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What The Animals Do and Say
The male bird, which I knew by the greater brightness of his plumage,
and his more slender form, seemed to be fondest of bringing sticks,
one of which was too long for the mouth of the jar to admit. It was
very amusing to witness his efforts to get the stick in; but it would
not do; the stick fell to the ground. All day long, these pretty
creatures were busy at their work; one usually watched while the other
was in the jar arranging the nest for their expected brood. In about a
week, it was evident that their work was completed, for they carried
in no more sticks or dried grass. They were gone a great part of the
day, I suppose playing, after so much hard work, but they returned at
evening. Some one in the neighborhood fired a gun. This scared the
bluebirds so that they staid away for two whole days; and, when they
returned, it was amusing to see how timidly they entered their house.
Then they would fly off to another tree at a distance, and make
believe they had nothing to do with the one their nest was in. At
last, they grew bolder; and, every evening at sunset, I saw the mother
bird go into her nest while her mate went to roost.
There was a slight feeling of despondency in my heart when I first
went to look out of this window; but when I saw these birds, and
witnessed the scene of faithful love and domestic industry and
happiness set forth by these little creatures, the spirit of complaint
was rebuked within me, and I learned a new lesson of serene trust and
assurance that all were cared for by the Creator of all.
But I must tell you the rest of the story of the bluebirds; and I am
sorry to say, they met with sad trials. The first encroacher, as they
supposed him to be, was a woodpecker; he seemed, as I thought, to mean
them no harm; but as soon as they heard his tap, tap, tap, they flew
at him very angrily and drove him away. A more dangerous enemy was at
hand, one that from his size you would not have supposed dangerous to
them. A little wren, not nearly so large as the bluebird, came one day
to the tree; and, seeing the jar, having examined it, and being
pleased with it, resolved to take it for herself. The little thief
waited till the bluebirds had gone upon some expedition; and then,
without any ceremony, without any fear of any thing, she entered the
jar, and was evidently confirmed in her purpose of taking possession
of it. Probably she held a consultation with her mate; but this I did
not witness, as I did that between the two bluebirds. The next day
this pert little Madam Wren, or her mate, I could not tell which, came
again, and, perching on the topmost branch of the tree, poured forth a
loud triumphant song, and then, as soon as the coast was clear,
entered the house she was resolved to appropriate to herself. In a
minute after, she appeared at the mouth of the jar with her bill full
of the dried grass of which the bluebird's nest was made, which she
threw out on the ground disdainfully. Back again she flew, and in an
instant brought some more and threw it out. This she did with the most
impudent look you can imagine. Then she flew swiftly in and out, like
a little termagant, throwing out of the mouth of the jar, sticks, dead
leaves, grass, with all the nice soft things which the poor bluebird
had been a week in collecting. Every now and then, she came out for a
minute and sang as sweetly as if she were not engaged in such a
piratical work; and the little rogue looked up in my face so saucily,
too, as much as to say, 'Who cares for you?' Then she began singing at
the top of her voice, exulting over her work of destruction. Can you
suppose it was any sense of honesty that prevented her using the
bluebird's nest after having stolen her house? No, Jenny Wren had no
principle. You would have laughed to see how scornfully she tossed out
those dead leaves. Every thing went out of the nest pell-mell. The
little monster! what could the poor bluebirds say or do? This bird
evidently had no conscience, at least not a good one, that is plain.
Never did general rejoice more over the capture and destruction of a
city than this little bit of a bird rejoiced over the destruction of
the bluebird's nest, and at the unlawful possession of the house. I
saw her carrying in a long stick that suited her better than the short
ones that the bluebird had carried in: she found she could not get it
in if she took it in the middle; so she changed the place, and held it
by the end, and so by that means got it in. She was more cunning than
the bluebird. Now you might hear the two little robbers sing again.
They are happier than any king can be nowadays. Poor, dear, beautiful
bluebirds! What has become of them? Then came the mother. She looked
into the jar and saw the destruction of her nest--all her week's work.
How distressed she seemed! but the victorious wrens had no pity on
her. They drove her away. She disappeared. The saucy conquerors flew
in and out of their stolen house twenty times a minute, caring for
nothing. They could have had no moral sense; but they were very
amusing, and they were nothing but birds; they knew no better; so we
must forgive them."
"I like stories about animals better than any other stories," said
Frank. "I think animals know as much, and sometimes more than we do.
So, Mother, do tell us all you can think of about elephants, bears,
and lions, as well as dogs, and cats, and birds."
"I have laid up in my memory two or three dog and cat stories, which I
will tell you, and then I will see what I can remember of lions,
bears, and elephants. But first I must tell you what I have lately
read about courts of justice among the crows."
"What is a court of justice?" asked Harry.
"A court of justice is an assemblage of men who meet together to
ascertain if any one who is accused of doing a wrong thing has really
done it or not. If he is proved to have committed the offence, he is
declared to be guilty; if he is not proved to have done it, he is
declared not guilty.
A writer on the history of the Feroe Islands describes these
extraordinary courts as if he had witnessed them. He says, these
crow-courts are observed here (in the Feroe Islands) as well as in the
Scotch Isles. The crows collect in great numbers, as if they had been
all summoned for the occasion. A few of the flock sit with drooping
heads, others seem as grave as if they were judges, and some are
exceedingly active and noisy, like lawyers and witnesses; in the
course of about an hour the company generally disperse, and it is not
uncommon, after they have flown away, to find one or two left dead on
the spot.
Dr. Edmondstone, in his View of the Shetland Islands, says that
sometimes the crow-court, or meeting, does not appear to be complete
before the expiration of a day or two,--crows coming from all quarters
to the session. As soon as they are all arrived, a very general noise
ensues, the business of the court is opened, and shortly after they
all fall upon one or two individual crows, (who are supposed to have
been condemned by their peers,) and put them to death. When the
execution is over, they quietly disperse."
"I shall never look at a crow, Mother, again," said Harry, "without
dislike--cruel creatures."
"We don't understand these things," said his mother; "animals have no
compassion for their sick companions; they kill them sometimes for
being sick. It seems very cruel, but we don't understand enough to
judge."
"Now, Mother, what new story have you about dogs?"
"The story I shall tell you now seems to show that dogs have good
hearts, and are compassionate and magnanimous. A dog was placed to
watch a piece of ground, perhaps a garden. A boy ran across the
forbidden place. The dog chased him. The boy, greatly frightened, ran
very fast, fell, and broke his leg. The dog, when he came up and heard
the boy's cries, did not touch him, but ran up to the passers by, and
barked till he attracted their attention, and brought some one to the
aid of the poor boy, who could not move.
The faithful creature had performed his duty in driving away
intruders; but he had too good a heart, and was too generous to hurt a
fallen enemy. In the account I read he was called a Christian dog. His
conduct would be a good example to all Christians.
I have now a story of a roguish dog that I think we could not praise
so much for his goodness as for his cunning. A gentleman in Paris was
in the habit of crossing every day one of the bridges over the Seine,
on his way to his place of business. One day, a very dirty poodle dog
rubbed himself so against his boots as to make it necessary to get a
man, who sat at one end of the bridge with blacking, to clean them.
The next day the same thing occurred, and again and again, till, at
last, the gentleman suspected that the bootblack had taught the dog
this trick, in order by that means to get customers. He watched, and
saw, when he approached the bridge, Master Poodle go and roll himself
in a mud puddle, and then come and rub himself against his boots. The
gentleman accused the bootblack of the trick. After a while the man
laughed, and confessed his roguery."
"That poodle was a brick," said Harry.
"One more story of dogs. A surgeon of Leeds, in England, found a
little spaniel who had been lamed. The surgeon carried the poor animal
home, bandaged up his leg, and after two or three days turned him out.
The dog returned to the surgeon's house every morning till his leg was
perfectly well.
At the end of several months, the spaniel again presented himself,
bringing another dog who had also been lamed, and intimating, as
plainly as piteous and intelligent looks could intimate, that he
desired the same kind assistance to be rendered to his friend as had
been bestowed upon himself.
But I am forgetting poor puss.
Mr. W., a friend of mine, whose word might be taken for any thing,
told me an extraordinary anecdote of a cat, which he said he knew to
be true.
A friend of his was setting out on a voyage to some place, I forget
where. Every thing was carried on board, and the two friends were in
the cabin about taking leave of each other. "I asked my friend before
parting," said Mr. W., "whether he had every thing that he wanted; if
there was nothing more that he could think of to make him more
comfortable or happy on his voyage." "One thing," he replied, "would
add to my pleasure very much, if you would bring it to me. In the
counting room of my store is a small white cat; I am very fond of the
poor thing, and she will miss me I know; I should like to take her
with me." I immediately went ashore and found his little cat looking
very sorrowful in his lonely room; I carried her to him. They seemed
mutually pleased at meeting."
When the vessel returned, Mr. W. received this account from the
officers of the ship. They said that his friend made a great pet of
the cat, and fed her always at his own meal times. He taught her to
stand on her hind legs and ask for her food; he made her jump over a
stick for his amusement; in short, he taught her to perform a great
many amusing tricks. The officers and men were all very fond of poor
little puss.
At length, the young man became very ill. The cat would not leave him
night or day. At last, one day, she left the cabin and began to run
about the ship, making the most terrible mewing. The sailors offered
her food; she refused it. She would not be comforted. Finally, her
cries turned into a complete howl. She manifested the greatest
suffering, and, at last, she ran off to the end of the bowsprit and
leaped into the sea. Just at the moment that the poor little faithful,
loving cat was swallowed up by the waves, her human friend breathed
his last, and they both entered the invisible land together.
Such an extraordinary event, and the gloom which a death at sea always
casts over a ship's company, both together made the sailors even more
than usually superstitious. They all declared that, every night at
that same hour when the sick man died, a white cat was seen leaping
into the ocean. The white crests of the breaking waves might easily
thus appear to an ignorant person who lives, as a sailor does, in the
midst of the wonders and sublime scenes which the ocean presents, in
the awful terrors of its storms, or the serene glory of its quiet
hours. But the love of the poor dumb animal for its master--that was a
beautiful reality.
I have a story now for you, Frank, about a horse, as I know you are
particularly fond of horses. An Arab chief with his tribe had attacked
in the night a caravan, and had plundered it; when loaded with their
spoil, however, the robbers were overtaken on their return by some
horsemen of the Pacha of Acre, who killed several, and bound the
remainder with cords. The horsemen brought one of the prisoners, named
Abou el Mavek, to Acre, and laid him, bound hand and foot, wounded as
he was, at the entrance to their tent. As they slept during the night,
the Arab, kept awake by the pain of his wounds, heard his horse's
neigh at a distance, and being desirous to stroke, for the last time,
the companion of his life, he dragged himself, bound as he was, to the
horse which was picketed at a little distance.
"Poor friend," said he; "what will you do among the Turks? You will be
shut up under the roof of a khan, with the horses of a pacha or an
aga; no longer will the women and children of the tent bring you
barley, camel's milk, or dourra, in the hollow of their hands. No
longer will you gallop, free as the wind of Egypt, in the desert. No
longer will you cleave with your bosom the water of the Jordan which
cools your sides, as pure as the foam of your lips. If I am to be a
slave, at least may you go free. Go, return to our tent which you know
so well; tell my wife that Abou el Marek will return no more; but put
your head still into the folds of the tent, lick the hands of my
beloved children."
With these words, he untied with his teeth the fetters, and set the
courser at liberty. But the noble animal, on recovering its freedom,
instead of bounding away alone, bent its head over its master, and,
seeing him in fetters, took his clothes gently in its teeth, lifted
him up, set off at full speed, and, without ever resting, made
straight for the distant but well-known tent in the mountains.
The horse arrived in safety, laid his master down at the feet of his
wife and children, and immediately dropped down dead with fatigue. The
whole tribe mourned him, the poets celebrated his fidelity, and his
name is still constantly in the mouths of the Arabs of Jericho.
And now, boys, let us talk about the elephant a little. I have been
reading something of his history, and I am disposed to think that, of
all animals, he is, on the whole, the most intelligent."
"More intelligent than the dog, Mother?"
"Yes, it seems so to me. He is not so disinterested, so loving, but he
reasons more than any other animal. He is also capable of very strong
attachment, but he will not bear ill treatment. The elephant seems
revengeful. The dog still loves the master who is unkind to him.
The elephant will learn to assist his master in his work. An elephant
who belonged to the Duke of Devonshire would come out of her house
when her keeper called her, take up a broom, and stand ready to sweep
the paths and grass when he told her to do so. She would take up a
pail or a watering pot, and follow him round the place, ready to do
his bidding. Her keeper usually rode on her neck, like the elephant
drivers in India, and he always spread over her a large, strong cloth
for alighting, which the elephant, by kneeling, allowed him to do. He
desired her to take off the cloth. This she contrived to do by drawing
herself up in such a way that the shrinking of her loose skin moved
the cloth, and it gradually wriggled on one side, till, at last, it
would fall by its own weight. The cloth, of course, fell all in a
heap; but the elephant would spread it carefully on the grass, and
then fold it up, as you fold your napkin, till it was small enough for
her purpose; then she held it up with her trunk for a moment, and, at
last, with one jerk, threw it up over her head to the centre of her
back, where it remained for use, out of the way, ready for next time,
and as nicely placed as if human hands had put it there.
A few years ago, an elephant in London was taught to take part in a
play. She came in and marched very properly in a procession. At the
waving of her keeper's hand, she would kneel down and salute any
individual, or put a crown on the head of the true prince. She would
eat and drink with great propriety of manner, and make her reverence
to the audience. But all this is nothing to what the elephants were
taught by the Romans. The keepers, by treating their elephants with
the utmost kindness, taking care of them as to health, and doing every
thing to make them happy, acquired over them the greatest power. The
elephants learned to love music. They were at first frightened by the
loud instruments; but, after a while, became very fond of all,
particularly of the gentle flute, at which they would show their
delight by beating time with their great feet. The keepers accustomed
them to the sight of great multitudes of people. At one time, when a
particular exhibition of the docility of elephants was required,
twelve of the most sagacious and well trained were made to march into
the theatre with a regular step. At the voice of their keeper, they
moved in harmonious measure, sometimes in a circle, and sometimes
divided into parties, scattering flowers around them. In the intervals
of the dance, they would beat time to the music, and were careful to
keep in proper order. After this display, the elephants were feasted,
as the Romans were in the habit of feasting themselves, in grand
style. Splendid couches were placed, ornamented with paintings and
covered with tapestry. Before the couches, upon tables of ebony and
cedar, was spread the banquet, in vessels of gold and silver. When the
feast was prepared, the twelve elephants marched in; six gentleman
elephants dressed in the robes of men, and six lady elephants attired
in women's clothes. They lay down in order upon the couches; and then,
at a certain signal, extended their trunks, and eat their suppers with
the most praiseworthy moderation and propriety. "Not one of them,"
says the historian of the elephant, "appeared the least voiacious, or
manifested the least desire for more than his share of the food, or an
undue proportion of the delicacies. They were as moderate also in
their drink, and received the cups that were presented to them with
the greatest decorum and temperance."