Another very important element in his fitness for the struggle of life lies in the fact that he is unafraid of man. He is wary of man; by which I mean he will quickly fly up from in front of man's feet. It is exceedingly difficult to catch a sparrow in one's hand. It is far easier to lure a pigeon within reach. But the sparrow, when escaping your hands, comes to rest but a slight distance away, only to elude you quite as successfully if you try again. If the sparrow is let severely alone he becomes more and more familiar with men, flies less promptly, and goes a shorter distance, but any attempt to trap him renders him shy more quickly than almost any other bird we have. He soon learns to avoid a trap in which his companions have come to grief. Those who would poison or trap sparrows must change constantly the base of their operations. This fearlessness of man is a valuable asset to the bird, for it is an important defense against other foes.

The most serious enemy the birds at large have, after man himself, is the bird of prey. Hawks and owls capture a large quantity of our smaller birds. Now the hawks and owls are for the most part shy of man. They have gotten a bad reputation, especially if they are of any size, because of their more or less pronounced proclivities for seizing our domestic poultry, and consequently many people will fire upon a hawk or an owl who would probably fire upon no other bird. By living close to man the sparrow is largely saved from the danger of capture by these carnivorous creatures, and this is the first and a very important element of the advantage to the sparrow of living near man. But there is the additional advantage that man scatters about him, in one way or another, a very considerable amount of waste food. I have suggested that the seeds in the droppings of the horse form a large proportion of the sparrow's food, and horses are to be found only with men. In the neighborhood of man's home, unless he has become sanitary to a degree which has only been attained in recent years, there is usually more or less garbage, kitchen offal of one sort or another. To this the sparrow has easy access and from it he makes many a meal. But this fearlessness of man gives him still another advantage which his competitors fear to use, it provides him with nesting sites.

Man has the faculty of putting up ornamental trimmings on his house, and there is no spot the sparrow chooses more willingly in which to build his nest than the ornamental quirks and cornices of man's architecture. A Corinthian column with comely leaves in its capital seems especially designed for the comfort of the sparrow, and his distinctly untidy nest is the familiar disfigurement of almost every ornate public building. These are the advantages which come to the sparrow from his willingness to associate with man, and there are comparatively few birds with whom he must share them. Few birds select the immediate neighborhood of man's home for their nests. They may live in the neighboring trees, they may haunt his orchard, but his house, for the most part, they decline to frequent.

Still another quality which makes for success in this buccaneer is the willingness with which he will vary his food as occasion requires. It is a not infrequent characteristic of the bird family that each species should have its own rather restricted diet. Birds are quite particular eaters, and many of them will come well nigh to starvation before they will use unaccustomed food. The sparrow, on the contrary, like man, eats almost anything he comes across that could reasonably be considered edible. He belongs to a group of birds which are structurally adapted to cracking the hard coats of seeds. This group of birds known as the finches is provided with the sort of bill familiar in the ordinary canary bird. It is short, heavy at the base, comes quickly to a point, and is firm and strong. With it the bird readily breaks through the hard outer coat of most seeds and feeds upon the rich cotyledons that are enclosed within. Nowhere in its entire structure does the plant crowd so much nourishment in so little space as it does in the seeds. It is not by chance that the great human food is grain. The sparrow belongs to the one bird group that makes a specialty of such seeds.

Most of the English sparrow's cousins in this finch group confine themselves rather rigidly to this diet. Here the variability of the sparrow again gives him the advantage. He may have the family fondness for seeds, but in their absence he can be content with almost anything edible. In the early springtime, when the seeds of last year are gone and those of the new year have not yet been produced, the sparrow is not averse to eating young buds from the trees. At this time he is not unlikely to eat our sprouting lettuce and peas. It is easy to be severe on him in this matter; but for a creature like man, who has the same tastes, who eats the enormous buds of the cabbage, the cauliflower, and the brussels sprouts, or the more tender buds which he calls heads of lettuce, it seems particularly inappropriate that he should throw stones at this little creature whose tastes are so similar to his own.

While seeds are more suitable for an elder bird they are altogether too indigestible to be the food of nestlings. So when the sparrow finds its nest full we know he must sally forth in search of nourishment more simple of digestion. Now for a few weeks he searches assiduously, catching insects and caterpillars of various kinds, and feeds them to his young. This taste passes as his children grow older, especially as shortly the seeds begin to ripen. Now is the time for the sparrow to fatten. Now he is eating the food for which he was really built. By the time the wheat is ripe there are sparrows enough about to form quite a flock, and when these settle down in a wheat, rye, or oats field and feed upon the grain, meanwhile shaking out upon the ground perhaps as much as they eat, the farmer begins to realize that the sparrow is not his friend.

When winter comes the struggle for existence among the birds is intensified, and comparatively few of them dare face it. Most of our birds betake themselves to less rigorous quarters, leaving to the sparrow a comparatively small number of competitors for the diminished supply of food. As long as the snow is off the ground the sparrows can find sufficient sustenance. They gather themselves into groups and sally out from the city into the open country. The immediate result is that great quantities of weed seeds are seized upon by the English sparrow, as, indeed, by every other finch which is with us in winter. Perhaps we have not given the little fellow credit for the good he does at this particular time, for the rest of the account truly does not help him in our esteem.

There is a further direct advantage in the sparrow's sociability. One robin may nest in the vines about your porch. If there were room for a dozen, scarcely more than one would be likely to use it, because he would drive away any other robin who attempted to share the neighborhood with him. To the sparrow company is always in order. While he may quarrel from morning until night with his fellow, it is a sociable quarrel and neither would willingly forgo it. This union is strength among birds, as with man. Every animal is safer from his enemies when he can have the constant presence of others of his own kind. The deer that stays in the herd is safer from the wolves. It is only when the latter succeed in cutting out some weaker or less sagacious animal that these carnivorous creatures succeed in tearing down their prey. I think the superiority of the sparrow over most of our common birds, when considered as a city dweller, is scarcely understood. Because he had won in the race with other birds is no necessary indication that he warred directly against them. Bird-men often attribute to him a quarrelsome disposition, as if he actually drove other birds away. It almost seems like animosity against the sparrow to speak of him as attacking blackbirds and crows. It is a cowardly crow who can be driven away by a sparrow, and if the two cannot live together it seems to me certainly to the discredit of the crow and not of the sparrow. I believe the truth to be that, while the sparrow is undoubtedly a quarrelsome fellow, his bickerings are his form of social converse with those of his own kind. A quarrel among themselves seems not to indicate animosity, but would appear to be the sparrow's idea of conviviality. It rarely leads to serious results. I have never seen a male sparrow trounce any other bird with half the vigor that I have occasionally seen the mother sparrow evince when she caught her male companion by the feathers of his head, hung him over the side of the limb, and vigorously and thoroughly shook him until he desisted from his annoying and possibly insulting attentions. The truth of the matter is that a colony of these little birds, with their continual social chatter, including their quarrels, makes such a continuous noise that the ordinary bird, which is generally of rather quiet disposition, is too much annoyed by the unending nuisance to find the neighborhood at all to his taste. Where a large number of sparrows have gathered together the conditions are such as would give a robin or a bluebird nervous prostration, and his only recourse is to depart to a neighborhood where there is more peace and quiet. But our English sparrow is not only better fitted for the struggle than the robins and bluebirds, the orioles and the wrens. He has one important advantage over even his own sparrow cousins. The males are handsome—much more so than the females or than their sparrow cousins in general.

In the song sparrow, field sparrow, chipping sparrow, and the fox sparrow the male and female are very nearly alike in color. It often becomes necessary for the bird-man to examine the internal organs of the bird he is stuffing before he can certainly decide its sex. But there is no difficulty whatever in telling the male from the female of the English sparrow. The male is far the more ornate bird. His back is striped with a richer brown; his head has two splendid dashes of chestnut over the eyes; his throat and breast are splashed with red and lustrous black; his bill is a clear fine black. Altogether the bird is strikingly colored for a sparrow, and this characteristic is the more remarkable when we see how quiet and somber is his more modest mate. This brilliancy of male plumage in the presence of the somber color of his mate would seem to indicate that the English sparrow is eye-minded rather than ear-minded. It is true among human beings that most of them are eye-minded. That is to say, they notice things with their eyes chiefly. Memories they have are memories of things seen; recollections of their friends bring up the appearance of their friends. Their language is full of metaphors which imply form and shape. But occasionally we come across an ear-minded person. He remembers voices quite as well as he remembers faces. To him music is an unending delight, and painting and sculpture fall into a distinctly secondary place. This is ear-mindedness. Now, most of the sparrows seem to be ear-minded, at least as far as their recognition of their mates are concerned. In this group beauty of song is developed many times oftener than is especial ornateness of plumage. The bird-lover who is himself keen of ear is never tired of listening, when in the field, for the two low notes with which the vesper sparrow introduces a song, the rest of which is not at all unlike the one of his song-sparrow cousin. The field sparrow begins more like the song sparrow, but ends with an often repeated note, which not a little resembles in general character the somewhat more monotonous song of the grasshopper sparrow or of the chippy. In comparison with these melodious birds the English sparrow makes no showing whatever. His voice is harsh and querulous, although very occasionally it is possible for the bird-lover to detect a note or two which would indicate that, if he were properly educated, his voice might amount to something. He wins his wife not by his pleasant voice, but by his attractive appearance and his winning ways. We have every right to infer from the character of its fellow birds of the sparrow family that once the female and male sparrow were colored about alike. But Madam English Sparrow was apparently eye-minded rather than ear-minded. Whatever pleasant voice a suitor might have seems to have been to her without attraction, and there was nothing to encourage him in developing it, nor was she likely to mate with him for it and transmit it to her male children. On the other hand, let a suitor appear in whom a more brilliant coloring proclaimed his superior vigor, and this seems to catch her eye at once. The less accomplished rival in the tournament of love seems to have been already forgotten. To their children these successful characteristics were naturally handed on and led to equal success on their part. If any of these children possessed this badge of honor in a more than ordinary degree, he was the more likely to win a mate and thus again the opportunity of passing on to his offspring his own distinct advantage. Generation by generation the males have become more beautiful and the females more discriminating. That the bird is either instinctively or actually conscious of this advantage would appear from the constant fluffing of his feathers and spreading of his highly colored wings with which he evinces his admiration for his ladylove. Even the most hardened dweller in the city can scarcely have failed to see the sparrow spread his wings, fluff his feathers, and sink close to the ground, twirling and gyrating about the object of his affection. It must give him a shock to see how often she proves temporarily or hypocritically indifferent to the demonstrative proceedings. Indeed they may terminate in a thorough trouncing of the male on the part of the lady of his affections. Now this preference for color over song must have evidently evolved in connection with the development of social habits in the English sparrows. His cousins of the fields, our native sparrows, are much less social, much less likely to be met with in flocks. To birds who scatter more, beautiful song is a great advantage. It can be heard at a long distance. But when birds flock together a much better advantage is that of beautiful clothing, added to alluring ways.

But we have not nearly exhausted the catalogue of the traits belonging to our little friend which give him the advantage over other birds in the struggle for life. His ability to remain with us in winter when most birds are gone stands him in good stead.

It is readily observed by one who pays the least attention to outdoor life that winter finds us with comparatively few birds. North of Maryland and the Ohio River the robin is practically absent in the winter, except in much diminished numbers close to the border. The bluebird is similarly absent; the great flocks of blackbirds are gone; the bobolink is missing entirely; the thrush and the catbird have all left; the flicker and red-headed woodpecker are also spending their winter in the South. The great mass of our bird population has left us until warmer weather shall bring back to us once more our feathered friends. It is true that we are south to the snowbirds or juncos, and their little slate-colored bodies, with their light breasts and their white on each side of the tail, make our bare hedge rows brighter by their presence. A few of our birds like the song sparrow and the cardinal are hidden away in the thicket, and have not all joined their comrades in the south.

The English sparrow was once probably quite as migratory as any of the rest of these, but a great change has come over his habits. With his newly acquired fondness for the haunts of men he has suffered a change in this respect also. Whatever may have been his reason for migrating, it no longer holds. He now finds himself quite able to stand the cold of winter. Accordingly he never leaves us, except very temporarily. When the migrating season comes the sparrows of the neighborhood are very likely to gather themselves together in a single group and take to the neighboring country. I believe this flocking on their part at this time of the year is a remnant of the old migratory habit. Until snow covers the ground the sparrow is not likely to be seen again in such numbers in the city. The advantage the sparrow gains over his competitors by not going south does not appear during winter. When spring comes, however, his gain is evident. He has his choice of all the nesting sites in the region. When the migratory birds return every first-class place is filled by a sparrow's nest. Nothing but second choice situations remain, and with these the late comers must be content. When we consider how much the safety of the next generation depends upon the security of the young while helpless in the nest, we appreciate what the English sparrow has gained by staying throughout the year. Often while the season is so inclement that it would seem there is still danger of frost, the sparrow builds her nest. All sorts of places are open to her choice. She will find a protected corner under a roof, above a spout, in the corner of the porch, behind an open shutter, in the vines against the side of the house, on top of an old robin's nest in the tree, in the bird boxes which have been put up for more desirable creatures; anywhere and everywhere this industrious little mother is liable to build her nest. Her husband will help her more or less in the task, often bringing material and helping to place it in the negligent pile of which their nest is composed. But he does a good deal more fussing and cheering up than he does actual work, and she seems to depend much upon his cheerful presence for her happiness. It is hard to discourage Madam Sparrow when once she has set her mind on home-making. A bird-lover, some time since, reported how a pair of sparrows had started to build a nest upon his lawn. He, wishing to interfere with the process, took a small rifle and shot the male bird. Within twenty minutes the female, who had scouted round the neighborhood, returned with another mate and resumed her nest-building process. Again he interjected the tragic note into her life by shooting her second husband, only to find her start out in pursuit of a third, with whom she returned in the course of an hour. He felt that by this time he had interfered with her domestic happiness as much as he had any right to do, and suffered her to continue her housekeeping with her third husband without further molestation. I imagine it would have puzzled both birds to tell who was the father of the nestlings who appeared two weeks later.

Not only do sparrows nest early, they nest often. I suggested to one of my students that she locate as early in the season as she could the nest of a pair of English sparrows, which was sufficiently accessible, and that she keep it under observation at intervals of a few days throughout the summer. In the fall she came to me with glowing eyes and gave me her report. "It is simply great," she said. "I never went to that nest a single time this summer to find it empty. When I first got there I found four eggs; after a while these hatched out, and the young were on the nest until they were old enough to fly; but before they had left she had slipped a fresh egg among them, ready to start a new batch. Whenever I saw the nest throughout the entire summer, I found in it either eggs, or young, or both." Such reproductive energy as this is hard to beat; compared with this rate of increase, the ordinary bird is the exponent of race suicide. How can a robin hope to compete with this family industry? What can a bluebird offer that will approach such chances of a worthy successor when his work shall be finished?

These, then, are the most important points in which the English sparrow has varied from his sparrow cousins and made of himself the most successful town dweller in the bird world. He has become clannish and gained the advantages of cooeperation. He has used man's highways and cars by means of which to expand his area. He has cultivated the presence of man and thus gained protection from his enemies, food from man's waste, and nesting sites on man's house. He has assumed a varied diet. The male has become handsome. He has given up migrating, and thus secured the best nesting sites. He has learned to produce many offspring. With all his versatility, why should he not succeed?

Thrown into competition with our native birds, he easily beats them on their own ground. He survives against the competition of birds which seem to us more estimable in every way. The very fact that he survives proclaims his superiority over them, and shows that our criterion is not the one by which nature judges. We like the birds which serve our purpose. We admire the brilliant plumage of the jay, cardinal and goldfinch. We love the mellow notes of the woodthrush, and of the veery, the clear, rollicking outpourings of the bobolink, the musical love song of the brown thrasher, the cheerful scolding of the wren. We are fond of the birds who busy themselves taking the insects out from among our grain and from off our fruit trees. We can only understand the value of the bird to nature when he is valuable to us. So, because the English sparrow does little that is to our advantage and much that is to our annoyance, he is in our estimation a reprobate and an unending nuisance.

All sensible bird-men must clearly acknowledge that he is a very undesirable citizen. I write the above sentence to show that I realize the whole duty of the bird-lover in the matter of the sparrow. This pestiferous creature should be exterminated by traps, by grain soaked in alcohol, or strychnia, by fair means or foul. But personally, I am taking no share in his destruction. Any bird-lover, after reading the foregoing account, can scarcely have missed the undercurrent of my affection for the little rascal. He is a thorough optimist; he is absolutely persistent; no hardship seems to dampen his ardor. His heart is valiant above that of most birds so that he has dared to make of man his near neighbor when other birds consider him their worst enemy. I love him for it. When I am in the midst of a big city with its cliffs of offices and its gorges of paved streets, it is to me a cheer and a delight to see this happy little fellow who has adapted himself to circumstances against which no other bird, excepting the pigeon, can cope. I confess that it would be with regret that I should see him disappear from the landscape. I have missed a long line of spring peas through his ravages, and he has objectionably decorated many places about my own home. But I have yet the first violent hand to lay upon the sparrow, and I doubt whether my hand is ever to be reddened with his blood.

I am going to ask bird-men to forgive me if I say that I believe, although I speak only from general impression, and not from careful research, that the sparrow within the past eight years has reached his equilibrium in the neighborhood of Philadelphia and is growing no more abundant. Meanwhile another and very desirable state of affairs is arising. Bird love and bird protection are so active in this neighborhood that there is growing to be a new race of birds who lack the fear of man their ancestors justly had. Under these conditions the wild birds, which for a while we believed to have been completely driven out by the sparrow, are rapidly returning to our villages and towns, and we have many more robins and catbirds, wrens and flickers than we had ten years ago. We have seen the worst of the English sparrow; he has now found his equilibrium.



CHAPTER IV

ADAPTATION FOR THE INDIVIDUAL

Among the standard books of the classical curriculum in the denominational college of thirty years ago was a volume which I suppose has practically disappeared from such courses. It delighted many of its students for a reason entirely different from that which the author meant should be its taking feature. It was Paley's "Natural Theology." The author started with a story of a watch found by a savage. This child of nature was supposed to examine its mechanism and to infer that the watch was made for a definite purpose. As I remember, he was even supposed to discover that its purpose was to mark time. It was at least to become clear to his savage mind that this was no chance object, but was the definite product of a designing mind. Having brought this hypothetical savage to these conclusions, the author turned himself to savages nearer home who fail to see design in nature. The book takes up a great many cases of interesting facts in animals and plants as clearly showing evidences of design as did the watch our savage picked up. But the inference we were expected to draw was that the design shown in nature argued clearly for a Designer above nature; in other words, that nature was unintelligible without God. Everyone in the class believed in God without this preliminary, and consequently the book was unnecessary, so far as we were concerned. We started with the condition of mind which the author hoped to produce. One effect the book did have; in the absence of any other reputable course in zooelogy, it gave us an astonishing collection of interesting facts about animals.

Some of Paley's statements were certainly peculiar. His Malay pig with its upper teeth wonderfully curved was said to be in the habit of hanging its head upon a bush while it slept, in order to save the strain upon its porcine neck. This was too much even for our credulity. None the less the impression made upon some of us by the evidence for design in nature has never left us.

Among many scientists to-day it is supposed to be crude to speak of purpose in nature, and there is reason for their attitude. But the statement that there is no such plan conveys to the ordinary thinker a meaning that is far more erroneous than could possibly exist in his mind should he believe implicitly in design and purpose. As between design in the universe in the usual sense of the word, and a purely accidental connection of events in the universe, there can be no doubt as to the choice. The truth is far better expressed by the word design than by the chaos which is the alternative idea in the average mind. In these later years we have come to use a different word. We now conjure in such connection with the word adaptation. In every animal and every plant the trained eye sees unending examples of adaptation; that is, of a fittedness to the work it has to do. The modern scientist feels sure not only that the animal is fitted to his work, but that he has been so fitted by the work; that the very use he makes of his organs has determined their structure. This work has decided that the structure which he has is the structure that shall survive and shall produce other structures like itself. Adaptation therefore does not simply express the idea that the animal is adjusted to its surroundings, but it further suggests that the animal by gradual process has become thus adjusted. The word adaptation applies not simply to the result, but also to the process. The scientist does not consider the animal a final and complete result. He thinks it still in a state of flux, and so long as its line lasts it will be in a state of flux. Change is about it on every side, and it must adapt itself to this change or it will pass away. It may adjust itself, as has been previously stated, by moving to another environment in which it feels more at home, but unless it does this, if there come much change in its present surroundings, it must either meet the difficulty by altering itself, or it must give up the struggle. The alteration is unconscious so far as the animal is concerned. It is seriously to be doubted whether there is any recognition of the process on the part of any animal excepting man. But though the process be unconscious, it is none the less there. Slowly and gradually the animal and the environment are becoming adjusted to each other.

While it is exceedingly difficult to lay our hands on any animal which is at present visibly changing its structure, it is not hard to find closely related animals. These are nearly alike in structure in most respects. In a few points, however, they may differ materially, and these points are often directly concerned with different habits of life. Considered in this aspect, these adaptations of a single organ separately examined form an excellent argument in favor of that gradual alteration of the entire organism which evolution suggests.

The most primitive struggle in which an animal can possibly engage is the effort to maintain its own life and vigor. This struggle will result in certain adaptations for the individual, adjustments which make for the safety of the animal himself. These form the subject matter of the present chapter.

The farther up the animal kingdom we pass in the study of adaptation, the more likely we are to find changes which have but little bearing on the safety of the individual. They work for the good of the entire species, sometimes to the distinct disadvantage of the individual. The King Salmon may make its long run to the headwaters of our western rivers, deposit its eggs, have them fertilized, and then float down to death. But it does not die before abundant preparation has been made for the continuance of the race. Such adaptation for the good of the species will be considered in the next chapter.

The first and most important struggle any animal has to enter is the never-ending battle for its food. Occasionally there is a similar straining after the air it breathes. But ordinarily air is sufficiently abundant, except to animals living in the water, where the supply is always more or less restricted and easily becomes exhausted. But food is the constant need of every organism, and most creatures die for lack of it. In this struggle the animal is pitted against those of his own kind, rather than against those of other species. Even his brother is his enemy, for he desires the same food. In many a nest of birdlings one of them fails to reach its development simply because the parent either is unable to find or it cannot carry enough food to satisfy all the hungry mouths in the same nest. Before the nestlings are ready to take their place in the struggle for life outside and hunt their own living, one or more of them has succumbed.

After the battle for food comes the struggle for shelter. For most animals there is no such thing as shelter. They are exposed to the inclemencies of the weather and to the depredations of their enemies without the means of retiring into any situation which might protect them. In the higher animals, especially when they are warmer blooded and their bodies must be kept at a higher temperature, some form of covering has come to be almost universal.

Though comparatively few animals are prepared to seek shelter from the cold, all of them have enemies against whom they must battle. These foes may wish to eat them or may simply wish to get them out of the way. In either event this struggle is so persistent and so keen that after starvation it is probably the source of the largest loss to the animal kingdom.

Considering first the feeding habits of animals, we find they are exceedingly varied. Some creatures simply engulf other and more minute animals, often only microscopic in size, in such quantities as to satisfy their hunger. Others, feeding upon larger plants or animals, must have some means of breaking off particles of this food; still others confine themselves entirely to nutritious fluids, and must have organs adapted to this particular type of food.

Insects are so common that anyone, who cares to, may easily verify what is here described. It will take nothing but a clear observant eye and a little patience to make out what is suggested. Each of our common insects has one of two clearly defined habits in the matter of food. Either it eats solid food, which must be made fine before it can be taken into the mouth, or it feeds upon liquids. These liquids may be easily accessible like the nectar of flowers, in which case one sort of mouth will serve; or they may be the juices inside the tissues of animals and plants, when an entirely different type of mouth must be employed in their acquisition. Perhaps the most easily found representative of the biting type of mouth, which breaks up solid food, will be seen in the common grasshopper. Doubtless each one of my readers has at some time taken a grasshopper into his hand, and, holding the tip of his finger against the insect's mouth, has promised the creature its freedom on condition that it disclosed its reprehensible habit of chewing tobacco. The grasshopper surely complied, and I trust the promiser was as good as his word. The grasshopper's head is so placed that, while it is at the front of its body, the mouth is directly on the under side of its head, while the eyes are at the top of the front of its face. Under these circumstances it cannot see what is going into its mouth, and this makes an interesting variation of conditions to which it must adapt itself. The means by which it accomplishes this will be clearer if the mouth of the grasshopper be compared with our own. Our lips are upper and lower, but the grasshopper has a front lip and a hind one. The broad front lip is easily seen at the forward side of the mouth. Just behind it, serving the purpose of our teeth, is a pair of hard jaws with horny tips upon them, which serve to break small pieces from its food. While our jaws and those of all other backboned animals work up and down, so that we may be said to have an upper and lower jaw, the grasshopper and all of his insect, crab, or spider relations, which have jaws at all, have them right and left, and they work from side to side. Behind these harder mouth parts is found a pair of softer jaws, each of which has on it a little finger-like feeler. With this pair the insect holds its food while the hard jaws break it to pieces. The hind lip follows, and is also provided with short finger-like feelers. The feelers on the hind lip and on the soft jaw are necessary because the eyes are so placed as not to be able to see what goes into the mouth, hence the insect must make up for the loss of sight by the addition of touch. The same type of mouth as the grasshopper has will be found among the beetles. Here the males sometimes have the hard jaws so enormously enlarged that they are known as pinchers and have given to their owners the name of pinching bugs. All insects with such jaws as these use them for breaking up solid food.

A glimpse at the mouth of the butterfly captured on an adjoining flower will show a most remarkable variation from that seen in the grasshopper. Practically all of the mouth parts mentioned are present in this insect, and its early ancestors had their organs practically like those of the grasshopper. Now they are so modified and united with each other as to be almost unrecognizable. The pair of soft jaws has become very much elongated, and they lock together in such a way as to enclose a hollow space between them through which the creature can suck its fluid food. Not only have these soft jaws joined together, but, because they have become so much elongated when not in use, they must be coiled up like a watch spring and laid between two hairy lip-like processes which correspond in reality to the two finger-like feelers of the grasshopper's hind lips.

The butterfly, lighting upon the corolla of the flower, uncurls this long "tongue," and through its hollow center pumps up into its crop the nectar which the flower has stored in its base. When the butterfly comes to get the nectar from the flower, it rubs upon its own hairy body pollen from the stamens of the flower and carries it to the pistil of the next flower of the same kind which it visits. Most of us have at some time sucked the nectar from the back of a torn honeysuckle blossom and approved the taste of the butterfly in this matter. If the airy creature be watched as it lights upon a flower, it will not be difficult to see it uncurl this long tongue and probe the depths of the flower. If the butterfly be taken in the hand and the tip of a pin inserted in the center of the coiled tongue, it can be uncoiled without the slightest harm to the butterfly.

Insects which wish to use for their food the juices of other animals or of plants do not find them so easy to gather. In the mosquito most of the mouth parts are developed into slender pointed bristles wrapped in a hind lip. These bristles serve to puncture the skin of the creature attacked, while the curled lip serves as a tube through which the blood may be extracted.

If, while sitting on the porch on a warm summer evening, mosquitoes begin to annoy, let one of them at least serve to show his method of procedure before he is destroyed. Allow the creature to alight upon the back of your hand and slowly raise the arm until the eye looking at near range can see the head of the mosquito, which, by the way, is sure to be a female. Males in this species are entirely harmless. They never eat after they have grown up; that is, after they are truly mosquitoes. But the female is very assiduous. Alternately raising and lowering her lancets from either side, she pierces, then saws, her way down through the flesh until she has buried her instruments in her victim and her head rests against her prey. Now a pumping motion of the abdomen will be apparent, and this continues its accordion-like action until it becomes more and more distended. The insect only gives up its task when the entire abdomen is swollen into a great red ball of blood. The mosquito will now slowly withdraw its instruments and retire from the scene, if permitted to do so. If there is any fear of annoyance from the bite, a drop of ammonia immediately applied will counteract any irritation which would have been produced by the saliva of the mosquito. The insect is not intentionally vicious in this procedure. It is simply gathering its own natural food, though this does not make it less annoying to us since we are its victims. The swelling produced after the bite is the result of the action of the saliva the mosquito injected into the wound. The opening through the tongue is so small that blood would readily clot inside the tube and prevent its further usefulness, did not the mosquito inject the secretion of its salivary glands into the wound. This acts upon the blood in such a way as to prevent its coagulation.

Anyone who thinks carefully can add numberless specializations for food getting. For instance, primitive mammals have little pointed teeth which fit them for feeding on insects. In each of the great order of mammals a special development of these teeth has occurred. Among the rodents or gnawing animals the front teeth have become long and chisel-shaped for nibbling. The horse has formed them for nipping, and his hind teeth for grinding. In the dog the teeth near the front have become long for tearing his flesh food, while his hind teeth, working with the motion of scissors, cut it into pieces.

A second great class of specialization is seen in the changes of habit that provide the animal with shelter. The home seems so necessary a part of human life that it is almost impossible to think of an animal having nothing that in the faintest degree could be called a home. We at least expect it to have some sheltered place in which it passes most of its time and to which it returns after its wanderings. The great majority of all animals have no such home. The place in which we find them to-day may not be the place in which they will be to-morrow. All places are alike to them. The ordinary conduct of their daily life drives them about in the search for food. Their attempt to escape from their enemies leads them each day into new situations, and they may, and probably do, have no power to recognize the old location if they return to it. When we come to the backboned animals there is a little more tendency to a stationary location. The sun fish may frequent the same reach of the stream, the trout may haunt the same pool, year after year, but a great majority of fishes doubtless move indiscriminately up and down the stream or about the lake or ocean and are not found two successive days in the same place. The same may be said of frogs. For a time a particular frog may have a fondness for a special bend in the stream, but it is only a temporary fondness, I believe.

Our own need for shelter is the prime motive in leading us to build a home, and this necessity arises first of all because of our warm blood. What we are accustomed to call cold-blooded animals are not truly so. Their blood holds practically the temperature of their surroundings. As the air or the water in which they live grows warmer or colder the bodies of these creatures alter with it. Consequently they are active when the temperature is high and grow more sluggish as the thermometer falls. When the day grows distinctly cold the animals may go practically dormant.

Only the birds and mammals have warm blood, and of these the birds are distinctly the warmer. Whereas the temperature of the mammals runs from about ninety-eight to a hundred degrees Fahrenheit, that of birds lies somewhere between one hundred and five degrees and a hundred and ten. Creatures which are warmer than their surroundings must have some protection against chilling. Accordingly both mammals and birds have clothing. In the case of mammals the covering is fur, in the case of birds feathers. In some of the tropical animals like the elephant and rhinoceros, or in man, who has learned to protect himself in cold regions by making clothing for himself, this hair is very short, and except where serving for ornament is quite scanty, no longer being of use as a protection. But the great majority of all mammals are well covered with a dense coat of hair. In many of those living in the colder regions there is in reality a double coat. The fur seal of the Alaskan Islands is so provided. A set of long hairs deeply fastened in the skin forms a covering, which shows on looking at the seal. Underneath this layer, and set but lightly into the skin, is a short coat of very much finer hair known as the underpelt. When the skin is taken from the seal it is split by machinery into a lower and an upper layer. When so split the deep-seated pits of the long hairs are cut, and these hairs come out. The fine underpelt thus laid bare is what is commonly known as sealskin. Fashion has decreed that this must be dyed a rich brown, although when taken from the animal it is nearly mouse gray.

The birds have need for better clothing. To begin with, their blood is much warmer, and hence needs better protection from outside cold. In addition such of them as fly high must be prepared to stand great variations in temperature. For these purposes birds need a covering of the finest type. This clothing, in addition, must be extremely light because the creature must carry it into the air in flight. All of the requisite conditions are thoroughly met by the feather, which is the lightest and warmest clothing known to man. If at night we wish, regardless of expense, to keep ourselves warm with the lightest and warmest of covering, we send to the Arctic Sea, and from the breast of the eider duck we pluck the down which lies between the warm blood of the duck with its temperature of one hundred and seven degrees and the water in which the iceberg floats.

Young mammals and birds, before their clothing has well formed, are naturally susceptible to cold; this leads to the first genuine approach to a home among animals lower than man. Birds lay their eggs long before the creatures inside of them are ready to emerge. Accordingly they have learned to build nests in which to place these eggs, and to protect them from the outside air; meanwhile the bird keeps the eggs warm by close contact with its own body. The lowest of the birds may lay their eggs simply on the ground without any special protection. As we rise in the scale of the bird world we find nests provided for the eggs. These nests become increasingly complex and specialized, until we reach the oriole's home with its wonderfully woven mass of fiber, which, in spite of its apparent looseness, supports well the weight of the mother bird and of her eggs. The robin, not content with making a woven basket, plasters it with clay, and makes an absolutely impervious nest.

When we remember that both mammals and birds are the modern descendants of cold and scaly reptiles of an earlier geological time, it becomes interesting to compare their clothing. Evidently in the mammals hairs began to come out between the scales. Gradually the scales became fewer and the hairs more abundant until finally the scales have all disappeared, except those that remain as the claws on the toes. The ancestors of the birds, on the other hand, boldly transformed their scales into feathers.

Another need for shelter arises in connection with the approach of winter. This problem of withstanding the cold season is complicated by the presence of two new factors. First and most directly, the cold itself is a distinct obstacle to the comfort of many of these creatures; as a secondary result of this cold, the food of many animals disappears entirely in winter. Most of our birds meet this difficulty by changing their base of operations. When the north grows cold these creatures fly to the south. Some of their migrations cover enormous stretches of country. Our bobolink, so well known and loved by all watchers of spring migrations, passes twice a year between the latitude of New York and Rio Janeiro. One of our most careful students of bird migration says that the Golden Plover makes, twice each year, the long journey from the Arctic shores of North America to the plains of La Plata.

Different fur-covered animals have specialized to meet the winter by any one of three different methods. They may brave it out, hunting for their food as best they can all winter long. Such a course is pursued by the rabbit. Again like the squirrel, they may store large quantities of food during the summer, and on this provender they may subsist during winter, remaining for most of the time near their hiding-places, which, however, they may frequently leave upon warm days. A third method is less common, but very interesting. The groundhog or woodchuck is the best-known example of the group. It remains asleep, or, as it is technically known, dormant, during the winter. This stupor is more profound than ordinary sleep, and from it these animals awaken with difficulty. It is needless to remark that the groundhog's behavior on the second of February has no relation whatever to the weather we are to have later in the season. This is coming to be pretty generally understood. While the newspapers each year comment upon the groundhog and his shadow upon that day, year by year the notice has more of humor in it, and fewer people pay any attention to it.

As for the backboned animals which are cold-blooded, these must, unless they are fish, give up the struggle completely, bury themselves in out-of-the-way places, and go worse than dormant. They often become absolutely cold and stiff. In the case at least of fish, it is quite possible for them to be frozen stiff, even to be enclosed in cakes of ice, and still to recover if the encasement is not too long continued. But the snakes, the turtles, the toads, the lizards, all are hidden beneath the ground waiting in absolutely unconscious rest the return of warmer weather.

After the need for food and shelter comes the continually recurring necessity on the part of almost every type of animal to escape from the unwearying persecution of higher creatures which would feed upon it. The whole creation is a constant network of animals which prey upon each other. It is the fate of a great majority of all creatures to fall victim to other animals to whom they serve as food. Accordingly nature has concocted many devices by which she assists her favored children in escaping this relentless persecution. Perhaps the most widespread means which animals have developed in order to elude their enemies lies in the possession of power to escape their attention. Two different factors may contribute to this end. The first of these consists in the practice on the part of many animals of remaining absolutely quiet in time of danger. This instinct seems to be nearly universal. The first impulse of most animals upon discovering danger is to remain absolutely motionless. The eye detects, with ease, objects in motion. These same objects might entirely escape attention were they quiet. A mouse could remain in the corner of a room for a long time without attracting the eyes of the occupants of the room. Let it but scamper across the corner, and at once it is discovered. It is quite conceivable that early animals were divided in the matter; that the impulse of some was to escape from danger, while others, frightened by the presence of the enemy, remained absolutely still. Each plan has succeeded. Those which, on running, ran fast enough to escape became the parents of others like themselves, led eventually to a line of animals in whose speed lay their safety. Those, however, which attempted to escape, and failed because they were not swift enough, had their line cut off, and were thus less likely to be represented in the following generation. The constant result of errors along this line would be to destroy the slow and preserve the swift, and in the course of time it is quite thinkable that only the swift should remain. As the movements grew more and more keen, even the slower of these would pass out, thus tending always to produce the succeeding generation from those who were most rapid, and hence most likely to transfer to their children a similar power.

But there is another tendency of animals which leads them when frightened by their enemies to remain quiet. If this impulse is obeyed thoroughly enough, it is easy to see how the owner of this habit might entirely escape detection by his enemy. Any restless animal unable to restrain his nervous agitation naturally betrays his presence and is picked off. The result of evolution along this line would be the exact reverse of the preceding. Those that lay most absolutely quiet would be the parents of succeeding generations, while those who were slow in coming to rest, or were indifferent about remaining quiet, were picked off, and their tendency eliminated from the future of the species. In this way many animals have come to keep entirely quiet in the presence of danger. It is not a sign of high intelligence. As a matter of fact, it is rather a stupid procedure, so far as the animal itself is concerned, but it is a preserving stupidity, and many animals have it.

The "June Bug" (which is not a bug, but a beetle, and arrives in May) has this interesting habit of keeping quiet. If in its flight it strikes the globe of an electric light, it falls at once to the ground, and remains perfectly quiet for a time. After a short interval it recovers and starts out to regain its previous activity. But this recovery is by slow stages, and the whole procedure on its part looks exceedingly stupid.

The little snake with flattened and expanded head, known as the blowing viper, or puff adder, is one of the most amusing representatives of the tendency to "play dead" that could well be found. If you strike him the faintest blow with the lightest stick, he at once goes into apparent convulsions, in which he seems to suffer the greatest agony. Then, throwing himself upon his back, he, to all appearances, yields up the ghost. If, however, you retire but a slight distance and keep your eye upon him, you find that his ghost returns after a comparatively short absence, and he slinks away out of danger. This is the most effective exhibition of this kind with which I am acquainted.

As for the habit of "playing 'possum" on the part of our opossum, the trick would seem to be particularly inane. The truth of the matter is, what is attributed to an unusual brilliancy on the part of the creature is positively unusual witlessness. The animal has an exceedingly small brain, as compared with that of a dog of similar size, and to anyone who knows brains at all this particular organ would not be looked upon as furnishing its owner much ability. The fact is that the opossum has exceedingly small wit, and this little deserts it in an emergency, as a result of which he grows helpless and motionless. This is often supposed to indicate great wisdom. There may be wisdom in it, but it is the wisdom that lies back of all nature. It certainly is not the wisdom of the opossum.

Man himself possesses to a marked degree this impulse to keep quiet in danger. The man from the country who is visiting the large city, suddenly startled by the "honk" of the auto horn, finds his power of movement promptly arrested, and he is not unlikely to be struck and injured by the machine from which the city dweller would easily escape. This is not particularly to the credit of the city dweller, who, when in the country, may find himself similarly startled by the sudden appearance of the calf, the pig, or the sheep. The bull, which a country boy, accustomed to him from childhood, will drive with a willow switch, is a source of terrified concern to the city man.

While the trick of keeping quiet serves many an animal in time of danger, there is another device for escaping attention, far more common and widespread throughout the animal world. The eye does not easily see an object if it is colored like the background against which it stands. A host of animals find their main safety in being indistinguishable in color from the surface on which they live. There are many biologists who seriously question whether protective coloration, as Darwin called it, is as effective as he believed it. In some quarters it is the present fashion to doubt protective coloration entirely. No one has yet shown any principles which will better explain the great color scheme of the animal world, and until such explanation is forthcoming I believe it will not be wise for us to discard the idea of protective coloration. No doubt it has been overworked by enthusiastic believers in its efficiency. At the same time, to overlook it completely, is, I believe, to make a greater error. I have little doubt that when the broader explanation comes, which will satisfactorily explain the color scheme of the animal world, the idea of protective coloration will be found, not so much to have been wrong, as to have been but partial. It will be included under the broader principle which takes its place and will not be supplanted by it.

The idea of protective coloration is that very many animals have ordinarily come to be colored like the background on which they live. The process has taken many generations, and is very slow, but is none the less sure in the end. In most cases the animal is probably entirely unconscious of this point in its favor, and usually it does nothing to assist the deception. The result is none the less effective because the animals themselves are unconscious of the process. The cabbage worm is green in color like the cabbage. This does not mean that it got green by eating cabbage or by longing for greennesses. Through long years the enemies of the cabbage worm have been picking it off the plants on which it fed. This does not imply that cabbages as we know them are very old, but cabbage worms doubtless ate the leaves of the sea-kale long before man had cultivated it into cabbage. During all these years the enemies of the caterpillars, generally in the shape of birds, have been assiduously gathering them up.

When we see how much the various members of the same human family may differ in complexion, how much the various pigs in the same litter may differ in size and in coloration, it is easy to understand that among these caterpillars which have eaten the cabbage there must have been considerable color variations. I do not imagine for a moment that the birds had any preference for any particular color in their cabbage worms. They took every caterpillar they saw, but they naturally first saw those that were least like the background on which they lived. The only caterpillar which was effectively hidden from his enemy was the one that was indistinguishable on the leaf. If it escaped in this way, the probabilities are that it would produce young which would be at least a little more likely to be green in color than the progeny of its darker-colored brothers and sisters. By this continued process the birds steadily weed out the darker-colored specimens. There would result, in the course of time, a race of caterpillars, whose ancestors for so many generations back had been light green in color, that there is little likelihood of any of the older and darker forms turning up again. In the course of time all dark tendencies will have disappeared from the family and practically all of the group will be light green. Any sport or variation in the shape of greater conspicuousness would fall a quick prey to the enemy and its line be cut off forever.

The same sort of activity has resulted in the peculiar green color of the katydid. This creature lives chiefly upon the leaves of trees and shrubs. This insect is so large that, even though it is leaflike in color, it might still be conspicuous. As a result those katydids whose wings were most like leaves in form were least likely to be picked up by the passing bird. This sort of protective appearance is intensified by exactly the same means as that which brought about protective coloration. The katydid least leaflike in appearance was eaten first. Thus those most leaflike remain until the last, and are most likely to produce young. Again, it was not the fact that they lived among leaves which made them look leaflike, but it is because they look like leaves that they escaped being devoured.

The katydid has materially assisted in its own preservation by being active chiefly at night. In the daytime it keeps comparatively quiet. Thus seated upon a twig, especially if hidden among the leaves, it is almost unnoticeable. At night, however, it moves about more freely, seeking its food and eventually its mate. At such times it becomes distinctly more conspicuous because its wings are steadily fluttering. The hind wings are filmy and are very light green. The creature looks most ghost-like as it flies through the evening air.

A very similar history lies back of the coloring of the ordinary toad. Though descended from the frog, and originally a creature of the water, the toad has long since adapted itself to live upon the dry ground. It still produces its young in the water as it did when a frog. Whereas the childhood of the frog, that is, its tadpole stage, is very long and it assumes its adult form comparatively late, just the reverse is the case of the toad. The young hasten through their tadpole stage within a few weeks, and assume the shape of the parent toad when about big enough to cover your little fingernail. Now they leave the water and seek dry land. Naturally they make the change when the land is damp, that is, after a warm spring rain. People seeing these multitudes of little toads hopping around over a bare spot of ground, and remembering the rain of the night before, insist that it has rained toads. Of course it never rains down anything which cannot evaporate up. The stories of showers of toads and of earth worms, with an occasional fish, or even creatures of larger size, are all pure myths. There are conceivable tornadoes after which there might be a shower of such creatures, but at such a time it is likely also to rain barn roofs and buggies. You may be sure that toads which come down in the rain are dead after they strike the ground.

The little toads started out, perhaps a hundred at a time, from the small pool in which their eggs were laid. These creatures find dragons on every side. The gartersnake comes along and gets his first toll; the heron follows him and takes such as catch his hungry eye; the turkey gobbles up his from what are left. By the time the toad-eating creatures in the neighborhood have taken such as they found, there are very few remaining. These doubtless have been left for a very good reason, generally because they were not noticed. This was because they looked like the ground on which they sat, and because they kept perfectly quiet while the enemy moved about. This process has gone on so long that the toad has come to be astonishingly well protected by its resemblance to the ground. This likeness it intensifies by its interesting habit not only of keeping entirely quiet, but of dropping its nose to the ground, instead of sitting high on its front legs, as it does when not in danger.

I have noticed that if a snake and a toad be placed in the same cage, when the snake approaches to capture the toad the toad drops into a squatting position, and is very likely to blow himself up until he is rounder in outline than he was before. Whether this is a deceptive trick which makes him the more resemble a stone is more than I can say. I do not remember having seen our eastern toad do it. I have seen it happen a number of times in the laboratory of a Colorado naturalist, and it is quite possible that in the open country more sparsely covered with vegetation than is our ground in the east this inflating device may serve the toad more effectually than if it kept its own outline.

Even among creatures far more active than the toad and the katydid an inconspicuous color must certainly result in distinctly better protection. Everyone knows the jay and the cardinal when first he has seen them, if only he has a slight acquaintance with their pictures. They are so conspicuous that we recognize them at once. More common in my region than the jay or the cardinal is the red-eyed vireo. This creature moves industriously in and out among the leaves of our trees. It is persistently in motion, is nearly constant in song, and is a bird of fair size, being larger than our English sparrow, though smaller than a robin. Many a nature lover will recognize twenty-five or thirty birds at sight without any difficulty, and not know the vireo. Yet the vireo is more common than two-thirds of the birds he knows. There can be but one reason for this; the bird is inconspicuous. The olive-green of its back, with its light under parts, serves to hide it completely amid the foliage. Even the bird-lover learns to find it first by its jerky song, and then by watching for its movements among the leaves.

One aspect of protective coloration has been brought to our attention by the artist, Mr. Abbott N. Thayer. He first clearly explained why it is that animals are usually so much lighter on the under side than they are upon the upper. Mr. Thayer proves his position by taking some ordinary cobblestones and painting one of them a uniform color and placing it upon a board painted the same color. One would think the stone would be inconspicuous; as a matter of fact, is quite easily seen. The underside of the stone, turned away from the light, is so shaded as to mark a distinct boundary between the stone and the board. Another cobblestone was colored on its upper side like the board, but the color faded into a lighter and lighter tint until the bottom of the stone was nearly white. This stone, placed upon the board, was at a short distance nearly invisible. In other words, although the pigment was actually lighter on the under side, it was so much less intensely illuminated, that the result was the same in tint as the other side under the clear sharp light of the sky.

Many a person, looking down into the water from a bridge, sees nothing whatever of the fish in the water below, because their backs are exactly like the bottom of the stream. Suddenly one of the fish, by a quick movement, turns its lighter under side over in such a way that it is clearly illuminated from the sky. Immediately a flash as of silver strikes the eye of the onlooker and makes him aware of the presence of the fish which had previously been undetected. If rendered thus suspicious, the observer will carefully examine the bottom of the water, he may quite likely find dozens of fish which had previously escaped his attention.

Nature is very versatile. So many of her apparently chance ventures have proved successful that she has retained many devices by which her children may be safe. One of these, which is doubtless often quite effective and may serve to save an animal's life, is that of being able to emit an odor so nauseating as to offend the enemy's sense of smell, and doubtless remove the keen edge of his appetite. It is not uncommon among the group of insects properly known as bugs to possess an exceedingly unpleasant odor. Anyone who has handled a squash bug will know exactly what I mean, and there are other members of the group not so common as the squash bug, which, at least to the human nose, are distinctly offensive. Some of the beetles also save themselves by this device.

One of the most interesting developments of this peculiarity is found in the case of the common skunk. This creature has in each groin a gland capable of secreting a highly offensive fluid. Ordinarily this liquid is kept safely within its sac, and for a long time none of it may escape. When closely cornered, the skunk will turn its tail toward the enemy and with a quiver and a flip of his tail it can guide the openings of two little tubes that come out along the root of the tail in such fashion as to eject the fluid in a fine and foul-smelling stream against the animal from which the skunk would escape. Once fairly hit by this fluid, I imagine most animals will drop the skunk. A dog surely will, and will hate himself for having made the attempt to capture anything which must be so ignominiously allowed to escape. If ones clothing is well saturated with it, it is nearly useless to hope to remove the odor. A dog will carry the smell for several weeks. For a long time it will be so strong as to make him an unfit denizen of the house. Even swimming in deep water does not remove it. After two weeks, although he may seem to be practically free from the odor, a light rain will bring it all out again and make him nearly as offensive as before.

Not as prompt in its action, but in the end nearly as effective, is the protective device which the toad sometimes uses to his distinct advantage. May I be pardoned a personal account of this particular feature. It was my good fortune to be for a short time a student in a class taught by Edward Drinker Cope, one of the most brilliant of our American biologists. Prof. Cope mentioned in class the fact that the Batrachians (the group to which the toad belongs) have in many cases the power to emit from their skin a fluid which is sufficiently nauseous to deter an animal from eating the creature that secretes it. Upon such authority as this, I had no hesitancy whatever in repeating Cope's statement. One morning I had a class in the field studying the ground ivy, whose dainty blue flowers were lifting themselves out of the dewy grass. While we were thus engaged, a toad joined the circle. He came out of his dewy retreat clean and fresh from his morning bath. I took him in my hands, and made him the subject of an immediate lesson. I showed to my pupils his eyes and his interesting method of handling them, his tongue and its strange insertion; showed them how to look into his mouth and look up his ears to his ear drums, and pointed out many other interesting facts. Then I told them how Cope had said that the toad had power to emit from its skin a fluid so nauseous that many an animal hesitates to eat it. This is the first peculiarity I had mentioned which I had not myself observed, and a scientific qualm came over my conscience. Why had I never verified this statement which I had so frequently repeated? On the impulse of the moment, with the bright, clean skin of the creature fresh from the dewy grass, making it less than usually repulsive, I ran my tongue up its back only to find that it had no taste whatever. I was of course surprised, but I was not foolish enough to deny, as the result of one observation, the statement of a good scientist. The observation, moreover, was one which I naturally did not care to repeat with any frequency. Of one thing I was sure, toads do not always have an unpleasant taste.

A year later I had a class down by the side of a neighboring pond. The pool was not an attractive one, and I had picked from it a more than commonly unappetizing looking toad, which proved to be a mother which had not yet laid her eggs. As I held her in my hands and exhibited her various points to my pupils, I told them of Prof. Cope's statement. I also told them of my unsuccessful attempt the previous year to verify the statement. I added, however, that I would not repeat this experiment on this unappetizing specimen. Hereupon the toad not only exuded, but squirted, from a gland over her left shoulder blade a fluid, milky-like in appearance, and forming a jet as thin as a needle, but ejected with force enough to strike my face, which was at least fifteen inches away. I moistened my finger on my tongue, lifted the fluid from my cheek, and tasted it. Cope was right. A toad can exude a most nauseous fluid. Horsechestnuts extracted and distilled might possibly provide something as bitter. Why did I not find this in the preceding case? I have too few observations on which to base a conclusion, but I have a suspicion as to the reason. In the case of the toad which spurted the fluid in my face, we had a creature with whose life were tied up the lives of her many offspring, to be produced from the eggs she was so soon to lay. Under conditions like these, nature is more than commonly careful of her children. Whether this be the reason or not, toads do not always have an unpleasant taste, but when they do it certainly is most unpleasant.

There remains to be considered the most effective plan yet mentioned of escaping the enemy, and that is of really escaping. In all the devices we have considered thus far the enemy is eluded. When the creature lies quiet, or finds safety in its protective coloration, or in its bad taste, or unpleasant odor, it still remains in the presence of the enemy. A more progressive plan altogether is to escape the enemy by flight. The great advantage of this plan lies in the fact that the acquisition is valuable for every purpose. The creature then can escape the enemy, can range widely for food or for a mate. This gives it an enormous advantage in the struggle for life. The power to fly, in insects, was doubtless originally gained in the attempt to escape the enemy. Among many of the lower animals it is nearly the only purpose that flying serves. Later on it enables the animal to pass from one food locality to another. In a few creatures it plays an effective part during the mating season. These last are probably both derived powers, and the original function was that of escape from the enemy. The grasshopper has grown its long legs to serve him for safety, and through them it is helped along, moving about chiefly by leaps when it wishes to go any material distance. It is only toward the very end of its life that the grasshopper has wings, and then they serve probably to aid in the search for a mate. Among the birds flight began simply in sailing out of the trees, into which the creature, still half lizard, had crept to escape its enemy. The earliest bird known to us had comparatively insignificant wings. There was really more support in its tail than in its wings, and this would distinctly indicate that it glided more than it flew. It had claws also upon its wings, and it was probably the case that this creature crept into the trees, at least in its earliest forms, and sailed down in a manner not unlike that employed to-day by the flying squirrel. From such simple beginnings came the wonderful power of flight in the birds.

Among mammals the attempt to escape from the enemy has led to an interesting development, which will be more fully explained in a later section when we speak of the history of the horse. The early mammals walked flat-footed, as we do on our feet and as the raccoon and the bear do on theirs. Gradually, however, as their enemies became more fierce and better able to injure the larger mammals, the latter gained in power of flight, and this gain consisted first in rising from the toes, lifting the heels completely off the ground. At the same time the leg and foot were gradually lengthened. Doubtless in this way the fleet animals, like the deer, the horse and the giraffe, first came by their long legs. Constant elimination of the short-legged ones, by the pursuing enemy, resulted in the selection of the long-limbed ones for breeding purposes, and hence to the ultimate elongation of the legs of the species.

The method of escape from the enemy involves cowardice. "He who fights and runs away may live to fight another day," and so it may be the part of wisdom in the weak creature to escape from his enemy by flight. It is a far more estimable process, from our standpoint at least, to stand against the onslaught of the enemy and beat him upon his own ground. This end is secured in many animals by acquiring horns or by lengthening certain of the teeth. The horn is a very ancient instrument of defense. When the reptiles ruled the land horns were not uncommon. They consisted in those days of hardened scales, which lengthened and fastened themselves over a core of bone. Such an old-fashioned instrument, sometimes made of newer materials, still remains the defense of a number of animals. The rhinoceros has upon his nose a lengthened projection, which is what might not improperly be called hair glued into a cone. This enormous horn is a frightful weapon, both of offense and defense, and, when backed by the terrible weight of the body of the rhinoceros, it can do as deadly work as almost any instrument of destruction known to animals below the grade of man. But, after all, this is an old-fashioned method, and the rhinoceros is a relic.

Among the carnivorous animals the teeth, which were developed first chiefly for the tearing of flesh in its consumption, became effective for their courageous owners. Because these tearing teeth are well developed in the dog they have come to be known as canine teeth. Usually where an animal can use its teeth effectively for offense or defense, it is the canine teeth that are thus modified. The cat has developed them better than the dog, and one of the cats of a bygone geological period had canine teeth so magnificently enlarged and so sharp at the back as to give this frightful creature the name of the saber-toothed tiger. The long teeth in the upper jaws of the elephant, commonly known as tusks, are not canine teeth. The elephant has completely lost his canines. His tusks are his incisors, and they have developed as have almost no other teeth in the mammals.

These are only a few of the numberless devices nature has evolved for furthering the success of her children. There are so many others that to many of us they form almost the chief point of interest in our study of a new animal, or our closer observation of an old friend.



CHAPTER V

ADAPTATION FOR THE SPECIES

The strife, as we have described it thus far, is a purely selfish struggle. Every point gained is a point favorable to the welfare of the individual animal. But nature is uncommonly careless of the individual unless the advantage gained is also of use to the species as a whole. Very often the life of an animal ceases when provision has been made for its young. The male garden spider may have a long and dangerous courtship, in which the uncertain temper of his ladylove may lead her to bite off four or five of his eight legs. But her ingratitude is not yet complete. He may have barely accomplished his desperate purpose of fertilizing her eggs at all hazards, when she ends the process by eating him. The male bumblebee fertilizes the female in the late summer and then dies. She does not lay her eggs before the next season. So it happens that no bumblebee ever sees its own father, and no father bumblebee ever sees his own children. In the honey bee the male, which has been fortunate enough to fertilize the queen, pays for his honor by death within the hour. Superfluous bachelors, among the honey bees, when the bridal season has passed, are driven from the hive to die of starvation.

An animal need not always be successful himself, but it is more essential that he hand down his successful traits to those who come after him. It is more important for the future generation that an animal should have had it in him to do great things, though he himself really have never done them, than that he should have learned to do great things on a meager original endowment. Not what an animal accomplishes is important to his children, but what he has it in him to accomplish. Accordingly Nature is full of devices by which those who have proved their original endowment by winning out in the struggle shall hand on this endowment to a subsequent generation. In other words, Nature is anxious that they may successfully mate. Here we are again on distinctly debatable ground. Darwin himself believed thoroughly in what he called sexual selection. It is the essence of this idea that the males and females have grown unlike, more technically have developed secondary sexual characters, through the choice of the mating pair. It would usually be the more serious loss if accident should come to the female, for she may carry fertilized eggs for some time. Hence, if both sexes may not become attractive, it is usually the male that develops fine colors, ornamental appendages or a captivating voice.

An interesting reversal of this process has taken place in civilized man. His more savage ancestor adorned himself more lavishly than he permitted his mate to do. With the advance of civilization man has undertaken to defend his own mate most valorously. The result is it is safe for her to be beautiful. Under these circumstances, however, it is more necessary to her welfare that her consort be vigorous rather than that he be handsome. Hence in the human species beauty has become the prerogative of the woman, and this is increasingly the case the higher the civilization. Whether woman suffrage and self-support will reverse this process remains to be seen. There are indications that point that way.

There are many biologists who are at present expressing serious doubt as to the validity of sexual selection. As in the previous cases of protective coloration, I believe it will be wise for us to retain, even though with an interrogation point behind it, the idea of sexual selection until such time as those who object to it have furnished us with another theory which will more nearly account for the observed facts. While entirely conscious of the possibility that there is a weak spot in the theory, we will still tentatively hold to sexual selection. The fact that beauty in women is so intensely attractive to man, and that vigor and manliness in man are so attractive to women, leads us to infer that among the lower animals, although of course in a vastly less degree, vigor and beauty are also attractive. The weakest point of the position lies in the fact that it probably presupposes a higher degree of capacity for appreciation on the part of lower animals than they possess. Those who deny the truth of the theory laugh at the idea that a butterfly can see clearly enough and care enough for what it sees to notice whether its mate has wings of one type or of another. The size, number and position of the spots on the wings of many butterflies are so nearly constant that they cannot of themselves have been entirely determined by the choice of the insect. Yet this may not preclude the possibility of the fact that, while the spots were produced through some other agency, certain types of them were selected by sexual preference.

If attractive coloration is effective anywhere in the animal world, it will possibly be found among the insects, but it is especially likely to be found among the birds. Very many field workers in these groups feel quite sure of the value of attractiveness. When butterflies chase each other up and down, circling and doubling, following each other for long distances, it would certainly seem as if they were pleased with each other's appearance. Some naturalists, especially those who have worked chiefly in the laboratory, insist that it is the odor, not the color of these insects, which is attractive, and some experiments which have been made would seem to point in this direction. But the creatures experimented upon most carefully were night-flying moths, and it is quite possible that the sense of sight in the night-flying moths has lost its vigor.

The great difficulty in understanding sexual attraction in insects, as based upon beauty, lies in the undoubtedly lower development of their nervous activity; in other words, in the apparent absence of anything worth calling mind. I think no one imagines that a butterfly, looking upon two other butterflies who are competing for her affections, deliberates between them and determines to admit to the circle of her friendship the more brilliantly colored male. Moths are so irresistibly attracted to a light as to fly into it without apparent power to withstand its influence. They repeat the flight again and again until they are destroyed. If they react so vigorously to the stimulus of the light, it seems not impossible that they may also act vigorously to the stimulus of color pattern, and that the male most beautifully colored, according to the nervous ideal of the female, should win her unconscious regard. At least it is certain that, in very many of the butterflies and moths, the attractive coloration is chiefly displayed when they are moving actively about; and when they alight and their enemies can the more easily capture them, they conceal their brilliant colorings. Most butterflies are very brilliant on the upper surface of the wings and very much duller on the under surface. Hence in flight they show their colorings exquisitely, but when they alight, and are thus more likely to be captured, they fold the brilliant surfaces together in an upright position. In this way not only is the dull side of the wings placed outward, but the wings themselves are placed edgewise to the sky, and it is from this direction that their enemies, the birds, are most likely to see them. Once upon the wing these creatures display their beauty with much greater safety because they can escape the birds very readily by use of their exceedingly jerky flight. The butterfly's motion is as irregular as any we have except the bat's. This eccentricity is one great element in their safety, and makes it less dangerous for them to display their attractive colorations.

One very large group of the night-flying moths have been named the "underwings," because of the fact that their hind wings are very much more brilliant than the front, and in lighting they fold the dull pair back over the bright, completely concealing them. These creatures are in the habit of resting in the daytime against walls, or stones, or the bark of trees. The similarity in color between their front wings, which alone show while sitting, and the background on which they rest, is most remarkable. One may pass them again and again, although they are of considerable size, and not notice them at all. Once let them display their hind wings and the brilliancy of their color always attracts immediate attention.

It is among birds, however, that brilliant coloration serves its most effective purpose. The birds are alert, exceedingly quick of sight, and are much more discriminating than insects in almost every respect. It is not so impossible that these creatures might even voluntarily prefer a distinctly more brilliant mate, though the voluntary character of the process is not essential to its success. Men certainly are constantly attracted to women for whose charm it would puzzle them to account. If this is true with regard to men, it is certainly probable that birds would be largely influenced by phases of attractiveness, of which they were observant, but unconscious.

Certain it is that in many birds the males are far more beautiful than the females. Perhaps the commonest illustration, and, at the same time, one of the best is found in the so-called red-wing or swamp blackbird. The male of this creature is a brilliant black, excepting that upon the angle of the wing, spoken of roughly as his shoulder, though in reality it is equivalent to our wrist, there appears a splendid orange patch with a border of lemon yellow. When he folds his wing he pushes this colored angle of the wing so deftly under the feathers of his shoulder as almost to conceal it. When in flight the bird is exceedingly conspicuous, showing, with every bend and twist of his body, his gorgeous epaulets. Meanwhile, the female is likely to pass unnoticed. She is dull in color and streaked like the grass among which she lives. During the mating season the male hovers about her, swaying from side to side in such a way as certainly to make it appear as if he realized his good points and was bringing them to bear as effectively as he knew how. After his mate has nested and is rearing her young, it would appear that the male uses his brilliancy to lure the observing enemy away from the nest containing his wife and children.

Another illustration of the remarkable superiority of the male over the female, in many parts of the bird world, is seen in the case of the common barnyard fowl. The rooster is so much more gorgeous than the hen that anyone reasonably acquainted with these birds cannot have failed to notice the fact. In some of our modern varieties we have by breeding colored them nearly alike. The original chicken is colored much like the common Leghorns. Shades of red and yellow decorate his neck and back, while the flight feathers of his wings and of his tail and the sickle feathers which ornament the rear of his back and hang over his tail are lustrous dark green. The hen meanwhile is very much less brilliant in her contrasts. I shall speak more fully of this in discussing polygamy.

The attraction of beauty is not the only lure by which a creature may win its mate. Sound may captivate as effectively as beauty. This is true of insects as well as of birds. Certain insects at least advise their mates of their presence by means of a sound which they emit. This is particularly noticeable among the group of straight-winged insects to which the grasshopper, katydid and cricket belong. The grasshopper has a ridge on the angle of his wing and a roughness on the side of his leg. When these two are rubbed together the result is sometimes a fiddling, sometimes a snapping or cracking sound, differing in different grasshoppers. I doubt not these sounds are pleasing to the female of the species, for they are always made by the male. The katydid, instead of fiddling in this way, has a sort of drum on the angle of his one wing, which he can rub over a tooth in the corresponding angle of his other wing, thus producing the familiar "katydid" sound. I have never succeeded in making a dead grasshopper fiddle, but I have long known how to make a dead katydid say "ka." Quite recently I have added to my accomplishment in this respect and can make it say "katy." The "did" part of the song still lies beyond my power. The crickets produce their sharp notes in much the same fashion as the katydids.

One observer of the chirping of the cricket says that the pitch of the song varies with the temperature. He has even worked out a formula by which one can tell the pitch of the chirp, if he knows the temperature, or, knowing the temperature, can determine the pitch. Of course this is too mechanical; yet it indicates that there must be considerable relation between the two; the warmer the cricket the happier he is.