaches the garden gate. George, as you know, is a quiet boy, who loves animals, and this may account, in a degree, for the sparrow's extraordinary actions."

I am perfectly convinced that the nesting birds on my place know me, and that they remember me from one nesting-time to another. I have repeatedly approached my face to within a foot of setting birds without alarming them. On one occasion I even placed my hand on a brooding cardinal, which merely fluttered from beneath it without showing further alarm; yet no wild bird has ever evinced toward myself any special degree of friendship. When I was a lad I remember that a certain decrepit old drake would follow me like a dog, and appeared to enjoy himself in my society. I could not appreciate his friendship then, and greatly fear that I was, at times, rather cruel to the old fellow.

One of the queerest friendships that ever came under my observation was that which existed between a bantam cock and a pekin drake. The cock was the most diminutive specimen of his kind that I ever saw, being hardly larger than a quail, while the drake was almost as large as a full-grown female goose. These two birds, so widely dissimilar as to genus and species, were always together. If "One Lung" (the cock) took it into his head to go into the garden and flew over the fence, "Chung" (the drake) would solemnly waddle to a certain hole in the fence well known to himself, and, by dint of much pushing with his strong, yellow feet, would squeeze himself through, and rejoin his companion with many a guttural quack and flirt of his tail. If "Chung" desired to take a bath, he would make for the brook, where "One Lung" would soon join him, always remaining, however, on the bank, where he would strut about and crow continuously. On one occasion, a chicken-hawk attacked the cock, which, though it defended itself valiantly, was in great danger of being destroyed. The drake soon became aware of what was happening, and hurled himself, with many a squawking quack, like a white avalanche against the hawk, and, with one quick blow of his horny, flat bill, laid this pirate of the air dead at his feet! He then examined the cock, with low-voiced exclamations issuing from his throat all the while. Then, finding him uninjured, he flapped his wings and quacked loud and long, as if in thankfulness. As for "One Lung," he pecked the dead hawk several times, then hopped up on its body and crowed as loud as he could, as if to say, "Look-what-I-have-do-o-o-ne!"

"One Lung" was taken to a neighboring farm for breeding purposes by his owner, and "Chung" moped and appeared utterly inconsolable during his absence. When the bantam was finally brought home, the drake recognized him "afar off" and came hurrying to meet him with flapping wings and much vociferation. He caressed him with his bill, and appeared to make a close examination of his person. These birds have always passed the night close together, the bantam roosting among the branches of a low bush, while his faithful companion squatted on the ground at its root.

Several years ago I knew a hen which was devotedly attached to an old white horse. When the horse was confined to the stable, the hen was always to be found in his stall, either in the manger, on the floor, or perched upon his back. This last position was a favorite one, and it was only abandoned when the hen was in search of food. When the horse was out on pasture, the hen went with him and stayed close beside him until nightfall, when she always returned and roosted on one of the stall partitions.

Many cow owners of my town are in the habit of turning out their cows in the morning, allowing them to roam about in the search of grass during the day. As there are many large open commons in the immediate neighborhood of town, the cows easily find an abundance of food. In my early morning walks I repeatedly noticed a large red cow which was always accompanied by a small black dog. When the cows came back into town in the evening, many of them passed my house, and among the number was the red cow and the dog in attendance. I became very much interested in the cow and dog, and, one evening, followed the former to her home. I asked her owner if he had trained the dog to follow the cow, whereupon he disclaimed all knowledge of any dog, declaring that he had not allowed a dog on his premises for many years. The next morning I was at his cow-house before the animal was turned out. When this occurred I followed her. A few blocks from her home, she was met by the dog, which bounded about her and showed his delight by wagging his tail. When she returned home in the evening he accompanied her until he arrived at his own home (the place where he met her in the morning), when he left her and crawled through a hole in the fence. His owner declared that his dog had been leaving home early in the morning and returning in the evening during the entire spring and summer (it was then September), and that he had often wondered where he stayed during the day. This queer friendship continued until November, when some miscreant put an end to it by shooting the dog. Neither the favored cow nor any of her companions (there were, sometimes, at least a hundred cows on the commons grazing together) appeared to pay the slightest attention to the dog or to notice him in any way. The dog kept close to his friend, the red cow, during the day, sometimes sitting gravely on his haunches and watching her eat, at other times frisking about her, as though asking for a romp. When she started to return home he followed close at her heels.

Another of my dog acquaintances struck up a friendship with a hog, and seemed to be highly pleased when he was allowed to play with his porcine friend. What is more wonderful, the hog appeared to be just as fond of his dog friend, and always greeted him with a series of delighted grunts. If permitted, they would play together for hours at a time. The dog was the bitter enemy of other hogs, and would worry them at every opportunity.[40]

[40] These animals sometimes did not meet for months, yet they never forgot each other, and their friendship continued for several years.

I have had many friends among the lower animals, but have always gained and retained their good-will through their appetite. Some of these creatures will be considered queer pets, for instance, grasshoppers, spiders, and crickets, yet they were very interesting and often showed much intelligence. The lower animals, with the single exception of the dog (I do not include the cat, for I doubt her friendship), rarely accept man as a companion and friend spontaneously. Their appetites or the exigencies of their surroundings very frequently occasion them to act in a friendly manner towards man, simply in order to induce him to befriend them. It is the rarest thing in the world for them to experience disinterested friendship for him. As I have said elsewhere in this paper, a few instances of disinterested and spontaneous affection of animals, other than dogs, for human beings are, however, on record, and I am happy in being able to record another.

In 1882 there was received at the Fair Grounds in St. Louis, Missouri, a consignment of South American monkeys. Among the lot were several large individuals of a species then unknown to me, and which remain unknown to me to this day. When I entered the monkey house I went at once to the cage of the newcomers. One of the creatures, after examining me very carefully, uttered a peculiar cry, and then leaped to the bars and began jabbering at a great rate. I told the keeper that I believed that the monkey wished to make friends with me; that the tones of its voice were decidedly pacific. He laughed at the idea, and declared that this same animal had bitten him severely when he was removing it from the box in which it had been shipped to the cage in which it was then confined. I said nothing more, but, going behind the rail, inserted my hand between the bars of the cage. The monkey immediately seized it with its paws, kissed it, and then licked it with its tongue. It then drew its head down beside it, murmuring all the while in low tones. It showed great pleasure when I scratched its head and body, and, in fact, seemed to regard me with the greatest affection. When the keeper, in his astonishment, drew near, the monkey bounded toward him, chattering and showing every indication of great anger. This animal never forgot me, but always recognized me the very moment I entered the monkey house.

In the same house there was a large dog-faced ape (chacma) named "Joe," whose friend and companion was a little white and black kitten. "Joe" called no living thing, except the cat, his friend; he had many acquaintances, but only one friend. He would tolerate me, and even invented a name for me, so the keeper declared, yet his friendship never got beyond tolerance. But he loved the cat, and the cat seemed to love him—that is, as much as a cat could love. He could not bear to have her taken from his cage; whenever this was done he would rage up and down his den, coughing, growling, and yelling like a mad creature. When she was restored to him he would seize her by the nape of the neck and carry her to the back of his cage, from which coign of vantage he would growl forth maledictions on the heads of his tormentors.

In order to test this monkey's memory, the cat was removed from the cage, and another cat was substituted. "Joe" at first appeared to be afraid of the new cat, and retired to the rear of his den. He would avoid the cat, whenever she approached him, by moving about the cage. Finally, he became very angry, and seizing poor puss, he broke her back and then pulled her head from her body! This was done so quickly that the tragedy was over before we could make a move to prevent it.

At the end of three months his pet was returned to him. The kitten had grown considerably during this interval, yet "Joe" recognized her at once, and welcomed her with many extravagant acts denoting joy and satisfaction.

All of the higher animals, such as the dog, horse, cat, ox, elephant, monkey, etc., possess this phase of memory.

Memory of Events (Education, Happenings, etc.).—The memory of events and their sequences is a faculty of the mind that is to be noticed in animals very low in the scale of life. In fact, psychical development is based almost wholly upon this mental attribute. The vast majority of what are now entirely instinctive habits were, in the beginning, the results of sensual perceptions formulated and remembered (consciously and unconsciously), which gave rise to conscious ideation; this conscious ideation, in turn, became instinct.

This part of my subject is treated at length in the chapter on Reason, therefore I will only introduce here certain evidence of this phase of memory as it is to be observed in the lower animals, especially in insects. A wasp of the variety commonly called "mud-dauber" last summer built her nest on the ceiling of my room in one corner. The windows of this room remained open night and day during the hot summer months, so her nest was easy of access. One day, while the wasp was busy about her home, I closed all the windows and awaited developments. At length she flew toward a window, against which she landed with a thump which for a moment or two completely dazed her. The wasp soon discovered that she was barred from the outer world by some transparent, translucent substance; she then proceeded on a voyage of discovery, flying around the room and searching here and there and everywhere for an exit. She finally found a small hole in a window casing which communicated with the outside; through this she made her escape from the room. Upon opening the window I saw her examining the passage through which she had come, going through it repeatedly. She finally flew away, but shortly returned with a pellet of mud. Notwithstanding the fact that all the windows were then open, the wasp went at once to the hole in the casing, through which she made her way into the room and thence to her nest on the ceiling. She never again, so far as I was able to ascertain, made an exit or an entrance through the windows, but always made use of the hole in the casing. This little creature undoubtedly gave unmistakable evidences of ratiocination; she found that a transparent barrier had been placed in her way—a barrier so translucent and transparent that she could not see it until she actually felt it. She therefore concluded that she would never again risk injury by flying through the windows. What is most remarkable about this instance is that this insect derived her knowledge from a single experience, and at once profited thereby. The wasp remembered the event—her experience with the window glass—and avoided a like occurrence by going through the hole in the casing. Her experience was a bit of education.

There are many people alive to-day, probably, who saw the trained fleas which were on exhibition in the large cities of the United States some thirty or forty years ago. These little creatures had been taught to perform military evolutions, to dance, to draw miniature carts, to feign death, etc., at the command or signal of their owner and trainer. The mere fact that they possessed memory enough to learn, retain, and remember their lessons is not proof positive of reason, but the fact of their having restrained their natural tendency and desire to escape, when they could so easily gratify such a desire or tendency, is a potent factor in an argument for their possession of the ratiocinative faculty. Their teacher explained that he "brought them to reason" by keeping them at first in a glass vessel, where they jumped and bumped their heads to no purpose against the transparent walls of their prison. Thus their vaulting ambition was held in check, and they learned to reason from cause and effect.

It is a well-known fact that many of the higher animals can be taught to do many things entirely foreign to their natures. This is brought about entirely through the faculty of remembering events. I am confident that many of the lower animals, insects, crustaceans, reptiles, are likewise the possessors of this faculty, and are capable of being taught. I, myself, have succeeded in teaching a toad to hop over a stick at the word of command. Again, I taught two chameleons to take certain positions and to retain them at feeding time. These little creatures remembered their lesson, and at my whistle would "line up" on the particular book that I had designated as their dining-table. We have seen that fleas are capable of being highly educated, hence it is reasonable to presume that other insects, specially and generically akin to the flea, likewise possess the faculty of remembering events. Of course, this faculty is necessarily more highly developed in some animals than in others; it differs in degree of development, not in kind.



CHAPTER IV

THE EMOTIONS

Careful observation and investigation lead me to believe that, in many of the higher animals, all the fundamental emotions, such as love, hate, fear, anger, jealousy, etc., are present. Books on natural history fairly teem with data in support of this proposition. Such authorities as Romanes,[41] Darwin,[42] Semper[43] and Hartman[44] give instance after instance in support of the dictum that the emotional nature of many of the higher animals is highly developed.

[41] Romanes, Animal Intelligence.

[42] Darwin, Descent of Man.

[43] Semper, Animal Life.

[44] Hartmann, Anthropoid Apes.

Man has been called the Laughing Animal, because, so it has been claimed, he alone of all animals expresses emotion through the agency of the smile or through laughter.

This is a grave mistake, for both the dog and the monkey, in certain instances, have been known to express pleasure through the agency of the smile. And, in the case of certain monkeys, the action of the facial muscles was accompanied by cachinnatory sounds.

"Tom," a capuchin monkey of the St. Louis, Missouri, zooelogical garden (Fair Grounds), was quite a noted "laugher," and his facial expressions as well as the sounds he uttered were so evidently laughter, pure and simple, that the most casual observer was able to recognize them as such.

"Stranger," a half-bred spaniel belonging to my kennel, invariably expressed pleasure with smiles. The action of the facial muscles, as well as the facial expression engendered by this action, was widely different from like phenomena when the dog showed his teeth in anger.[45]

[45] Compare Darwin, Expression of the Emotions, p. 120.

Young chimpanzees chuckle and smile when one they love returns to them after an absence of some little time. Their eyes sparkle and grow bright, while very evident and easily recognized smiles flit over their countenances.[46]

[46] Martin, Natural History of Mammalia, Vol. I. pp. 383, 410; quoted also by Darwin, loc. cit. ante.

Young orang-utans likewise chuckle and grin when tickled, and, as Wallace observes, give expression to unmistakable smiles. "Dr. Duchenne—and I cannot quote a better authority—informs me that he kept a tame monkey in his house for a year; and when he gave it, during meal-times, some choice delicacy, he observed that the corners of its mouth were slightly raised; thus an expression of satisfaction, partaking of the nature of an incipient smile, and resembling that often seen on the face of man, could be plainly perceived in this animal."[47]

[47] Darwin, loc. cit. ante, p. 133.

A dog belonging to Mr. Henry Barklay, of Paducah, Kentucky, not only smiles when pleased, but also gives utterance to an unmistakable chuckle. When I first saw and heard this manifestation of delight, I thought that the animal had been taught the accomplishment; his master assured me, however, that such was not the case, that both the smile and the chuckle were natural and inborn traits of the dog.

I think it hardly necessary to give more data on this point; suffice it to say that it is a fact beyond dispute that certain monkeys and dogs are "laughing animals," and that man is not the only animal that expresses emotion through the agency of the smile and laughter!

On one occasion during very hot weather, one of the combs in my bee-house became loosened at the top through melting of the wax. The weight on the comb dragged it down, and suddenly it broke from its supports and sagged over against a neighboring comb. It was perfectly apparent to me that if something were not done at once, the comb would continue to sag until it broke away from all its connections, and would then be precipitated to the floor of the hive. The bees likewise recognized this impending calamity, and clearly showed that they did by the noise and tumult which arose among them as soon as they discovered the precarious situation of the endangered comb.[48]

[48] Compare Huber, Vol. II. p. 280.

The loud buzzing which they immediately set up clearly indicated their dismay and consternation. It seemed to me very much like the noisy vociferation of conflicting counsels, which would undoubtedly arise among the people in some orderly town were they suddenly threatened by some unforeseen and unheard-of catastrophe.

The tumult among the bees continued for four or five minutes, when, suddenly, order was evolved out of chaos, and they set to work to prevent the fall of the comb, showing almost, if not altogether, as much intelligence as human beings would evince under like circumstances.

They shored up the endangered comb by building a thick pillar of wax between it and a neighboring comb, thus effectually fixing it so that it could sag no further. When this had been done, they re-affixed the top of the comb to the ceiling of the hive by a broad, thick bar of wax; the pillar used in propping up the comb was afterwards removed and the wax used elsewhere.

In this instance, these little creatures at first clearly evinced the emotions of fear, dismay, consternation, and grief; afterwards, they just as clearly showed fortitude and joy; for, after the supporting pillar had been built, I saw the queen, surrounded by a crowd of courtier-bees, on the comb near it, and am fully convinced that she had been brought out by her rejoicing subjects to view the results of their brave struggle against an utterly unforeseen but now happily averted calamity.

On another occasion I witnessed the terrible grief of a community of bees at the death of their queen, which was seized with illness (a sudden and overwhelming diarrhoea, to which bees, at times, are very subject) while making a progression through her domains, and fell to the floor of the hive and died before she could be conveyed back to the royal cell. I was, therefore, able to see the conduct of the bees during her illness and after her death.

When she fell to the floor, the bees seemed to know at once that something out of the ordinary had happened. The sick queen was immediately surrounded by a dense circle of her subjects, those next to her licking her with their tongues and endeavoring to raise her to her feet.

When she died they were a little slow in recognizing the fact, but when they did realize that she was dead those nearest the dead sovereign set up a loud buzzing. This was transmitted from circle to circle, from bee to bee, until the entire hive was in an uproar. The bees rushed to and fro bewailing their loss, and seemingly crazed by grief. All work was immediately suspended, and even the young were abandoned and left, for the time being, to shift for themselves. Those bees which returned to the hive laden with honey did not put it into the cells but retained it in their honey-bags. In fact, the entire social economy of the hive was disrupted and disarranged, and this confusion lasted for hours. After about twenty-four hours of mourning for the dead queen the bees recovered their equanimity, and began the work of rearing another queen from a worker larva.

In another chapter of this book (vid. Memory) I have related an instance of complex ideation in a bird. I have reference to the sparrow whose young was saved from a snake, and which remembered the lad who destroyed its enemy. This bird undoubtedly showed gratitude. Another correspondent writes: "Knowing your love for, and your interest in, all animals, I think my experience with two house wrens this summer will entertain you. These birds selected for their home an old boot, which they discovered on a bench in an outhouse. Here they built their nest, and, in the course of time, had the great pleasure of welcoming into the world two interesting 'wrenlets.'

"One day, while feeding my pigeons, I noticed that the old wrens were greatly disturbed by something or other. They kept flying about me, uttering sharp, complaining cries; they would now and then fly to the outhouse, and then back to me. At last it occurred to me that some accident might have befallen the young wrens, so I proceeded to investigate, and soon discovered the trouble.

"Some one, in rummaging about the room, had overturned the boot, which had fallen in such manner that the top pressed against the wall, thus effectually barring the way to the nest. I righted the boot, thereby restoring the children to their parents, much to the delight of all parties concerned. Ever since this episode the male wren has shown his gratitude in an unmistakable manner. He has followed me into the house on several occasions; he has learned where I sit when engaged in sewing, and pays me short visits, flying though the window several times a day, and, wonderful to relate, after the young had learned to fly, he brought them around to my window and evidently gave them to understand that I was their saviour!"

The higher animals, such as the horse, the ox, the dog, the monkey, etc., show the emotions of anger, hate, fear, love, and grief so plainly that "he who runs may read." That these animals possess these emotions is a fact which hardly needs demonstration. They likewise have very retentive memories, sometimes treasuring up an injury for days, months, and years, until an opportunity arrives for them to "get even," thus showing that they are revengeful.

Thus, a dog of my acquaintance had been severely thrashed last winter by a larger dog. He bided his time, and, this summer, after his antagonist had been handicapped by having that atrocious invention, a muzzle, affixed to his head, he fell upon him, "tooth and toe-nail," and would have killed him had he not been prevented.

Again, some years ago my attention was called to a large mandril by the keeper of the monkey house in the St. Louis Zooelogical Garden, who remarked that "That monkey will do me up some day. I had to thrash him several days ago, and ever since then he has had it in for me."

Not ten minutes after the conversation, while I was in another part of the building, I heard a yell from the keeper, and, on rushing to see what had happened, found that the man's thumb had been almost severed from his hand by the powerful teeth of the mandril. The keeper had been explaining something to some visitors, standing with his back to the animal, and with his hand resting on one of the bars of the cage. The brute saw his opportunity, and, in the twinkling of an eye, seized it and inflicted a severe injury to the individual whom he regarded as his enemy.

During another visit to the above-mentioned monkey house, I accidentally inflicted an injury to a capuchin monkey, "Tom" by name, who was a great friend of mine and who had been taken from his cage and given to me by the keeper. After playing with him for a time, I had placed him on the floor and had resumed my conversation with the keeper. Suddenly, "Tom" gave a loud squall and jumped into my lap, wringing one of his hands and moaning piteously.

He held up his hand towards me, calling my attention to it with many a grimace and cry; he even felt it with his other hand, carefully separating the fingers and gently stroking them. On examination I discovered that the tips of two fingers were bruised and abraded; the little fellow had evidently had them caught in some way beneath the heel of my shoe. He quietly and patiently submitted while we dressed his wounded digits, but removed the bandages just as soon as he was returned to his cage, evidently having more faith in the curative qualities of his own saliva than in the medicaments of man.

In this instance, the monkey clearly indicated that he had been hurt; he pointed out the portion of his body where the injury was situated, and then allowed his friend to "doctor" the injury, although he did not evince an abiding faith in that friend's skill. In contradistinction to the mandril which evinced revenge, the capuchin showed that he was of a forgiving disposition, for, no sooner was he hurt, than he sought consolation from the very person who inflicted the injury.

An English observer, Captain Johnson, writes as follows, when speaking of a monkey which he had shot: "He instantly ran down to the lowest branch of a tree, as if he were going to fly at me, stopped suddenly, and coolly put his paw to the part wounded, and held it out, covered with blood, for me to see. I was so much hurt at the time that it has left an impression never to be effaced, and I have never since fired a gun at any of the tribe."[49]

[49] Romanes, Animal Intelligence, p. 475.

Another observer, Sir William Hoste, records a similar case. One of his officers saw a monkey running along some rocks, holding her young one in her arms. He fired, and the animal fell. When he arrived at the place where she was lying, she clasped her young one closer, and pointed with her fingers to the hole in her breast made by the bullet. "Dipping her finger in the blood and holding it up, she seemed to reproach him with having been the cause of her pain, and also that of her young one, to which she frequently pointed."[50]

[50] Romanes, op. cit., p. 476.

These observations would seem to indicate that monkeys are capable of feeling and of expressing sorrow and reproach. "So intense is the grief of female monkeys for the loss of their young, that it invariably caused the death of certain kinds kept under confinement by Brehm in North America."[51]

[51] Darwin, Descent of Man, p. 70.

By the observant and analytical mind, the various psychical phenomena evinced by the lower animals are not regarded as being either wonderful or extraordinary. Man is a conceited, arrogant individual, and his place in nature has done much toward fostering and enlarging this self-conceit and arrogance. Even in the time of Moses this self-glorification was en evidence. The genesis of the world, as related by this famous historiographer, geographer, naturalist, theologian, and lawgiver, plainly shows this. At the present time, science declares, emphatically, that man is but a mammal, whose brain has undergone exceptional evolutionary development. He is but the younger kinsman of other mammals whose evolutionary development has sought other channels; these, in turn, are but younger kin of yet older animals, and so on backwards, to the beginning of life in bathybian protoplasm. The resistless forces of evolution have placed him where he is, and no amount of self-adulation can hide the scientific fact that he is not a special creation. All the creatures of the living world are kin, and that force which animated the first moneron, and which we call life, has been transmitted from creature to creature until the present day, absolutely unchanged. There is no reason for believing that life will ever be entirely extinguished, until conditions arise which will render the presence of this force impossible.

When we recognize the fact that intelligent ratiocination is but the product and the result of the psychical action of a certain substance called brain matter, and not the product and the result of the action of an essence or force unconnected with, or outside of, brain; and, furthermore, when we know that these lower animals have receptive ganglia analogous to those possessed by man, analogical deductions force us to the conclusion that these animals should possess mental emotions and functions similar to those of man.

The microscope shows that these animals have notochords, nervous systems, and ganglia, or brains. With a one-sixteenth objective, and an achromatic light condenser, I have been able to differentiate the gray matter in the brain of an ant, and even, on two occasions, to bring out the cells and filaments of the cortex. Here in the brain of an ant, is an anatomical and physiological similarity to the brain of man: therefore, it is reasonable to expect evidences of mental operations in the ant akin to those of man.

That we do find these evidences in abundance can no longer be denied. Sir John Lubbock chloroformed some Lasius niger belonging to his formicary. The other ants brought their anaesthetized comrades out of the nest and carried them away; they thought that they were dead. He made some other specimens of the same species intoxicated, and the ants carefully bore their helpless companions back into the nest. The care evinced in helping their intoxicated friends to reach the safe shelter of their nest undoubtedly indicates a sense of sympathy toward the afflicted individuals.

Ants frequently display sympathy for mutilated companions. Whether or not this feeling is ethical or material is not and can not be determined; the fact remains, however, that sympathy is evinced. I myself have observed it on many occasions. I removed the anterior pair of legs from a specimen of Lasius flavus, and placed her near the entrance to her nest. In a short time a companion came to her assistance, and, lifting her with her mandibles, carried her into the nest. A specimen of F. fusca, destitute of antennae, was attacked and severely injured by an ant of another species. An ant of her own species soon came by. "She examined," says Lubbock, whom I quote, "the poor sufferer carefully, then picked her up tenderly and carried her into the nest. It would have been difficult for any one who witnessed the scene to have denied to this ant the possession of human feelings."[52]

[52] Lubbock, Ants, Bees, and Wasps, p. 107.

Not only do they display sympathy toward mutilated and helpless friends, but also toward healthy individuals who may accidentally get into trouble and need assistance. Belt, while watching a column of Eciton hamata, placed a stone upon one of them to secure her. The next ant in line, as soon as she discovered the condition of her friend, ran hurriedly backward and communicated the intelligence to the others. "They rushed to the rescue; some bit at the stone and tried to move it, others seized the prisoner by the legs and tugged with such force that I thought the legs would be pulled off; but they persevered until they got the captive free. I next covered one up with a piece of clay, leaving only the ends of its antennae projecting. It was soon discovered by its fellows, which set to work immediately, and by biting off pieces of the clay soon liberated it."

At another time he found a few of the same ants passing along at intervals. He buried one beneath a lump of clay, leaving only the head protruding. A companion soon discovered her and tried to release her. Finding this to be impossible, she hurried away. Belt thought that she had abandoned the unfortunate prisoner, but she had only gone for assistance, and soon returned accompanied by a dozen companions, which made directly for the imprisoned ant and soon set her free. "I do not see how," says Belt in conclusion, "this action could be instinctive. It was sympathetic help, such as man only among the higher mammalia shows. The excitement and ardor with which they carried on their unflagging exertions for the rescue of their comrade could not have been greater if they had been human beings."[53] I have buried Lasius flavus beneath sand, and in every instance, sooner or later, they have been dug out by their companions.

[53] Belt, The Naturalist in Nicaragua, p. 26; quoted also by Romanes, Animal Intelligence, p. 48.

Rev. Mr. White has noticed the same sympathetic help among F. sanguinea.[54] Lubbock noticed in one of his nests of F. fusca, Jan. 23, 1881, an ant lying on her back and unable to move. She was unable even to feed herself. Several times he uncovered the part of the nest where she was. The other ants at once carried her to the covered part. "On March 4," says he, "the ants were all out of the nest, probably for fresh air, and had collected together in a corner of the box; they had not, however, forgotten her, but had carried her with them. I took off the glass lid of the box, and after a while they returned as usual to the nest, taking her in again. On March 5th she was still alive, but on the 15th, notwithstanding all their care, she was dead."[55]

[54] White, Leisure Hour, p. 390, 1880.

[55] Lubbock, loc. cit. ante, p. 107 et seq.

Dr. Stimson Lambert of Owensboro, Kentucky, a careful and accurate observer, informs me that he has frequently observed the large red ants (F. rufa) helping their mutilated or crippled companions.

Ants exhibit another emotion that shows the high development of their psychical or emotional nature. In the tender watchfulness and care of their young they are surpassed by no living creature. As soon as the young ant bursts its pupa case, it is carefully assisted into the world by its foster-mothers. These foster-mothers clean it with their tongues, gently going over the entire surface of its body, and then feed it. The young ant is conducted by them throughout the whole nest, and shown all the devious passageways and corridors. When it makes its first visit into the outside world, it is always accompanied by several chaperons. This parental love, if I may use the expression, is even extended to the unhatched eggs. If an ants' nest is disturbed by a stroke of a spade or hoe, the little inhabitants will at once begin to remove eggs, pupae, and young to a place of safety.

This parental love is even evinced by insects who never see their offspring. The butterfly uses the utmost care in selecting a suitable leaf on which to deposit her eggs. She selects one that will be nourishing food for the larvae when hatched out, and, after carefully observing whether it is preoccupied by the eggs of some other butterfly (in which case she abandons it), she proceeds to deposit her eggs. "Having fulfilled this duty, from which no obstacle short of absolute impossibility, no danger however threatening, can divert her, the affectionate mother dies."[56]

[56] Kirby and Spence, Entomology, p. 228.

The gadfly uses a like forethought in selecting a place for her eggs. The larvae of the gadfly (OEstrus equi) are developed in the stomach of the horse, so the provident mother attaches the eggs to the hairs of the foreleg between the knee and the shoulder, a place the horse is almost certain to lick with his tongue and, in this manner, convey the eggs to his stomach, where they are hatched out. The breeding place of certain of the ichneumons is the body of a caterpillar. The ichneumon may be seen busily searching the bushes for her victim. When she finds it, she inserts her ovipositor into its body and lays her egg. If some other ichneumon has preceded her, she recognizes the fact at once, and will not deposit her egg, but will go in search of another grub. When the egg is hatched, the larva feeds on the body of its host, carefully avoiding the vital organs. The caterpillar retains just enough vitality to assume the pupa state, and then dies. The chrysalis discloses, not a butterfly, but an ichneumon.

The mason wasp (Epipone spinipes) builds its cells and lays its eggs, one in each cell. It then hunts and procures spiders, which it deposits in the cells and then seals the openings. These spiders are not killed outright, but are partially paralyzed by the sting of the wasp. The insect thus secures for her young a supply of fresh food. This wasp not only knows the difference between the eggs that will produce female young, but she also makes this knowledge useful. She always supplies the females with more spiders than she does the males. The females are larger and require more food, hence the discrimination. All of this care and forethought is expended on young which the mother will never see. Human love cannot give greater evidences of complete unselfishness.

I once removed a ball of eggs from the web of a spider. The mother clung tenaciously to her treasure, and, when I tried to remove her with a pair of forceps, she bit fiercely at the steel blades of the instrument. In her great love for her offspring she lost all sense of fear. Time and again I removed her several inches from the eggs; she would run about in a distracted way, for all the world like a mother who had lost her baby, until she found the ball of eggs. She would then seize it and attempt to remove it to a place of safety. The naturalist, Bonnet, put a spider and her bag of eggs in the pit of an ant-lion. The myrmeleon seized the egg-bag and tore it away from the spider. Bonnet forced the spider out of the pit, but she returned and chose to be dragged in and buried alive rather than leave her eggs.[57]

[57] Bonnet, OEuvres; quoted also by Romanes, Animal Intelligence, p. 205.

Earwigs lay their eggs, and then incubate them after the manner of the hen. When the young are hatched out, the proud mother leads forth the brood and shows unmistakable pride and affection in her children. On one occasion, when a storm was coming up, I saw an earwig marshal her troop of young ones, and lead them to a place of safety beneath the bark of a tree.

M. Geer scattered the eggs of an earwig over the bottom of a box: "The earwig carried them, however, one by one, into a certain part of the box, and then remained constantly sitting upon the heap without ever quitting it for a moment until the eggs were hatched."[58] This, I take it, is at least an instance of love of offspring, even if it is not a higher emotion. From the earwig's habit of watching over her young I am inclined to believe that this insect possesses true mother-love.

[58] Romanes, loc. cit. ante, p. 229; quoted also by Bingley, loc. cit., Vol. III. pp. 150, 151.

Many of the lower animals give unmistakable evidences of the possession by them of the emotions of anger and fear. Ants, centipedes, tarantulas, weevils, etc., as well as many of the crustacea will give battle on the slightest provocation, clearly showing by their actions that anger and hate are their incentives. When alarmed, their actions indicate very plainly that the emotion of fear has seized them.

In the next chapter I hope to show that many of the lower animals possess one or more of the finer emotions, which I have thought best to group under the head of AEstheticism.



CHAPTER V

AESTHETICISM

"The man that hath not music in himself, nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils." The above quotation is the thought of one of the most acute, profound, and accurate psychologists that ever lived. That which he observed to be true among men, strangely enough, a long and systematic course of observation leads me to believe to be equally true among the lower animals; for wherever it can be observed that animals evince an appreciation for musical sounds, or show discrimination in their perception of harmonious tonal vibrations, such animals, with a single exception—the spider—will be found to be of kind disposition, and not given to "treasons, stratagems, and spoils" other than those required by their struggle for existence. So true is this rule, that the single exception—the spider—proves the verity of the deduction or conclusion. For, like many men, the spider's love for the beautiful, not only in music but in decorative effects as well, is intimately associated with murder-lust; it kills for the love of killing. Many examples of the association of great cruelty and profound love for the beautiful in nature and the arts might be given; it is necessary for my purpose, however, to give but two—Nero and Catherine de' Medici.

That spiders appreciate musical sounds, and that they can differentiate between those sounds that are pleasing and those that are disagreeable to them, I have not a scintilla of doubt. The following facts bearing on this point came under my own observation or were told me by people in whose veracity I believe implicitly, or are vouched for by scientists of world-wide fame.

During one entire summer until late in autumn, a large, black hunting spider (Lycosa) dwelt in my piano. When I played andante movements softly, she would come out on the music rack and seem to listen intently. Her palpi would vibrate with almost inconceivable rapidity, while every now and then she would lift her anterior pair of legs and wave them to and fro, and up and down. Just as soon, however, as I commenced a march or galop, she would take to her heels and flee away to her den somewhere in the interior of the piano, where she would sulk until I enticed her forth with Traeumerei or Handel's Largo.

On one occasion, while standing beside an organist who was improvising on the swell organ with viol d'amour stop drawn, a spider let herself down from the ceiling of the church and hung suspended immediately above his hands. He coupled on to great organ and commenced one of Guilmant's resonant bravura marches; immediately the spider turned and rapidly climbed her silken thread to her web high up among the timbers of the ceiling. The organist informed me that he had noticed, time and again, that spiders were affected by music. Several days afterwards I went to the church for the special purpose of experiment; I seated myself at the organ and commenced to improvise on the swell organ with flute, viol d'amour, and tremulant stops out. In a few moments the spider let herself down from the ceiling and hung suspended before my eyes. So close was she that I could see her palpi vibrating rapidly and continuously. I suddenly dropped to great organ and burst into a loud, quick galop; the spider at once turned and ascended towards the ceiling with the utmost rapidity. Again and again I enticed her from her home in the ceiling, or sent her scurrying back, by playing slow piano or quick forte compositions. She clearly and conclusively indicated that loud, quick music was disagreeable to her. Professor C. Reclain of Leipsic, once, during a concert, saw a spider descend from one of the chandeliers and hang suspended above the orchestra during a violin solo; as soon, however, as the full orchestra joined in, it quickly ascended to its web.[59] This fact of musical discrimination in a creature so low in the scale of animal life is truly wonderful; it indicates that these lowly creatures have arrived at a degree of aestheticism that is very high indeed.

[59] Reclain, Body and Mind, p. 275; quoted by Romanes, Animal Intelligence, pp. 205, 206; compare Rabigot, Simonius, and Von Hartmann.

Spiders are decorative artists of no little ability. I saw one which spun a web, beautifully adorned it with a broad, silken pathway, and then used it as a pleasure resort; I also saw a spider which intentionally beautified its web by affixing to it hundreds of minute flakes of logwood dye;[60] thus we see that the aestheticism of spiders is not confined to the love of music, but extends to other fields. In passing, I may state that once, while confined to my room for a long time by sickness, I became intimately acquainted with a wolf-spider which seemed to take an aesthetic delight in her toilet. This lycosid became so very tame that she would crawl upon my finger and allow herself to be brought close to my eyes, so that I could observe her deft and skilful movements while beautifying her person. She learned to know me personally, rapidly running away and hiding herself when visitors entered my chamber, but never showing fear when I alone was in the room. This spider also showed an appreciation for certain musical sounds (the instrument used was the paper and comb mouth-organ of childhood); low, soft music would always entice her from her den beneath the table-lid, while loud, quick sounds seemed to frighten and disgust her.

[60] Mr. Willard Bates, a druggist of Owensboro, Kentucky, in whose store this instance of decorative aestheticism occurred, called my attention to the insect, which was busily engaged in beautifying her web.

Among animal music-lovers this chapter does not embrace those natural musicians, the crickets, grasshoppers, locusts, frogs, and birds, whose love-songs form such a large part of the aesthetic in nature; yet the instance I am about to relate cannot be omitted, for it clearly indicates a love for musical sounds other than those produced by the creature itself or its mates.

A gentleman,[61] formerly living in the country, but now an attorney-at-law and residing in the town in which I live, told me that, on one occasion, he succeeded in raising two quails from eggs placed beneath a brooding barnyard fowl. These birds grew to maturity, and, what is rare indeed, became so exceedingly tame that they ran about the house and yard with the utmost freedom, showing not the slightest fear, and, seemingly, taking the greatest pleasure in the caresses bestowed upon them by the children of the household. This gentleman comes of a musical family, and, on pleasant summer nights, he and his sisters and brothers were in the habit of going to the stiles some distance away from the house and there singing and playing on the guitar and violin for several hours. The quails roosted on a dresser in the kitchen, but, as soon as the music began, they left their roost and flew to the stiles no matter how late in the night it might be, and there they would stay, perched on the shoulders of the musicians, until the concert was over; they would then go back to roost. They seemed to be passionately fond of the singing voice, and would seek out a singer wherever he or she might be, whenever they heard the sound of singing. In timbre the human female voice is more nearly akin to that of the quail than to that of any other animal. When a lad, "before my voice changed," I could call up these birds at will by giving their various calls; I did not whistle the songs; I sang them. The peculiar quality of the female voice referred to above may be considered by some to have been the cause that influenced these birds; yet my informant distinctly states that the voice of an adult male equally attracted them.

[61] Martin Yewell, Esq., Owensboro, Kentucky.

The opening movement of Chopin's Marche Funebre affects me very disagreeably. The music is, to me, absolutely repugnant. The beautiful melody in the second movement is, however, to me exceedingly agreeable and affords me intense pleasure and gratification. The lower animals are likewise agreeably or disagreeably affected by certain musical sounds. Close observation has taught me the fact that certain musical keys are more agreeable to dogs than others. If a composition in a certain key, the fundamental note of which is agreeable to a dog, be played, he will either listen quietly and intently to the sounds, or will, sometimes, utter low and not unmusical howls in accord or "in tune" with the fundamental note. If the music be in a key not pleasing to him, he will either show absolute indifference, or will express his dissatisfaction with discordant yelps not in accord with the fundamental note of the key.

The bell of a certain church in my town sounds G. A collie, which lives next door to the church, when the bell is rung, never fails to express his delight in the sound. He listens intently while the bell is ringing, occasionally giving utterance to low howls, the notes being either B-flat, E-flat, or some other note in accord with G. This dog visits a house next door to another church, the bell of which sounds F. He never shows the slightest interest when this bell is rung. When I play compositions in F-sharp, an English fox-terrier of mine will lie on the floor and listen for an hour at a time. If I change to the key of E-flat, B-flat, or G, he will soon leave the room.

A question naturally obtrudes itself here in the matter of the dog which barks in accord with the church-bell. Does he do this knowingly (consciously), or is it simply an accident? I believe the former, and consider it the result of an acquired psychical habitude.

That the dog is conscious (self-conscious) that his voice is in accord with the bell, I will not venture to assert, for, knowledge on this point, I take it, is beyond the power of man to acquire. I mean by the word, "knowingly," when I say that the dog knowingly pitches his voice in accord with the bell, not that he has any knowledge whatever of harmony, such as an educated musician possesses, or such even as the inherited experiences of a thousand years of music-loving ancestors would naturally impress upon the mind of a civilized European of to-day, but that he has an acquired imitative faculty (a faculty possessed by some of the negroes of Central Africa as well as by many other savage races), of attuning his voice to sounds which are pleasing to his ears. In support of this proposition I instance the fact of the dog's acquired habit of barking, which has been developed since his domestication. In his wild state the dog never barks.

Man himself has done much toward arousing and cultivating the imitative faculty in the dog (which, in the beginning, impelled this highly developed animal to answer his master, thus originating the first vocables—barking—in the canine language), by conversing with him. In all probability, it is only an "anatomical barrier and a psychical accident" at best, which prevent the dog from addressing his master through the agency of speech itself!

The dog's voice is exceedingly pleasing to himself, and, most frequently, when "baying the moon," he is listening to his own singing, not (as is generally supposed) as it pours forth from his throat, but in a more pleasing manner, as it is breathed back to his listening ears from the airy lips of Echo!

That dogs have discovered that pleasing phenomenon, the echo, I do not question for a single instant. If a dog which is in the habit of "baying the moon" be watched, it will be observed that he invariably selects the same spot or spots for his nocturnal concerts. If you happen to be standing in the neighborhood, you will also notice that there is always an echo, more or less distinct, of his barking; and, if you will observe closely, you will see that the dog listens for this echo, and that he will not resume his song until it (the echo) has entirely ceased. That this is the true explanation of "baying the moon" (where there is not another dog in the distance whose clamorous barkings have aroused a like performance on the part of the animal under observation), the following instance, coming under my own observation, would seem to indicate.

I had frequently noticed that a spaniel crept under a honeysuckle bush in my front yard whenever he gave one of his serenades. Time and again I tried to hear the echo, but in vain, and an almost verified fact seemed in danger of total annihilation. Finally, it occurred to me to dispossess the dog and take his place beneath the bush. I called him out and succeeded with much difficulty in getting beneath the bush, from whence I, imitating his voice, sent several howling barks. My theory was no longer merely theory, but was, instead, a verified fact, for, sharp, clear, and distinct, the echoes of my voice came back from some buildings an eighth of a mile away! Some peculiar acoustic environment made it impossible to get the echo at any place, as far as I could discover, other than beneath the bush.[62]

[62] These observations are original, and, while I am fully convinced of their truth, I would yet like to have them substantiated by other observers. This habit indicates a high degree of aesthetic feeling in the dog.

It is highly probable that the susceptibility of rats and mice to the influence of musical sounds has been known for ages. The legend of the Pied Piper of Hamelin is by no means recent, nor is it confined to European peoples alone; in one form or another it exists among Asiatic, Indian, and Indo-Malayan races. In all the legends, the rats or mice are drawn together by sounds emanating from some kind of musical instrument.

A celebrated violinist told me that, at one period of his life, he lived in a house that fairly swarmed with rats. He noticed that these creatures were peculiarly susceptible to minor chords, or to compositions played in minors, and that quick, lively music would bring them forth from their lurking-places in great numbers. A few abrupt, dissonant discords would, invariably, send them scurrying to their holes.

Another violinist informs me that several mice living in his room are influenced by the music of his violin; when he plays an andante movement very softly, they appear to listen intently and to enjoy the music; but when he plays an allegro in quick time and loud, they quickly run away. The organist of the First Presbyterian Church of Owensboro, Kentucky,[63] tells me that when he lived in Cuba, New York, a mouse dwelt beneath a bookcase in his room, and that he often performed the following experiment: Seating himself at the piano, he would begin improvising softly. In a few moments the mouse would come from beneath the bookcase, approach the centre of the room, and, standing on its hind feet, would listen intently to the music. A loud chord on the piano would send it scampering away to its home. He would then resume his pianissimo improvisation, and the mouse would soon return to its former station near the centre of the room, only to vanish again as soon as the loud chords were struck.

[63] Professor L. J. Quigley.

A violinist of Louisville, Kentucky, Mr. Karl Benedik, told me, on one occasion, that he had repeatedly noticed that several mice, which lived in his room, were influenced by the music of his violin. When he played an andante movement pianissimo, they would appear to listen with pleasure; but when he played an allegro in quick tempo and forte, they immediately ran away.

Mice not only enjoy the music of others, but sometimes make music themselves. My father enjoyed nightly concerts or serenades, for a long time, from some "singing mice" in his library. I was fortunate enough to hear this novel concert on one occasion. The mice, two in number, came out from beneath the casing of the fireplace. They took places on the hearth, several feet distant from one another, and first one, and then the other, sang. Their songs were low and musical, not unlike the song of the canary, though there were no cadenzas or fioritura passages. They seemed to use six notes, these notes being repeated in melodious sequences. I noticed, several times, a run of four notes in ascending scale. On another occasion, in my bedroom, I heard a mouse sing his pleasing little song over and over again.

Miss Ada Sterling, editor of Fashions, writes me as follows:—

"... Anent your paper ... I have had some curious experiences of a similar nature; one was in an uncarpeted room, the house being deserted at that time. I stood still, planning certain things and humming softly to myself. Presently, a shadowy something caught my eye, and I discovered a little mouse, very young evidently, then another and another, until four were near. I did not attribute their tameness to music, and in surprise turned to see if there were others about. Instantly they scampered off, my action having frightened them.

"When I finally arrived at the conclusion that music had attracted them, I sat down and began to hum, this time with an open sound instead of a closed tone, and in a second the little creatures were out again, standing perfectly still, as if the sound gave them delight. Gradually I swelled the tone, and yet they were undisturbed until I became too bold and gave a clear, sharp, full sound, and this at once frightened them.

"I experimented in this way for more than a month, never missing my audience once, and by this time the little creatures, grown so fat and bold as to cause serious damage, were ruthlessly caught and killed.

"I heard Kate Field, about four years ago, when, as the guest of Mr. Stedman, she told several interesting stories, relate an experience of her own, wherein, one night early in her life, she had leaned against the walls of the Campanile, gray and phantom-like in the moonlight, and, singing softly to herself, was surprised at discovering several little lizards lying about on the stones, their heads held alertly in the air as if entranced by the sound of her voice. She, too, experimented with the varying sounds, and from time to time, and evidently looked back upon the experiment as one of rare interest to herself."

Tree lizards will listen completely entranced to the music of a good whistler, and will allow themselves to be captured while thus inthralled. Some lizards are fairly good musicians themselves, notably the tree lizards of the East Tennessee mountains. I have repeatedly heard them singing on the slopes of Chilhowie and adjacent peaks.

Burroughs writes very entertainingly of a singing lizard, or, rather, salamander: "... Approach never so cautiously the spot from which the sound proceeds and it instantly ceases, and you may watch for an hour without hearing it again. 'Is it a frog,' I said—'the small tree-frog, the piper of the marshes—repeating his spring note but little changed amid the trees?' Doubtless it is, but I must see him in the very act. So I watched and waited, but to no purpose, till one day, while bee-hunting in the woods, I heard the sound proceeding from the leaves at my feet. Keeping entirely quiet, the little musician presently emerged, and lifting himself up on a small stick, his throat palpitated, and the plaintive note again came forth. 'The queerest frog that ever I saw,' said a youth who accompanied me and whom I had enlisted to help solve the mystery. No, it was no frog or toad at all, but the small red salamander commonly called lizard."[64]