[64] Gibson, Sharp Eyes, pp. 105, 106; quotation.

The sound of the piccolo is very pleasing to these little creatures, and I have frequently collected about me as many as ten or a dozen by sounding this instrument in the still depths of a wood which I knew these salamanders frequented.

Certain snakes are very susceptible to the charm of harmonious tonal vibration; witness the performance of the Hindu snake charmer, who, while handling that deadly poisonous creature, the cobra-de-capello, plays continuously on flageolets, fifes, or other musical instruments.[65] I, myself, have often held tree lizards completely entranced until grasped in my hand, by whistling shrilly and continuously.

[65] It has been claimed by some that the cobra is not influenced by the music, but by movements of the Hindu performer, who dances, salaams, etc., continually while giving exhibitions. Very recently, however, Momsen has proven the contrary by actual experiment.

I remember, on one occasion, when I was quite young, that a large black snake crawled through a ventilating hole in the wall of the "quarters" or row of brick cottages occupied by the negroes, and took shelter beneath the floor. It was seen by myself and some of my dusky playmates, who immediately carried the tidings to the negro gardener. He called one of the hands from the field, and, after placing him with a loaded shotgun at one side of the hole in the wall, took his station just behind him and commenced to play on his fiddle. In a few moments the snake came out, and was killed by the discharge of the gun in the hands of the other negro. I have been informed, time and again, by negroes that they could charm snakes from their holes with music, but the instance related above is the only one of the snake being led to its death by the bewitching power of musical sounds that has ever come under my immediate personal observation.

Before dismissing the subject of the influence of music on animals, I wish to call attention to the fact that Romanes declares that pigeons and parrots evince an aesthetic enjoyment of musical sounds.

"Moreover," writes he, "the pleasure which birds manifest in musical sounds is not always restricted to the sounds which they themselves produce."

Bingley quotes John Lockman, the celebrated composer, who declares that he once saw a pigeon which could distinguish a particular air. Lockman was visiting a Mr. Lee in Cheshire, whose daughter was a fine pianist, "and whenever she played the air of Speri si from Handel's opera of 'Admetus,' a pigeon would descend from an adjacent dovecot to the window of the room where she sat, 'and listen to the air apparently with the most pleasing emotions,' always returning to the dovecot immediately the air was finished. But it was only this one air that would induce the bird to behave in this way."[66]

[66] Romanes, Animal Intelligence, p. 282; quoted by Bingley, Animal Biography, Vol. II. p. 220.

A correspondent writes me that he has a cock which is passionately fond of the sound of the violin. This bird always flies to the window of the music-room as soon as he hears the sound of the violin, where he will quietly remain perched as long as the music continues. As soon as the music ceases, he flies down from the window.

Horses very frequently show an appreciation for musical sounds, especially when they are produced by a band of brasses.

Amusement and pastime are, unquestionably, aesthetic psychical characteristics, hence, when we see evidences of these mental operations, we must acknowledge the presence of aestheticism in the animals in which they are to be noticed.

I propose to show that animals low in the scale of life—animals so low and so minute that it takes a very high-power lens to make them visible, have their pastimes and amusements. Also, that many insects and even the slothful snail are not so busily engaged in the struggle for existence that they cannot spare a few moments for play. In our researches in this field of animal intelligence we must not attribute the peculiar actions of the males in many species of animals when courting the females, to simple pastime, for they are the outward manifestations of sexual desire, and are not examples of psychical amusement. I have seen, in actinophorous rhizopods, certain actions, unconnected with sexual desire or the gratification of appetite, which lead me to believe that these minute microscopic organisms have their pastimes and moments of simple amusement. On several occasions while observing these creatures, I have seen them chasing one another around and around their miniature sea. They seemed to be engaged in a game of tag. This actinophrys is not very agile, but when excited by its play, it seems to be an entirely different creature, so lively does it become. These actions were not those of strife, for first one and then another would act the pursuer and the pursued. There were, generally, four or five actinophryans in the game.

One of the rotifers frequently acts as if engaged in play. On several occasions I have observed them perform a kind of dance, a pas seul, for each rotifer would be alone by itself. Their motions were up and down as if exercising with an invisible skipping-rope. They would keep up this play for several minutes and then resume feeding or quietly remain at rest. This rotifer goes through another performance which I also believe to be simply a pastime. Its tail is armed with a double hook or forceps. It attaches itself to a piece of alga or other substance by this forceps, and then moves its body up and down in the water for several minutes at a time.

The snail (H. pomatia) likewise has its moments of relaxation and amusement. The following instance of play may be considered to be gallantry by some, but I do not believe that I am mistaken, however, when I consider it an example of animal pastime. Two snails approached each other, and, when immediately opposite, began slowly to wave their heads from side to side. They then bowed several times in courtly salutation. This performance they kept up for quite a while and then moved away in different directions. At no time did they come in contact, and careful observation failed to reveal any excitement in the genitalia. I have witnessed the embraces of snails, and the performance described above does not resemble, in the slightest degree, the manoeuvres executed at such times by mating individuals.

Swarms of Diptera may be seen on any bright day dancing in the sunlight. Naturalists have heretofore considered this swarming to be a mating of the two sexes. This is not the case, however, in many instances. On numerous occasions, and at different seasons of the year, I have captured dozens of these insects in my net and have examined them microscopically. I found them all to be unimpregnated females; I have never yet discovered a male among them. In some of the Diptera the males emerge from the pupa state after the females; I therefore believe that the females await the presence of the males, and, while waiting, pass the time away in aerial gambols.

Forel, Lubbock, Kirby, Spence, and other naturalists have declared that ants, on certain occasions, indulge in pastimes and amusements. Huber says that he saw a colony of pratensis, one fine day, "assembled on the surface of their nest, and behaving in a way that he could only explain as simulating festival sports or other games."[67] On the 27th of September last, the males and females of a colony of Lasius flavus emerged from their nest; I saw these young kings and queens congregate about the entrance of the nest and engage in playful antics until driven away by the workers. The workers would nip their legs with their mandibles until the royal offspring were forced to fly in order to escape being bitten. The inciting cause of these movements may have been sexual in character, but I hardly think so.

[67] Buechner, Geistesleben der Thiere, p. 163; quoted also by Romanes, loc. cit. ante, pp. 87, 88.

On the 19th of July, 1894, I saw several Lasius niger come out of their nest accompanied by a minute beetle (Claviger foveolatus); the ants caressed and played with this little insect for some time, and then conducted it back into the nest.[68]

[68] On one occasion several years ago, I saw a number of young ants of L. niger brought out of the nest by five or six old ants, which watched over the young and kept them from straying away. The young ants played about the nest entrance for some time, and were then conducted back into the hive by the old ants.—W.

Many such little animals are kept by the ants as pets. Lubbock says of one of them, a species allied to Podura, and for which he proposes the name Beckia, "It is an active, bustling, little being, and I have kept hundreds, I may say thousands, in my nests. They run in and out among the ants, keeping their antennae in a perpetual state of vibration."[69] I have frequently noticed an insect belonging to the same genus as the above in the nests of F. fusca and F. rufescens. They reminded me very much of the important-looking little dogs one sees running about in the crowd on election day.

[69] Lubbock, Ants, Bees, and Wasps, p. 74.

The females of Coccinellae ("lady-bugs") frequently congregate and indulge in performances that cannot be anything else save pastimes. A beech tree in my yard is called "lady-bug tree" because, year after year, these insects collect there and hold their curious conventions. They caress one another with their antennae, and gently "shoulder" one another from side to side. Sometimes several will get their heads together, and seem by their actions to be holding a confidential conversation.

These conventions always take place after oviposition, and careful and repeated observation has shown me that they are not connected with procreation or alimentation. I have witnessed many other instances of true psychical amusement in the lower animals, but do not think it is necessary to detail them here. Suffice it to say that I believe that almost every living creature, at some period of its existence, has its moments of relaxation from the cares of life, when it enjoys the gratification of amusement.

Some birds evince aesthetic taste, notably in the building of their nests, which they ornament and decorate in a manner very pleasing to the eye.

The snakeskin bird gets its name from its habit of using the cast-off skins of snakes for decorative purposes. Not long ago I found a nest in a small wood, not far from the town in which I live, which was beautifully ornamented with the exuviated skin of a black snake (Bascanion constrictor). This skin must have been at least five feet in length, and the little artists had woven it into the walls of their nest in such a manner that its translucent, glittering scales contrasted very beautifully with the darker materials of their home.

Humming-birds use bits of lichen and moss to decorate their tiny nests. These materials serve a twofold purpose: they not only render the nest beautiful, but they also serve to protect it by making it resemble the limb on which it is placed. It takes a very acute and discriminating eye, indeed, to locate a humming-bird's nest.

Probably of all the lower animals, the male satin or bower bird of New South Wales has the decorative feeling the most developed. This bird builds a pleasure resort, a summer-house, or, rather, dance hall, which he ornaments profusely with every glittering, shining, striking object that he can carry to his bower in the depths of the forest. This bower is built of twigs, and, when completed, is an oblong, sugar-loaf-like structure, open at both ends. The bird decorates his dancing hall (for he comes here to perform love-dances during the courting season) with bright-colored rags, shells, pebbles, bones, etc.

I once saw a pair of bower birds in captivity (they were owned by Mr. George Hahn of St. Louis), which constructed the dance hall from materials furnished by their owner.

The love of personal cleanliness is, probably, the root and beginning of much that is aesthetic among the lower animals.

When quite a small lad, one of the first lessons set down in my copy-book, after I had graduated in "pot-hooks and hangers," was the trite old saw, "Cleanliness is next to godliness." My Yankee governess, a tall, angular spinster, from Maine, made the meaning of this copy clear to my infant mind, pointing her remarks by calling attention to the Kentucky real estate which had found a resting-place beneath my finger-nails, and which seemed to decorate them with perpetual badges of mourning. I have never forgotten that lesson and firmly believe in its truth.

The love of cleanliness seems to be inherent in the lower animals, with but few exceptions. We have all noticed the cat, the dog, the squirrel, the monkey, and the birds at toilet-making; and we know that they spend a large portion of their time in cleansing and beautifying their bodies. Some of them are dependent on their own ministrations, while others are greatly assisted by humble little servants, whose only remuneration is domicile, the cast-off clothing, or the garbage and refuse from their host's table.

For instance, the common domestic fowl is greatly assisted in its toilet by certain little animals belonging to the family Liothe. These little creatures carefully scrape away and eat the scarf-skin, and other epidermal debris that would otherwise impair the health of their hosts.[70] Some of the fish family are entirely dependent on the ministrations of mutualists, as these little hygienic servitors are called, in matters of the toilet. Notably, the gilt catfish, which would undoubtedly die if deprived of its mutualist, the Gyropeltes. This remarkable little creature does not live on the body of its host, but swims free in the water, and only seeks him when it is hungry. The skin of the gilt catfish secretes a thick, glairy, mucous exudate, which, if left to itself, would imperil the health of the fish. The Gyropeltes, however, regards this exudate as delicious food and rapidly removes and devours it.

[70] Van Beneden, Animal Parasites and Messmates, pp. 71, 72.

All insects devote some of their time to the toilet, and there is probably no one who has not, at some time or other, noticed the fly, or some other insect, thus engaged. The greatest lover of bodily cleanliness in the whole insect tribe, however, is, I believe, my pet locust, "Whiskers"—so named by a little niece, on account of her long, graceful antennae. "Whiskers" is one of the smallest of her family, and is a dainty, lovely, agile little creature, light olive-green in color, with red legs. She was reared from the egg, and has lived in my room all her short life. She is quite tame and recognizes me as soon as I approach, often hopping two feet or more in order to light on my coat-sleeve or outstretched hand.[71]

[71] Shortly after the above was written, this interesting little creature met an untimely fate at the hands of an Irish chambermaid, who was a recent importation and who did not understand that all life was held sacred in my house.—W.

The first thing she does, after reaching my hand, is to seek my little finger and try her jaws on a diamond ring. The diamond seems to puzzle her greatly. She sometimes spends several minutes closely examining it. She will stand off at a little distance and pass her antennae over every portion of it. Then she will come closer and make a more minute examination, finally essaying another bite with her powerful jaws. A great water drinker, she evidently thinks the stone is some strange kind of dewdrop, hence her persistent efforts to bite it.

"Whiskers" has developed cannibalistic tastes, for the hardened skin around my finger-nails is a favorite morceau which she digs out with her sharp jaws and masticates with seeming delight. She nips out a piece of skin, cocks her head on one side, and, looking up at me with her clear, emerald-tinted eyes, her masticatory apparatus working like a grist-mill, she seems to say, "Well! old fellow, this is good."

She passes most of her time on a bit of turf, in a box on my table, where the sun shines bright and warm. She is fond of water, however, and makes frequent excursions to the water-pitcher across the room. How she discovered that it contained water is more than I can tell; but she did, and she visits it often.

It is in her habits of bodily cleanliness, however, that "Whiskers" outshines all other insects. I have watched her at early dawn and have always found her at her toilet. This is her first undertaking, even before taking a bite to eat. She makes frequent toilets during the day, and it is her last occupation at night before sinking to rest on a blade of grass. Her method of procedure is very interesting. She commences by first carefully cleansing her antennae, drawing each of them through her mouth repeatedly. Then she treats her fore-legs to a thorough scrubbing, going over every portion with her tongue and jaws. With her fore-legs, using them as hands, she then cleans her head and shoulders, if I may use the latter term. Her middle legs and her long "vaulters" are then subjected to the same careful treatment. Her back and the posterior portion of her abdomen are next rubbed down, she using the last pair of legs for this purpose. Finally, standing erect and incurvating her abdomen between her legs, she cleans it and her ovipositor with her jaws and tongue. Her toilet is made twenty or thirty times a day. Invariably, after one of her excursions to the water-pitcher, as soon as she returns to her box this is her first occupation.

Now, having seen that the lower animals possess aesthetic feeling, it is reasonable to suppose that some of them possess some of the acquired higher emotions, such, for instance, as parental affection. The evidence seems to indicate that some of the lower animals do evince such affection, as I will now endeavor to point out.



CHAPTER VI

PARENTAL AFFECTION

It has been claimed that one of the main objections to the doctrine of kinship, which, undoubtedly, exists between all animals, is the wide difference that is to be noted between the solicitude that animals evince for their young, and the tender love of the human mother and father for their children. This difference is more apparent than real; for the ethical love, the refined affection of civilized human parents for their offspring, is but a psychical culmination of the material and matter-of-fact solicitude of the lower animals for the preservation of their kind.

There is a vast difference between the psychical habitudes of a civilized mother and those of an Aleutian squaw or a Niam-niam "pot-boiler": the love of a civilized mother for her child extends throughout its life and even beyond the grave, while the solicitude of her savage sisters (I use the word in its maternal sense) for their offspring ceases as soon as the infant toddler is "tall enough to look into the pot." The latter emotion is closely akin to the maternal solicitude of the higher and lower animals, while the former in its refined ethical excellence shows that it is the result of unnumbered thousands of years of evolutionary growth and development.

The love of kind-preservation is inherent in all animals; it ranks next in psychical strength to self-preservation, and, in some instances, even surpasses this so-called "first law of nature." For it very frequently happens that the mother, both brute and human (and I use the word brute as the antithesis of the word human, and mean it to embrace all creatures other than man), will lay down her life in defence of her young, seemingly, utterly forgetting this "first law" in her aim to save her offspring from destruction. Thus the spider whose egg-bag I had taken away ran here and there and everywhere in search of it, seemingly totally oblivious of my presence. When I extended it to her, clasped between the blades of a small forceps, she seized it with her mandibles and vainly tried to take it away. When she discovered that this was impossible, she turned with fury on the forceps' blades and bit and tore at them in a perfect frenzy of despairing agony. I removed two of her front legs, yet, even when thus maimed and suffering, she never for an instant forgot her beloved bag in whose silken meshes so many of her young lay hidden. She continued her efforts to drag the bag away, and was so persistent and showed such high courage, that my calloused sensibilities, hardened by much biological research, were touched, and I gave her her treasure, which she bore away in triumph.[72]

[72] Vide Chap. IV., The Emotions, p. 105.

I, on one occasion, severed an earwig at the injunction of the thorax and abdomen; the upper portion (the head and thorax) gathered together its brood of young and safely conducted them into a haven of safety beneath the bark of a tree.

In crustaceans we probably find the first unmistakable evidences of maternal love. The female crayfish, with the under surface of her tail covered with impregnated eggs or newly hatched young, will fight to the death in their behalf. I have, time and again, reared crayfish, and have succeeded in taming them to such a degree that they would take food from my fingers; whenever the females of these crustaceans became mothers, however, they became timid and suspicious and would seek out the darkest spots in the tanks where they were kept. If I attempted to handle them they would nip me with their sharp mandibles at the first opportunity that offered; they would allow no interference with their precious offspring if they could possibly prevent it. This is true of the lobster also. This giant crustacean, with her enormous forceps-like claws, generally wages a winning fight with the would-be ravishers of her young.

I once owned a monkey which was exceedingly fond of shell-fish. On one occasion I gave him a gravid lobster and came very near losing him thereby. Usually he seized the lobster or crayfish by its back and then broke off its forceps; he would then proceed to suck out its juices and extract its meat. On this occasion, however, the lobster was rendered bold and pugnacious by her burden of young, and managed in some way to close her forceps on one of the monkey's thumbs. He squalled out, and hammered the lobster on the bars of his cage in a vain endeavor to rid himself of his painful encumbrance. I finally loosened her grasp, but not until the flesh on the thumb had been cut to the bone. The wounded hand became inflamed, erysipelas set in, and the poor animal became very sick indeed. He eventually recovered, and ever afterward was exceedingly careful how he handled shell-fish. He approached them with caution, keeping a watchful eye on the dangerous forceps, until, by a quick and sudden dart of his hand, he could seize and tear them off.

It is a mistaken, though quite generally accepted, conclusion that wasps never behold their young, hence can readily be instanced, along with the butterfly and some other insects, as being creatures that evince solicitude for offspring which they never behold. I am quite confident that in the tropics certain of the butterflies live to see their young, for, on one occasion, Dr. Filipe Miranda told me that he was absolutely certain that many of the Papilioninae and Euplocinae of the Amazon valley lived at least a year and a half. I have kept alive in my room specimens of Heliconidae for six and eight months, while mud-dauber wasps have repeatedly wintered in my room, and have witnessed the outcomings of spring broods. Thus, it not infrequently happens that these insect mothers are gratified by a sight of their offspring, though sometimes they evince painstaking care and solicitude toward creatures which they will never see.

The pond catfish, so common to the ponds and creeks of the middle and southern states, evinces maternal solicitude in a very marked degree. I have frequently seen a school of newly hatched catfish under the guardianship of an anxious and solicitous mother. She would swim around and about her frisky and unruly herd, carefully pressing forward all loiterers and bringing back into the school all stragglers. If a stick were thrown among the little fishes, she would dart toward it, and, seizing it in her mouth, would bear it fiercely away, and would not loose her hold of it until she had borne it some distance from her brood of young ones. Bass, white perch, and goggle-eye carefully guard their eggs and drive away all intruders; they likewise keep watchful eyes on the young for several days after they have been hatched. During such times these fish can be easily taken, for they will seize anything that comes near their nests.

Baker says of the stickleback, that when the fry made their appearance from the eggs, "Around, across, and in every direction the male fish, as the guardian, continually moved." There were three other fish in the aquarium, two tench and a gold carp. As soon as these fish saw the fry, they endeavored to devour them, but were driven off by the brave little father, which seized their fins and struck with all his might at their eyes and heads.[73]

[73] Baker, Philosophical Trans.; quoted also by Romanes, loc. cit. ante, p. 245.

"The well-known habit of the lophobranchiate fish, of incubating their eggs in their pouches, also displays highly elaborated parental feeling. M. Risso says when the young of the pipe-fish are hatched out, the parents show them marked attachment, and that the pouch then serves them as a place of shelter or retreat from danger."[74]

[74] Baker, Philosophical Trans.; quoted also by Romanes, p. 246; and Yarrell, Brit. Fishes, 2d ed., Vol. II. p. 436.

An experimenter, whose name escapes me, on one occasion caught a number of recently hatched catfish and placed them in a glass jar, close to the water's edge. The mother fish soon discovered the presence of her young ones and swam to and fro in front of the jar, evidently much harassed and worried. She eventually came out on dry land and attempted to get into the jar where her young were imprisoned. Truly, a wonderful example or instance of mother love when self was entirely forgotten in solicitude for the offspring!

The Surinam toad hatches her eggs and then carries her young about with her on her back until they are old enough to shift for themselves; the "horned toad" of the southwestern states and Mexico acts in a similar manner toward its young.

I had been informed that snakes evinced parental love for their offspring, but never until a recent spring had I been able to verify this information and give it my unqualified endorsement. In March (1896), on one of the bright warm days of that phenomenal month, one of my dogs attracted my attention by his manoeuvres on my lawn. I noticed him walking "stiff legged" about a circumscribed spot, now and then darting his muzzle towards the ground. On going to him I discovered that he had found a lot of snakes, which, influenced by the summer-like weather, had abandoned their den and had crawled out and were enjoying a sun-bath. These snakes were knotted together in a ball or roll, but I quickly discovered that they were all yearlings save one—the mother. I resolved then and there to test the maternal affection of the mother snake for her young, so I killed two of them and dragged their bodies through the grass to the paved walk which ran within a short distance of the nest. The old snake and the remainder of her brood took shelter in the den; I then retired to a little distance and awaited developments. In a very short time the mother emerged from the nest, and, after casting about for a moment or so, struck the trail of the young ones which had been dragged through the grass, and followed it to the dead bodies lying on the pavement. Here she met her fate at the hands of my iceman (whom I had called to witness the great sagacity of this lowly creature), for he had killed her ere I could prevent him.

On one occasion I saw a copperhead (Ancistrodon contortrix) in the midst of her young, and they seemed to be subservient to her beck and call. Before, however, I could satisfy myself positively that the old snake really held supervision over her brood, the gentleman with whom I happened to be came upon the scene, whereupon the interesting family disappeared beneath the undergrowth of the forest.

The higher animals sometimes show, unmistakably, that the maternal love of offspring has taken a step upwards, and that it has become, in a measure, refined by the addition of an aesthetic, if not ethical, element. For instance, a dog acquaintance of mine, on the advent of her first puppies seemed to be exceedingly proud of them; she not only brought them, one by one, to her mistress for admiration, but she also brought them in to show to her master, and yet again, to myself, who happened to be visiting her owner at the time. She deposited them, one by one, at the feet of the person whose regard she solicited, and, after they had been admired, she returned them to the kennel. Here, in my opinion, was an instance of pride, which has its prototype or exemplar in the pride of the young human mother who thinks that her baby is the handsomest child that was ever born! The dog's actions cannot be translated or interpreted otherwise. Again (and in this instance, strange to relate, the proud parent was the male), a cat brought his offspring, one by one, from the basement to my room, two stories above, in order to exhibit them! He brought them, one at a time, and, after each had been admired, carried them back to their box in the basement. Loud were his purs and extravagant were the curl of his tail and the arch of his back! No father of the genus Homo could more plainly evince his pride in his baby than did this cat in his kittens. The mother cat came with him on his first trip; she evidently did not quite comprehend, at first, the intentions of her spouse. She soon found out, however, that he meant no harm to her young, so she allowed him to work off his superabundance of pride without let or hindrance.

Birds will defend their young to their uttermost abilities and will often yield up their lives in unequal combats with the ravagers of their nests. Last summer I saw two jays whip in a fair fight a large cat, which had attempted to rob their nest. They seemed to have arranged the order of combat with one another before they attacked the would-be ravisher of their home. The male bird confined his attack to the cat's head, while the female went at its body with beak and talons. The song-sparrow which remembered the boy who killed the snake which was about to devour its young, and whose story I have told elsewhere, undoubtedly cherished and loved its young. The gratitude which could change the timid, wild nature of a bird in such a manner must have had its origin in a feeling, the depths of which can only be equalled in the psychical habitudes of the most refined of human beings! As we ascend higher in the scale of animal life, we find that new and refining elements are added to this love for the preservation of kind, until finally, in the civilized human being, it has lost its strictly material function and has become wholly and entirely ethical and aesthetic. Yet, far back in the beginning, the maternal love or parental love of the civilized human being was, fundamentally, based on no higher emotion than that engendered by an inherent love for kind-preservation.

Animals very frequently turn to man when they find themselves in difficulties and need assistance. The following instance of maternal love and trust in man in a horse was related to me not long ago, by a farmer[75] in whose probity and truthfulness I have implicit confidence. The horse in question, a mare, had been placed in a field some distance from the house, in which there was no other stock. The animal was totally blind, and, being in foal, it was thought best to place her there in order to avoid accidental injury to the colt when it was born. One night this gentleman was awakened by a pounding on his front porch and a continuous and prolonged neighing. He hastily dressed himself, and, on going out, discovered this blind mare, which had jumped the low fence surrounding the front yard, and which was pawing the porch with her front feet and neighing loudly. She whinnied her delight as soon as she heard him, and at once jumped the fence as soon as she ascertained its locality. She then proceeded toward the field, stopping every now and then to ascertain if he were following, and, when they arrived at the field, the horse jumped the fence (a low, rail structure), and proceeded toward a deep ditch which extended across one corner of the lot. When she came to the ditch or gully she stopped and neighed once or twice. The farmer soon discovered the trouble; the colt had been born that night, and, in staggering about, it had accidentally fallen into the ditch. He got down into the gully and extricated the little creature, much to the delight of its loving mother, which testified her joy and thankfulness by many a grateful and heartfelt whinny.

[75] Mr. Hamilton Alexander, Owensboro, Kentucky.

As I have indicated in the first part of the chapter, parental affection is an acquired emotion which has reached its acme in the civilized human being; yet the germs of this highly developed psychical manifestation are to be observed in creatures low in the scale of animal life. As psychos develops, we observe that this emotion becomes purer and more refined, until, in some of the higher animals, such as the monkey and the dog, it can hardly be distinguished from the parental affection of certain savages, who leave their children to shift for themselves as soon as they are "tall enough to look into the pot"; or, until, as Reclus declares of Apache babies, "they can pluck certain fruit by themselves, and have caught a rat by their own unaided efforts. After this exploit they go and come as they list."[76]

[76] Reclus, Primitive Folk, p. 131.

We have seen in previous chapters that the lower animals possess one or all of the five senses,—sight, smell, taste, hearing, and touch,—that they evince conscious determination; that they possess memory and clearly indicate that the emotions, in the majority of them at least, are highly developed; that they likewise give evidence of aestheticism both inherited and acquired; and, finally, that they show, unmistakably, that they have acquired, to a certain extent, that most refined of all acquired feeling—parental affection. Now, taking these facts into consideration, it would be reasonable to suppose that creatures so highly endowed psychically would present evidences of ratiocination.

That many of the lower animals do present such evidences is a fact beyond dispute, as I will endeavor to show in the following chapter.



CHAPTER VII

REASON

The simplest and truest definition of reason is, I take it, the intelligent correlation of ideation and action for definite purposes not instinctive. The casual observer and a very large majority of the creationists deny the presence of reason in the lower animals, and group all psychical manifestations that are to be observed in animals lower than man under the head of instinct, forgetting that almost every instinctive habit must have been, in the beginning, necessarily the result of conscious determination.

Instinct is, in a certain sense, a process of ratiocination, though its immediate operations may not be due to reason. Instinct involves mental operations; if it did not, it would be simply reflex action. It is heredity under a special name; the father transmits his mental peculiarities as well as his corporeal individualities to his offspring. The experiences of thousands of years leave their imprint on the succeeding generations, until deductions and conclusions drawn from these experiences no longer require any special act of reason in order to bring about certain results. These results, which were, at first, the outcome of special acts of ratiocination, or accidental happenings leading to the good of the creature or creatures in which they occurred, finally became habitual and instinctive.

These special acts of ratiocination are of daily, of hourly, occurrence in the lives of countless myriads of the lower animals, and escape our observation because of the obtuseness of our senses. Every now and then, however, the observer is able to chronicle such an act of reason, and thus adduce the proposition that if the creature or creatures were continually placed in surroundings requiring a like act of reason, that act would eventually become habitual and instinctive on the part of that creature or those creatures. I have witnessed hundreds of acts of intelligent ratiocination in the lower animals that were not called forth by experience and which had not a single faculty of heredity. For instance, several years ago I noticed that one of the combs in a beehive, owing to the extreme heat, had become melted at the top and was in great danger of falling to the floor. The bees had noticed this impending calamity long before I had, and had already set about averting it. They rapidly threw out a buttress or supporting pillar from the comb next to the one in danger, and joined it firmly to it, thus shoring it up and preventing its fall in a most effectual manner. When they had made everything strong and secure, they went to the top of the comb and reattached it to the ceiling of the hive. After this had been done to their satisfaction, they removed the shoring pillar and used the wax elsewhere. In this instance, there was an immediate adaptation of themselves to surrounding circumstances, in which they averted and prevented an utterly unforeseen and unheard-of catastrophe by means as effectual as they were intelligent. Could man do more or reason better? Here was an experience which had not happened to them in hundreds and hundreds of generations, perhaps; which, perhaps, had never happened to them before, and yet, when it did happen, their quick intelligence readily grasped the situation, and they at once set about remedying the evil.[77]

[77] Compare Huber, Vol. II. p. 280; see also Chap. IV. of this work.

A mud-dauber wasp built a nest in my room, and used an open ventilating window as an entrance and exit. On one occasion this window happened to be closed, and the wasp, not noticing the clear glass, flew against it with great violence. She fell to the floor stunned, but when she had recovered from the effects of the blow, she flew here and there about the room as if looking for another exit. Finally, she discovered a small crevice in the casing, through which she at once crawled. She then went back and forth through this crack until she had become thoroughly familiar with the new road. She never again essayed the window, though it was left open the entire summer.

In this instance the wasp was taught by a single experience to seek out a new road. This experience was wholly new to her, consequently, she must have used correlative ideation for definite purposes in formulating her method of procedure. Although ants, bees, and wasps have highly developed memories, and seem to be likewise in possession of that peculiar function of the mind called by some psychologists "unconscious memory," through which they are, probably, enabled to transmit impressions of comparatively recent experiences to their offspring, I hardly think that the mud-dauber was influenced in her actions by any such inherited instinct. Such a conclusion seems to be unwarranted by the facts in the case. Mud-daubers may have bumped their heads against windows ever since windows came into existence, but not with sufficient frequency to cause them to possess an instinct that taught them to avoid windows.

Again, the ground wasp, whose hole between the bricks of a pavement I stopped with a wad of paper, and which learned to go down into the sulcus between the bricks and to pull the paper in the direction of its long axis in order to remove the obstruction, must have used correlative ideation in order to grasp the problem that was set her to solve.

From certain observation I am inclined to believe that psychical traits which are the result of thousands of years of experience before they become part and parcel of the human psychos may become psychic actualities in ants, bees, and wasps in the course of a few generations. The facility with which these creatures adapt themselves to new environments—in which their very organisms, physical and psychical, are changed to a certain extent—is abundant proof of the truth of this conclusion. All experiments with the Hymenoptera amid changed surroundings indicate an intelligent adaptation of themselves to such environment.

The ant is the only animal, except man, which has slaves and domestic animals. Their intelligence is so highly developed that they make a perfect success in rearing their cattle and capturing their slaves. The cattle of the ants are of the order Aphididae. The herdsmen of these aphidian cattle can be seen patrolling the shrubs on which the aphides are grazing. On them devolves the care of the herds. They bring them out in the morning and carry them back at night. They gather the eggs of the aphides, carry them into a specially built nursery, attend them carefully until the young aphides are hatched out, and then carry them to the shrubs most liked by them for food. Some strange sense enables them to recognize one another—an ant of the same species, but coming from another nest, is immediately recognized as a stranger, and at once attacked. If the eggs of one ant colony are hatched out in another of the same species, the young ants are at once known to be strangers and intruders. This far transcends our intelligence. What mother could recognize her infant if it were born in the dark and she had never seen it? Again, if the larvae of ants are removed, hatched outside of the nest, and then returned, the ants at once recognize them as kinsmen and receive them into the nest.

When we take into the consideration that an ant's brain has gray matter analogous to the gray matter found in the cortex of the human brain, we should not feel surprised when we find striking evidences of ratiocination in these little creatures. The better creatures are able to communicate ideation or thought, the stronger and more frequent are the evidences of their possession of reason. Ants can undoubtedly communicate; how and in what manner, it is not generally agreed.

Some time ago I crushed an ant in a path usually taken by the inhabitants of a nest (which was situated in a hollow tree) in their journeys to and fro. A soldier ant came along presently, and, smelling the blood[78] of her murdered companion, was seized by a sudden terror and fled away into the nest. She soon returned, however, with thirteen other soldier ants, and made a careful examination of the body and its surroundings. Her companions also examined the corpse, and, having satisfied themselves that their comrade was dead, and that her murderer was not to be found, returned to the nest. Soon afterwards a large worker ant, guarded by two soldier ants, came out, and, proceeding to the body, picked it up, carried it down the tree and away beneath the grass, where I lost sight of them.

[78] In order to avoid technicalities I think it best to use synonyms with which the general student is familiar. The non-technical reader will know at once what is meant by the "blood" of the ant.—W.

In this instance there is every evidence of complex reasoning; the discoverer of the murder hurried away into the nest, where she gave the alarm; the police of the community—the soldier ants—went immediately to the scene of the tragedy, made an examination, and then returned and gave in their report; the undertaker, in the shape of the large worker ant, then went out, got the body, carried it away and buried it; the two soldier ants followed the body to the grave in order to protect it from cannibal ants.

It has been my good fortune to have witnessed several pitched battles between large bodies of ants. In a battle between some black ants and some yellow antagonists of another species, I saw many evidences of intelligent communication. The yellow ants had a commissariat and an ambulance corps; and I frequently saw them drop to the rear during the battle, and partake of refreshments or have their wounds attended to. The blacks, which composed the attacking army, were in light marching order, and had neither of these conveniences and necessary adjuncts. The yellow ants frequently sent back to their village for reenforcements; the ants that had been out on hunting expeditions when the battle was joined were notified as soon as they arrived at the nest, and immediately hurried off to join in the fray. The blacks had discovered a herd of aphides belonging to the yellows, and had sought to surprise the guards and steal the herd; hence the battle. I am glad to report that the black horde was defeated by the brave yellow warriors and had to decamp, leaving many of its number dead upon the field of battle.

On another occasion I saw an army of red ants besieging a colony of small black ants. The object of the red ants was the theft of the pupae or young of the black ants. These pupae they take to their own nest and rear as slaves, the enslaved ants to all appearances becoming entirely satisfied with their condition, and working for their masters willingly and without demur. The besieged ants evinced a high degree of reason and forethought, for, as soon as the presence of the besiegers was noticed, strong guards were posted in all of the approaches to the nest, both front and rear. The red ants sent a detachment to surprise the colony from the rear; but they found that surprise was impossible, for they were met by a strong party of their gallant foes which vigorously opposed them. The red ants were, however, eventually victorious, and sacked the town, carrying away with them a large number of pupae.

I cheerfully bear witness to the fact that the great myrmecologist, Huber, was correct in his description of his experiment with the black slave.[79]

[79] Huber, The Natural History of Ants, p. 249; quoted also by Lubbock, Ants, Bees, and Wasps, p. 83; Romanes, Animal Intelligence, p. 65; Kirby and Spence, Entomology, p. 369 et seq.

Our species of blacks and reds differ but very little in form and habits from their European kin; so the experiment may be easily performed by any one at all interested in this remarkable instance of "slave master, and master slave."—W.

Like Huber, I put some of these red slave-owners into a glass jar in which I placed an abundance of food. Notwithstanding the fact that this food was easy of access, being in fact immediately beneath their jaws, they would not touch it! I then placed a black slave in the jar; she at once went to her masters, and, after thoroughly cleansing them with her tongue, gave them food. These red ants would have starved to death in the midst of plenty, if they had been left to themselves.

This, at first glance, would seem to indicate an utter absence of reason in these red slave-owners. Such a conclusion, however, is by no means true. The facts indicate mental degeneration. So utterly subservient had they become to the ministration of the slaves, that they had even lost the faculty of feeding themselves!

Here, we have an example of degeneration in the mentality of an animal incident to the enervating influence of slavery. Sir John Lubbock's remarks anent the four genera of slave-making ants are so interesting that I may be pardoned for quoting them entire. Says he:—

"These four genera" (Formica sanguinea, Polyergus, Strongylognathus, and Anergates) "offer us every gradation from lawless violence to contemptible parasitism.

"Formica sanguinea, which may be assumed to have comparatively recently taken to slave-making, has not yet been materially affected.

"Polyergus, on the contrary, already illustrates the lowering tendency of slavery. They have lost their knowledge of art, their natural affection for their young, and even the instinct of feeding. They are, however, bold and powerful marauders.

"In Strongylognathus the enervating influence of slavery has gone further, and told even on the bodily strength. They are no longer able to capture their slaves in open warfare. Still they retain a semblance of authority, and, when aroused, will fight bravely, though in vain.

"In Anergates, finally, we come to the last scene of this sad history. We may safely conclude that in distant times their ancestors lived, as so many ants do now, partly by hunting, partly on honey; that by degrees they became bold marauders, and gradually took to keeping slaves; that for a time they maintained their strength and agility, though losing by degrees their real independence, their arts, and many of their instincts; that gradually even their bodily force dwindled away under the enervating influence to which they had subjected themselves, until they sank to their present degraded condition—weak in body and mind, few in numbers and apparently nearly extinct, the miserable representatives of far superior ancestors, maintaining a precarious existence as contemptible parasites of their former slaves."[80]

[80] Lubbock, Ants, Bees, and Wasps, pp. 88, 89.

This is truly a wonderful picture of mental and physical degeneration incident to the enervating influences of slavery. That it is a true one, an abundance of data most emphatically declares. The influence of slavery on the human race (the masters) shows very plainly that man himself quickly, comparatively speaking, loses his stamina when subjected to it.

This fact is but another proof of the kinship of all animals, and the similarity, nay, the sameness, of mind in man and the lower animals; mind is the same in kind, though differing in degree.

When an animal is placed amid new and unfamiliar surroundings necessitating the evolvement of intelligent action in order to meet the necessities of such environment, such an animal evinces ratiocination. I have seen many instances of such action on the part of ants. The following data concerning the natural history of the honey-making ant (Myrmecocystus mexicanus) are taken from my note-book.

During the summer of 1887 I spent several weeks in New Mexico, and while there had the great good fortune to discover a colony of honey-making ants. I found these ants in a little valley debouching out of Huerfanos Park, a government reservation, I believe, at that time. The nest was situated on the sandy shore of a small creek, and was a perfect square of three or four feet, from which all grass, weeds, etc., had been carefully removed. Around three sides of this square, viz., north, east, and west, a column of black soldier ants continually patrolled night and day.

Near the southeast corner of this open space the entrance to the nest was situated. The south side of the square was not guarded, but was left open for the entrance and exit of the hundreds of dark yellow workers which were engaged in bringing food to the village. No sooner was a burden put down than it was seized by black workers, which then carried it into the nest. At no time did I see a black worker bringing food to the centre of the square, nor did I ever see a yellow worker carrying food into the nest; the blacks and the yellows never interfered with one another's business.

To test the reasoning powers of these ants, I partially disabled a centipede and threw it into the square a short distance from the patrol line. For a moment or two the line was broken by the warriors hurrying out to do battle with the squirming intruder. But only for a moment or two, for orders were issued by some ant in authority (so it seemed, and so I believe), and the line was established, though somewhat thinned by the absence of soldiers. The messenger was sent to headquarters and reenforcements were sent out, and soon the line was as strong as ever, though hundreds of soldiers were warring with the centipede. The latter was soon killed, and its body was removed piecemeal by the yellow workers, which carried the fragments far beyond the boundaries of the square.

Again, with my hunting-knife I dug a deep trench across the border of one side of the square. The ants seemed dazed at first, but rapidly adapted themselves to their new surroundings. They extended their patrol line until it embraced the entire trench; then a countless horde of yellow workers went to work, and in a day's time filled up the deep excavation level with the surrounding surface! The patrol was then reestablished on the old line as though nothing had occurred to interrupt the ordinary routine of the colony. Before leaving the valley I dug up the nest and examined the peculiar individuals whose enforced habits give to these interesting ants the name of "honey-makers." Each one of these curious creatures was confined in a separate cell, the entrance to which was very small. Here they lived in absolute seclusion, being fed by the black workers with pollen, the nectar of flowers, tender herbs, etc.

Through some wonderful chemical process this food was turned into a delicious honey, the flavor of which (I ate of it freely) was distinctly winy and aromatic.

Apparently, they had no anal orifices, these passages probably having been obliterated. These imprisoned honey-makers were merely animated bags of honey, and were kept by the other ants solely for the purpose of furnishing a never failing supply of sweet and wholesome food.[81]

[81] Compare Romanes, Animal Intelligence, p. 111 et seq. At the time when these details were written in my note-book I was unacquainted with Captain Fleeson's and Mr. Edwards's observations, nor had I read Romanes's work on Animal Intelligence. I had heard of Myrmecocystus, of course, but knew nothing of its natural history. Comparison will show that my observations differ from those of the gentlemen mentioned above. I saw nothing whatever of the web described by Captain Fleeson: the honey-making solitaires were simply confined in cells, where they rested on the bare ground; they were not perched upon "a network of squares, like a spider's web." The "outside" workers observed by me were not black, but very dark yellow, while the "inside" workers were bright yellow in color.—W.

The rapidity with which these ants set to work to fill in the trench made by my hunting-knife showed that they recognized, at once, the calamity that had befallen them, and that they used rational methods in remedying the evil.

The fact that they have evolved the idea of setting aside certain members of the colony as honey-makers, and that there is a distinct recognition of a division, or divisions, in the labor of the inhabitants of the nest, evinces very high psychical development.

In a colony of Termes, or white ants, so-called, there are five kinds of individuals. First, the workers. These do all the work of the nest, collecting provisions, waiting on the queen, carrying eggs to the nurseries, feeding the young until they are old enough to care for themselves, repairing and erecting buildings, etc. Second, the nymphs. These differ in nothing from the workers, except that they have rudimentary wings. Third, the neuters. These are much less in numbers than the workers, but exceed them greatly in bulk. They have long and very large heads, armed with powerful mandibles, and are the sentinels and soldiers of the colony. These neuters are blind. Fourth and Fifth, the males and females. These are the perfect insects, capable of continuing the species. There is only one each in every separate society. They are exempted from all labor, and are the common father and mother of the community.

Termes inhabit tropical countries, and the first establishment of new colonies takes place in this way: In the evening, at the end of the dry season, the males and females, having arrived at their perfect state, emerge from their nest in countless thousands. They have two pairs of wings, and with their aid mount immediately into the air. The next morning they are found covering the ground, and deprived of their wings. They then mate. Scarcely a single pair in many millions escape their enemies—birds, reptiles, beasts, fishes, insects, especially the other ants, and even man himself. The workers, which are continually prowling about their covered ways, occasionally meet one of these pairs. They immediately salute them, render them homage, and elect them father and mother of a new colony. All other pairs not so fortunate perish.

As soon as they are chosen king and queen, or rather, father and mother, they are conducted into the nest, where the workers build around them a suitable cell, the entrances to which are large enough for themselves and the neuters or soldiers to pass through, but too small for the royal pair. Thus they remain in prison as long as they live. They are furnished with every delicacy, but are never allowed to leave their prison. The female soon begins to oviposit—the eggs, as fast as they are dropped, being carried away into the nurseries by the workers. As the queen increases in dimensions, they keep enlarging the cell in which she is confined. Her abdomen begins to extend until it is two thousand times the size of the rest of the body, and her bulk equals that of twenty thousand workers. She becomes one vast matrix of eggs. I once saw a queen which measured three and one quarter inches from one extremity of her body to the other. There is continual oviposition, the queen laying over eighty thousand eggs in twenty-four hours, or one egg every second. As these females live about two years, they will lay some sixty million eggs.

In the royal cell there are always some soldiers on guard and workers administering to the royal pair. The activity and energy of these workers is truly wonderful. In New Mexico, where I found a family of insects closely resembling true Termes, I once had an opportunity of observing this extraordinary energy. I broke off a portion of their dome-shaped nest, and in an incredibly short time they had mended the breach and restored their domicile to the same condition it was before I had molested it. If you attack a termite building and make a slight breach in its walls, the laborers immediately retire into the inmost recesses of the nest and give place to another class of its inhabitants, the warriors. Several soldiers come out to reconnoitre, they then retire and give the alarm. Then several more come out as quickly as possible, followed in a few moments by a large battalion. Their anger and fury are excessive. If you continue to molest them, their anger leaps all bounds. They rush out in myriads, and, being blind, bite everything with which they come in contact.[82] If, however, the attack is not continued, they retire into the nest, with the exception of two or three which remain outside. The workers then appear and begin to repair the damaged wall. One of the soldiers remaining outside acts as overseer and superintendent of construction. At intervals of a minute or two it will strike the wall with its mandibles, making a peculiar sound. This is answered by the workers with a loud hiss and a marked acceleration in their movements. Should these ants again be disturbed, the laborers would vanish, and the warriors would take their places, ready and willing to fight to the death in defence of their community.[82]

[82] Compare Kirby and Spence, Entomology.

While it is undoubtedly true that instinct can be highly differentiated, so that in its action it seemingly approaches reason, it is also equally true that instinct, fundamentally, is but a blind impulse. The impulse to fight on the part of these soldier termites is, unquestionably, instinctive, but the psychical habitudes which originate division and partition of labor, which set apart certain individuals (in no wise different from their fellows) as officers and overseers, which, beyond peradventure, are able to incite the laborers to greater effort by commands that are clearly understood and intelligently obeyed, surely such psychical characteristics cannot be embraced in the category of instinctive impulses—mere blind followings-out of inherited impressions!

Instinct is the bugbear of psychology and does more to retard investigation than any other factor. As long as people of the creationist stamp wield the instinct-club, just so long will they be unable to grasp the idea of intelligent ratiocination in the lower animals. A company of men rebuilding a wall which has been overthrown by a tempest are said to be governed and directed by reason, while a company of ants doing precisely the same thing, and with just as much intelligence, are said to be directed by instinct![83]

[83] It is often the case that animals find themselves amid surroundings in which they are required to evince original ideation and fail so to do. But, is man any different? How often do we find ourselves checkmated and puzzled by trivial circumstances, which, on being explained, are seen to be exceedingly simple!—W.

In the neighborhood of Hell's-Half-Acre, a desolate and rocky valley a short distance from Hot Springs, Arkansas, in 1887, I discovered several communities of harvester ants, and closely and carefully observed their habits. The first time I noticed them was early in the spring, when they seemed to be engaged in planting their grain. They were bringing out the little grass-seeds by the hundreds and thousands, and carrying them some distance from the nest, where they were dropped on the turf. It is possible that these ants were only getting rid of spoiled grain, but I think not, for several of the seeds secured and planted by me germinated. I observed them again in about a month, and the grass was growing finely on the plat where they had deposited the seeds. Not a single stalk of any other kind of grass and not a single weed were to be seen in this model grain-field. The ants had evidently removed every plant that might interfere with the growth of their grain.

I saw them again in August when they were reaping the crop and storing the grain away in their nests. The ants would climb the grass-stems until they came to the seeds; these they would then seize in their mandibles, outer sheath and all, and, by vigorously twisting them from side to side, would separate them from the stalk; they would then crawl down and carry them into the nest. I did not notice here the roads and pathways so generally found leading to the nests of the Texas variety of the harvester. Around the nests the surface of the ground was smooth and bare, but there were no highways or roads leading to them.

Among the workers I saw some ants whose heads and mandibles were very large. These ants never engaged in any of the agricultural pursuits of their sisters; they were the soldiers and the sentinels of the community. One nest migrated while I had them under observation, and I had the pleasure of witnessing the behavior of these fearless little warriors when on the march. The ants were moving nearer to their grain-fields, and were carrying with them their young, etc. The route, from the old home to the new, was patrolled on either side by soldiers. Every now and then I saw one of these individuals rush aside, elevate herself on her hind legs, shake her head, and clash her mandibles. She acted as if she saw some danger menacing the marching column and would ward it off. Others climbed little twigs or tufts of grass and scanned the surrounding country from these elevated and commanding positions. Others hurried up the laggards and stragglers, and even carried the weak and infirm.

These ants winnow or husk the grain after it has been carried into the nest. All during the harvesting I observed workers bringing chaff from the nest and carrying it some distance away. It is said by Texan observers that the harvesters of that state bring the grain to the surface and dry it, if, perchance, it becomes wet. I have never observed this myself, but accept it as an established fact.[84]

[84] I believe that these observations on the presence of the harvester ant in Arkansas are unique; at least I have been unable to find any data corroborative of this fact. How did a fecundated queen arrive at a spot so far from her usual habitat?—W.

The faculty of computing is among the very last of the psychical habitudes acquired by man, and is an evidence of high ratiocinative ability. Many of the savage races are unable to count above three,—some not above five,—thus demonstrating the truthfulness of the above assertion. Yet I believe that it can be clearly shown that some of the lower animals and many of the higher animals are able to count.

The mason wasps, or mud-daubers, build their compartment houses generally in places easily accessible to the investigator; therefore the experiments and observations which I am about to detail can be duplicated and verified without difficulty. These interesting members of the Hymenoptera, the avant-couriers of the social insects, can be seen any bright day in August or September busily engaged on the margins of ponds, ditches, and puddles in the procurement of building materials. They will alight close to the water's edge, and, vibrating their wings rapidly, will run hither and thither over the moist clay until they arrive at a spot which, in their opinion, will furnish suitable mortar. Quickly biting up a pellet of mud, they moisten it with saliva, all the while kneading it and rolling it between maxillae and palpi. When it has reached the proper consistency they bear it away to some dry, warm place, such as the rafters of an outhouse or a garret, and there use it in the construction of their adobe or mud nests.

There may be dozens of these nests in the process of construction, and arranged on the rafters, side by side, yet these busy little masons never make the mistake of confounding the houses; after securing mortar they invariably return, each to her own structure. This statement can be easily verified. While the insect is engaged in applying the mortar, take a camel's-hair brush and quickly paint a small spot on her shoulders with a mixture of zinc oxide and gum arabic; then mark the nest. The marked wasp will always return to the marked nest.

As soon as the cells are completed, the wasp deposits an egg in each, and immediately begins to busy herself about the future welfare of the coming baby wasps. Just here these remarkable creatures show that they possess a mental faculty which far transcends any like act of human intelligence; they are able to tell which of the eggs will produce males and which females. Not only are they able to do this, but, seemingly fully aware of the fact that it takes a longer time for the female larvae to pupate than it does the male larvae, they provide for this emergency by depositing in the cells containing female eggs a larger amount of food. It is in the procurement and storage of this food-supply that these insects give unmistakable evidence of the possession by them of the faculty of computing.

The knowing little mother is well aware of the fact that as soon as the egg hatches the young grub will need food, and an abundance of food at that; so, before closing the orifice of the cell, she packs away in it the favorite food of her offspring, which is spiders. She knows that in the close, hot cell the spiders, if dead, would soon become putrid and unfit for food: therefore, she does not kill them outright, but simply anaesthetizes them by instilling a small amount of poison through that sharp and efficacious hypodermic needle, her sting.[85]

[85] As a matter of fact I have kept Argiope under observation in this anaesthetized condition for thirteen weeks.—W.

Each variety of masons uses a different spider; the common blue mason is partial to the beautiful Argiope, which, banded as it is with gray and yellow, is a very conspicuous object when seen on its glistening, upright web.

The wasp larva, as soon as it emerges from the egg-membrane, finds fresh and palatable food before its very nose, and at once begins to eat.

In the case of the male larvae, five spiders are deposited in each cell, while eight are always placed in the female compartments.[86] If one or more spiders are removed from the cell, the mother wasp does not appear to notice that her food-supply has been tampered with; she completes her quota, five for the males and eight for the females, and then closes the cell, no matter if there remains in the compartment one, two, or three spiders. Her count calls for five or eight, as the case may be, and, when she has put on top of the egg the requisite number according to her count, her responsibility ceases.

[86] Compare Kirby and Spence, Entomology, pp. 231, 232, habits of Epipone spinipes in regard to small grubs.

I have never known a mud-dauber to make a mistake in her computation, although I have endeavored to puzzle this little arithmetician time and again. If a wad of paper be placed in a cell after two or three spiders have been deposited, thus partially filling it, the insect knows at once that something is wrong, and will proceed to investigate. She will remove the spiders on top of the paper, will extract the wad, and will then proceed with her count. On the other hand, if several spiders be taken out when the count calls for only one or two more, the wasp does not appear to notice that the cell is almost empty; she finishes her count as if everything were correct, and then seals up the opening with mud.

The quail lays some twelve or fifteen eggs, and seems to be aware of the fact that some of her eggs are missing when several have been removed from the nest. When one of these birds has laid six or eight eggs, if two or three be removed she will abandon the nest and deposit the remainder of her eggs elsewhere. This behavior on the part of the bird has been attributed to her sense of smell; she, detecting the presence of an enemy by the scent of his hand left behind in the nest, recognizes the danger, and therefore abandons the nest. But numerous experiments along this line teach me that smell has nothing to do with it whatever. I have removed eggs with a long iron ladle, the bowl of which I had carefully refrained from touching, and also with sticks freshly cut in the wood, and yet the birds would invariably abandon their nests. On the contrary, when all, or nearly all, the eggs have been laid, several may be removed either with the ladle or with the naked hand, and yet the bird will not abandon her nest. She seems to be able to count up to six or eight; beyond this latter number her faculty of computing does not extend. After the full laying has been deposited in the nest and the process of incubation has become established, a large number of the eggs may be removed, and yet the bird will continue to set until the remaining eggs have been hatched out.

The faculty of computing seems to be present in other birds to some extent; the domesticated guinea-fowl and the turkey sometimes possess it in a marked degree, though in most of these fowls domestication has almost entirely eradicated it. The domestic barnyard hen has had her nest robbed for such a long period of time that she has lost the faculty of counting. But even this meek provider of food for mankind is able, in some instances, to count one: she will not lay in her nest unless a nest-egg be left to delude her. The nest-egg may be wholly factitious and made of china, marble, chalk, stone or iron painted white; the hen does not seem to care so long as it bears some resemblance to an egg.

That the turkey-hen can count, the following instance occurring under my own observation would seem to indicate. The bird had a nest in my garden in which she had deposited three eggs. One day another turkey, seized with a desire of ovipositing, spied this nest and laid an egg therein. The original owner of the nest came along soon after the interloper had left her egg; she examined the nest carefully, and turned the eggs with her beak. Finally she thrust her beak through the shell of an egg and bore it far from the nest before dropping it on the ground. Now, as far as I could tell, the eggs were alike, but the sharper and more discriminating eyes of the turkey undoubtedly saw, on close examination, some peculiarity in color or shape in the stranger's egg, and therefore bore it away and destroyed it. I believe, however, that her attention was arrested at first by the unexpected number of eggs in the nest, and that she was enabled to detect the stranger's egg only after much inspection and comparison.

Many animals have been taught to count, but none of them show that they fully appreciate the value of numerical rotation. Of course, in the vast majority of trained animals, the seeming appreciation is only a trick founded on the sense of smell, sight, touch, or taste.

An instance recently came under my personal observation in which a dog, a high-bred collie, seemingly evinced an abstract idea of numbers. The animal in question received an injury a year or so ago through which she became permanently and totally blind. Recently she gave birth to a litter of six puppies, all of which were uniform in size and markings. Immediately after the birth of the puppies, the dog's owner had mother and young removed from the dark cellar in which they then were, and carried to a warm and well-ventilated room in his stables.

In the darkness of the cellar one of the puppies was overlooked and left behind. As soon as the mother entered the box in which her young had been placed, she proceeded to examine them, nosing them about and licking them. Suddenly she appeared to become very much disturbed about something; she jumped out of the box and then jumped back again, nosing the puppies as before. Again she jumped from the box and then made her way toward the cellar, followed by her astonished owner, who had begun to have an inkling as to what disturbed her. She had counted her young ones, and had discovered that one had been left behind. Sure enough, the abandoned puppy was soon found and carried in triumph to the new home.

So astonished was the gentleman[87] at this blind creature's intelligence that he resolved to experiment further; he removed another puppy and walked away with it in his arms. It was not long before the blind mother showed her distress so plainly, that I begged him to return the puppy, which, having been returned to her, she caressed for a moment or so, and then gave herself up to the chief function of maternity, suckling her young.

[87] Karl Becker, Esq., St. Louis, Mo.

It is beyond reason to suppose that this dog discovered the absence of her young one through her sense of smell. Granted that to the maternal nose each puppy had an individual and particular odor (which I do not believe), it is hardly possible, nay, it is impossible, that the dog's sensorium had recognized and retained these different scents in the short time which had elapsed since their birth. It is much more reasonable to suppose that the dog knew that she had given birth to six young ones, and that she had counted them when they had been removed to their new home. Again, it is a well-known fact that a dog can retain only one scent at a time; hence, this fact alone would militate somewhat against the idea that the sense of smell was the detecting agent in this case. Nor could it have been the sense of touch; the mother could not have possibly familiarized herself with the individual form of each puppy in so short space of time. It is folly to suppose that each young one had a distinctive taste or flavor; hence the sense of taste must also be eliminated. Thus, by exclusion, there remains but one faculty, the faculty of computing, to account for the dog's actions.

Several years ago there lived in Cincinnati a mule which was employed by a street railway company in hauling cars up a steep incline. This animal was hitched in front of the regular team, and unhitched as soon as the car arrived at the top of the hill. It made a certain number of trips in the forenoon (I have forgotten the number, but will say fifty for the sake of convenience), and a like number in the afternoon, resting for an hour at noon. As soon as the mule completed its fiftieth trip, it marched away to its stable without orders from its driver. To show that it was not influenced by the sound of factory whistles and bells, the following remarkable action on the part of this animal is vouched for by the superintendent of the line, who gave me these data. On a certain occasion, during a musical festival, this mule was transferred to the night shift, and the very instant it completed its fiftieth trip it started for the stables. It took the combined efforts of several men to make it return to its duty. At night there were no bells or whistles to inform the creature that "quitting-time" had come; it thought the time for rest and food had arrived as soon as it had completed its fifty trips.[88]

[88] These data were given to me at a certain club banquet where I had no facilities for noting them down. I have endeavored to locate the superintendent in question, but without success; I believe, however, that he gave the facts just as they occurred.—W.

My meals are always served at regular appointed hours, which never vary throughout the year; and, since my cook "prides herself" on her punctuality, they are always served on the stroke of the clock. The moment the bell rings, my cat, a large and very intelligent male, takes up a position at the door, and is generally the first to enter the dining room. A few moments before meal-time, Melchizedek (for he is of royal blood and bears a royal name) becomes uneasy, jumping from chair to floor or from floor to chair, and sometimes mewing gently. The moment the bell rings, he is all animation, and shows by his actions that he fully understands its meaning. He never mistakes the sound of the dressing-bell for that of the tea-bell, though the same bell is used. This cat may not be able to count, but that he notes the passage of time I do not for an instant doubt.

Some monkeys give unmistakable evidences of the possession by them of the computing faculty. In 1889 I made the acquaintance of a very intelligent chimpanzee which could count as high as three. That this was not a trick suggested by sensual impulses I had ample opportunity of satisfying myself. The owner of the animal would leave the room, no one being present but myself, and when I would call for two marbles, or one marble, or three marbles, as the case might be, the monkey would gravely hand over the required number. Romanes mentions an ape that could count three, the material used in his experiment being straws from the animal's cage.

The fact that monkeys can count does not appear so remarkable when it is agreed by the best authorities that they are capable of understanding human speech.[89]

[89] Romanes, Mental Evolution in Man, p. 369; Darwin, Descent of Man, p. 87; Whitney, Enc. Brit., "Philology," Vol. XVIII. p. 769, quoted by Romanes, super.

Returning for a moment to insects, we find that bees and ants give many evidences of intelligent correlative ideation and action for definite purposes not instinctive. In regard to bees, Huber's experiment with the glass slip proves conclusively, in my opinion, that these creatures reason. This experiment is so interesting that it will bear recital.

Huber placed a slip of glass in front of a comb that was under construction. The bees, as if perfectly aware of the fact that it would be difficult to affix the comb to the slippery surface of the glass, curved it at a right angle around the slip of glass and fastened it to the wooden wall of the hive![90]

[90] Huber, Vol. II. p. 230; quoted also by Kirby and Spence, loc. cit. ante, p. 582.

It is folly to suppose that bees have an instinctive knowledge of glass, hence we are forced to conclude that they were governed in this instance solely by reason.

Furthermore, as the inner surface of the comb was concave, and the outer surface convex, the bees made the cells on the former much smaller, and those on the latter much larger, than usual!

"How, as Huber asks, can we comprehend the mode in which such a crowd of laborers, occupied at the same time on the edge of the comb, could agree to give it the same curvature from one extremity to the other; or how could they arrange together to construct on one face cells so small, while on the other they imparted to them such enlarged dimensions?"[91]

[91] Kirby and Spence, loc. cit. ante, pp. 582, 583.

Surely, no "variation of instinct," however complex, can possibly account for such a deviation from the normal!

It is hardly necessary to give more evidence as to the presence of reason in the psychical organisms of the lower animals; I believe that I have clearly demonstrated that some of them do make use of intelligent ratiocination. To prove that this view, i.e. that the lower animals reason, is widely held, I need only point to the works of such men as Darwin, Buechner, Forel, Huber, Lubbock, Hartmann, Kirby and Spence, and dozens of others.[92]

[92] Darwin, Descent of Man; Romanes, Animal Intelligence, Mental Evolution in Animals, Mental Evolution in Man; Lubbock, Senses, Instincts, and Intelligence of Animals, and Ants, Bees, and Wasps; Hartmann, Anthropoid Apes; Buechner, Geistesleben der Thiere; Huber, Natural History of Ants, etc.

We have seen that the lower animals seem to possess very near, if not quite, all of the fundamental psychical habitudes of the highest animal of all—Homo sapiens; we will now proceed to study certain psychical attributes in the possession of the lower animals which man has lost in the process of evolution. These attributes will be embraced under the heading of Auxiliary Senses.



CHAPTER VIII

AUXILIARY SENSES

When we come to examine the methods by which, or through which, many of the lower animals protect themselves from their enemies, we soon discover that some of these means are very wonderful indeed. It is not my purpose to discuss instinctive protective habits in this chapter; I wish rather to call attention to two senses,[93] which are to be observed in certain of the lower animals, and which man and some of the higher animals have lost in the process of evolution. I refer to tinctumutation, the "color-changing" sense, and the sense of direction, or, as it is commonly and erroneously termed, the "homing instinct." Neither of these faculties is instinctive, but they are, on the contrary, true senses, just as hearing, or taste, or smell is a sense. Careful dissections and repeated experiments have shown me, beyond peradventure, that these two psychical habitudes have their centres in the brains (ganglia) of animals which possess them.

[93] I believe that I am the first to claim the sensual importance of tinctumutation and the sense of direction or the "homing sense." Heretofore they have been regarded, by all authorities as far as I know, as instinctive in character.—W.

The chromatic function—and I use this term to designate the faculty of changing color according to surroundings—is possessed by a number of the lower animals. The chameleon is the best known of all the tinctumutants (tinctus, color, and mutare, to change), though many other animals possess this faculty in a very marked degree. In order to understand the manner in which these changes or modifications of color take place, one must know the anatomy of the skin, in which structure these phenomena have their origin. The frog is a tinctumutant, and a microscopic study of its skin will clearly demonstrate the structural and physiological changes that take place in the act of tinctumutation. The skin of a frog consists of two distinct layers. The epidermis or superficial layer is composed of pavement epithelium and cylindrical cells. The lower layer, or cutis, is made up of fibrous tissue, nerves, blood-vessels, and cavities containing glands and cell elements. The glands contain coloring matter, and the changes of color in the frog's skin are due to the distribution of these pigment-cells, and the power they have of shrinking or contracting under nerve irritation. The pigment varies in individuals and in different parts of the body. Brown, black, yellow, green, and red are the colors most frequently observed. The color-cells are technically known as chromatophores. If the web of a frog's foot be placed on the stage of a microscope and examined with an achromatic lens, the chromatophores can readily be made out. Artificial irritation will immediately occasion them to contract, or, as is frequently the case, when contracted, will occasion them to dilate, and the phenomena of tinctumutation may be observed in facto. Under irritation the orange-colored chromatophores, when shrunk, become brown, and the contracted yellow ones, when dilated, become greenish yellow. When all the chromatophores are dilated, a dark color will predominate; when they are contracted, the skin becomes lighter in color. Besides the pigment-cells just described, Heincke discovered another kind of chromatophore, which was filled with iridescent crystals. They were only visible, as spots of metallic lustre, when the cells were in a state of contraction. He observed these latter chromatophores in a fish belonging to Gobius, the classical name of which is Gobius ruthensparri.[94] I have seen this kind of color-cell in the skin of the gilt catfish, which belongs to a family akin to Gobius. The skin of this fish retains its vitality for some time after its removal from the body of the living animal, and the chromatophores will respond to artificial irritation for quite a while. In making my observations, however, I prefer to dissect up the skin and leave it attached to the body of the fish by a broad base. A few minims of chloroform injected hypodermatically rendered the animal anaesthetic, and I could then proceed at my leisure, without being inconvenienced by its movements. The causation of tinctumutation is now definitely known. The theory that light acts directly on the chromatophoric cells has been proved to be incorrect. Even the theory that light occasions pigmentation is no longer tenable. I have, time and again, reared tadpoles from the eggs in total darkness, yet they differ in no respect from those reared in full daylight. The chromatophores were as abundant and responded to irritation as promptly in the one as in the other. The distinguished Paul Bert declared that the young of the axolotl could not form pigment when reared in a yellow light. Professor Semper, on the contrary, declares Bert's axolotls to be albinos, and states that albinism is by no means infrequent in the axolotl; also that Professor Koelliker, of Wuertzburg, reared a family of white axolotls in a laboratory where there was an abundance of light, and that he (Semper) never succeeded in rearing an albino, though there was less light in his laboratory than in that of Koelliker, and his axolotls came from the same stock. Bert made the mistake of confounding albinism with the phenomenon of etiolation in plants; in fact, he gives the name "etiolation" to the albinism noticed in his axolotls.[95]

[94] Semper, Animal Life, p. 93.

[95] Ibid., p. 88 et seq.

There is a marked difference between the functions of the chlorophyll bodies found in plants and the chromatophores found in animals. The former play one of the most important roles in the drama of plant life, inasmuch as they subserve a vital function, while the latter act a minor part, because they serve only as an instrument or means of protection.

Light is of great importance in its influence on chlorophyll, which is a microscopic, elementary body on which the vital strength of the plant depends, while it is not at all necessary to the chromatophores,—cell bodies secreting pigmentary matter for the purpose of protection. Of course, when animals are subjected to darkness for very long periods of time, the chromatophores are modified, and, sometimes, are wholly obliterated. They follow a well-known natural law, which declares that, when a function of an organ is no longer of any use to an animal, both organ and function become rudimentary, and finally disappear.

Many animals live for generations in total darkness before losing their pigment. I, myself, have seen black beetles in Mammoth Cave, Kentucky, in the neighborhood of Gorin's Dome, which is far within the depths of the cave. As beetles rarely range over a hundred yards from their place of birth, these insects must have been born in the cave and reared in the dark.

When speaking of light, if not otherwise specified, I mean diffused daylight which carries no heat rays. I believe that heat is a prominent factor in the production of color; the discussion of this point, however, does not properly belong to the subject under consideration.

Some experiments on newts, made by myself several years ago, show that the absence of light does not influence pigmentation,—that is, through several generations. My animals were kept under observation from the extrusion of the eggs until full maturity had been reached, and great care was taken to make experiments as accurate and as conclusive as possible.

Those reared in total darkness or in a red light were always dark-colored; those reared in a yellow light[96] were almost but not quite as dark; while those reared in white ironstone crocks and in diffused daylight were very much lighter, being pearl-gray in color. This apparent (for the microscope showed that it was only apparent) absence of color in the last-mentioned specimens was due to tinctumutation.

[96] Vide Dewar, "The Physiological Action of Light," Nature, p. 433, 1877; quoted also by Semper, loc. cit. ante, Notes, p. 423. I do not think that the absence of the slight amount of color in the animals reared under the yellow light was due to the "optic current" of Dewar. The microscope showed that the chromatophores were just as large and just as numerous, and that they contained as much pigment, as those reared under the red light. The apparent absence of color was due to tinctumutation.—W.

In most viviparous animals the embryo is developed in almost or absolutely total darkness, yet when it is born it has bright colors. Kerbert has found in the cutis of the embryonic chick, about the fifteenth day, certain pigment-cells. These cells have entirely disappeared by the twenty-third day. It is probable that little, if any, light can reach the chick through the shell and membranes, yet pigment-cells develop and disappear again.[97]

[97] Karl Semper, Animal Life, p. 422.

A butterfly emerges from the cocoon arrayed in all the colors of the rainbow; yet it was developed, while in the pupa state, in total darkness. It is not necessary to mention further instances; we readily see that pigmentation in animals is not necessarily dependent on light. Neither is tinctumutation the result of the direct influence of light on the chromatophores. Light, however, if not the direct, is the indirect cause of this phenomenon. Lister, in 1858, showed that animals with imperfect eyesight were not good tinctumutants, notwithstanding the fact that they had the chromatophoric function. He showed, by his experiments on frogs, that the activity of the chromatophores depended entirely on the healthy condition of the eyes,—that is, so far as the phenomenon of tinctumutation was concerned. So long as the eyes remained intact and connected with the brain by the optic nerve, the light reflected from the surrounding objects exerted a powerful influence on the chromatophores. As soon as the optic nerve was severed, the chromatophores ceased to respond to the influence of light and color, no matter how bright and varied they were. The deductions drawn from these experiments are not to be controverted or denied. The chromatophores are influenced by light reflected from objects and transmitted via the optic nerve to the brain; from this organ the impression or irritation goes to the nerve governing the contractile fibres of these pigment-holding glands.[98]

[98] Karl Semper, Animal Life, p. 95.

Pouchet followed Lister, and confirmed his conclusion by experiments on fishes and crabs. He remarked that the plaice—a fish with a white under-surface and a party-colored back—had the chromatophoric function highly developed. Among a number of specimens which appeared pale on the white, sandy bottom, he met "one single dark-colored fish, in which, of course, the chromatophores must have been in a state of relaxation; and this specimen was as distinct from its companions as from the bottom of the aquarium. Closer investigation proved that the creature was totally blind,[99] and thus incapable of assuming the color of the objects around it, the eyes being unable to act as a medium of communication between them and the chromatophores of the skin."[100] Thus far Pouchet had only confirmed Lister's observations, although it is highly probable that he was unaware of Lister's experiments. But he went a step further. There are two ways in which cerebral impressions may be transmitted from the brain to the skin: one, by way of the spinal cord and the pairs of nerves arising from it and known as spinal nerves; the other, by two nerves running close to the vertebral column—the sympathetic nerves.