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diff --git a/old/67073-0.txt b/old/67073-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 33b233f..0000000 --- a/old/67073-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,9900 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Our Humble Helpers, by Jean-Henri -Fabre - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Our Humble Helpers - Familiar Talks on the Domestic Animals - -Author: Jean-Henri Fabre - -Release Date: January 2, 2022 [eBook #67073] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed Proofreading - Team at https://www.pgdp.net/ for Project Gutenberg (This - file was produced from images generously made available by - The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUR HUMBLE HELPERS *** - - - - - - OUR HUMBLE HELPERS - - FAMILIAR TALKS ON - THE DOMESTIC ANIMALS - - - BY - JEAN-HENRI FABRE - Author of “The Story Book of Science,” - “Social Life in the Insect World,” etc. - - TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH - BY - FLORENCE CONSTABLE BICKNELL - - - NEW YORK - THE CENTURY CO. - 1918 - - - - - - - - -TRANSLATOR’S PREFACE - - -In its purpose and style this book closely resembles the same author’s -“Story-Book of Science,” and it belongs to the same series. To many -readers, however, it is likely to prove even more interesting than its -predecessor, inasmuch as the domestic animals are more familiar and -hence more interesting to many persons than the ant, the spider, the -plant-louse, the caterpillar, and other examples of insect life -discussed in the earlier work. Particularly at this time, when not a -few of us, both old and young, are turning our attention, however -inexpertly, to farming in a small way, in order to make the most of -nature’s food resources within our reach, we like to become a little -better acquainted with the denizens of the farmyard and the four-footed -helpers in the field. The pig and the hen, the goose and the turkey, -the ox and the ass, the horse and the cow, the sheep and its canine -keeper—these and many other old friends of ours in the animal kingdom -are made to enliven the following pages by the genius and skill of him -who knew and loved them all as few naturalists have known and loved -their dumb fellow-creatures. - -Faithfulness to the spirit of the French original has throughout been -striven for rather than a blind subservience to the letter. May the -attempt to render at least a little of the charm of that original be -found not wholly unsuccessful! - - - - - - - - -CONTENTS - - - CHAPTER PAGE - - I The Cock and the Hen 3 - II The Gizzard 9 - III The Chief Kinds of Poultry 16 - IV The Egg 21 - V The Egg (Continued) 27 - VI Incubation 36 - VII The Young Chickens 47 - VIII The Poulard 54 - IX The Turkey 61 - X The Guinea-Fowl 73 - XI The Palmipedes 84 - XII The Duck 94 - XIII The Wild Goose 108 - XIV The Domestic Goose 120 - XV The Pigeon 130 - XVI A Story from Audubon 141 - XVII A Supposition 150 - XVIII A Fragment of History 159 - XIX The Jackal 173 - XX The Chief Breeds of Dogs 183 - XXI The Chief Breeds of Dogs (Continued) 193 - XXII The Various Uses of Dogs 204 - XXIII The Eskimo Dog 213 - XXIV The Dog of Montargis 221 - XXV Hydrophobia 227 - XXVI The Cat 239 - XXVII Sheep 255 - XXVIII The Goat 271 - XXIX The Ox 279 - XXX Milk 293 - XXXI Butter 298 - XXXII Rennet 303 - XXXIII Cheese 308 - XXXIV The Pig 316 - XXXV Pig’s Measles 329 - XXXVI A Persistent Parasite 334 - XXXVII The Horse 343 - XXXVIII The Horse (Continued) 354 - XXXIX The Ass 362 - - - - - - - - -OUR HUMBLE HELPERS - - -CHAPTER I - -THE COCK AND THE HEN - - -Under the big elm tree in the garden Uncle Paul has called together for -the third time his usual listeners, Emile, Jules, and Louis. After the -story of the Ravagers, which destroy our harvests, and that of the -Auxiliaries, which protect them, he now proposes to tell the story of -our Humble Helpers, the domestic animals. He thus begins: - -“The cock and the hen, those invaluable members of our poultry-yards, -came to us from Asia so long ago that the remembrance of their coming -is lost. At the present day they have spread to all parts of the world. - -“Is it necessary to describe the cock to you? Who has not admired this -fine bird, with its bright look, its proud bearing, its slow and sedate -walk? On its head a piece of scarlet flesh forms a scalloped crest; -under the base of the beak hang two wattles resembling pieces of coral; -on each temple, by the side of the ear, is a spot of dull white naked -skin; a rich tippet of golden red falls from the neck over the -shoulders and breast; two feathers of a greenish metallic luster form a -graceful arch of plumage in the upper part of the tail. The heel is -armed with a horny spur, hard and pointed; a formidable weapon with -which, in fighting, the cock stabs his rival to death. His song is a -resonant peal that makes itself heard at all hours, night as well as -day. Hardly does the sky begin to brighten with the twilight of dawn -when, erect on his perch, he awakens the nocturnal echoes with his -piercing cock-a-doodle-doo, the reveille of the farm.” - -“That,” said Emile, “is the song I like so much to hear in the morning -when I am about half-way between sleeping and waking.” - -“It is the cock’s crowing,” put in Louis, “that wakes me up in the -morning when I have to go to market in the next town.” - -“The cock is the king of the poultry-yard,” resumed Uncle Paul. “Full -of care for his hens, he leads them, protects them, scolds and punishes -them. He watches over those that wander off, goes in quest of the -vagrants, and brings them back with little cries of impatience, which, -no doubt, are admonitions. If necessary, a peck with the beak persuades -the more refractory. But if he finds food, such as grain, insects, or -worms, he straightway lifts up his voice and calls the hens to the -banquet. He himself, however, magnificent and generous, stands in the -midst of the throng and scratches the earth to turn up the worms and -distribute here and there to the invited guests the dainties thus -unearthed. If some greedy hen takes more than her share, he recalls her -to a sense of her duty to the community and reprimands her with a peck -on the head. After all the others have eaten their fill he contents -himself with their leavings. - -“Plainer in costume, the hen, the joy of the farmer’s wife, trots about -the poultry-yard, scratching and pecking and cackling. After laying an -egg she proclaims her joy with an enthusiasm in which her companions -take such a share that the whole establishment bursts into a general -lively chorus in celebration of the happy event. She has a habit of -squatting down in a dusty and sunny corner where she flutters her wings -with much content and makes a fine shower fall between her feathers to -relieve the itching that torments her. Then with outstretched leg and -wing she sleeps away the hottest hours of the day; or, without -disturbing her voluptuous repose, spying a fly on the wall, she snaps -it up with one quick dart of her beak. Like the cock, she swallows fine -gravel, which takes the place of teeth and serves to grind the grain in -her gizzard. She drinks by lifting her head skyward to make each -mouthful go down. She sleeps on one leg, the other drawn up under her -plumage and her head hidden under her wing.” - -“These curious particulars of the hen’s habits,” said Jules, “are quite -familiar to us all; we see them every day with our own eyes. One only -is new to me: hens, you say, swallow little grains of sand which take -the place of teeth for grinding the food in the gizzard. I don’t know -what the gizzard is, and I don’t see how little stones that have been -swallowed can be used as teeth.” - -“A short digression on the digestive organs of birds,” replied Uncle -Paul, “will give you the information you ask for. - -“Birds do not chew their food; they swallow it just as they seize it, -or nearly so. The beak, lacking teeth, is for that very reason unsuited -for the work of grinding. It merely seizes; it strikes, picks up, digs, -pierces, breaks, tears, according to the kind of food adapted to the -bird’s needs. A solid horn covers the bony framework of the two -mandibles and makes their edges sharp and very well fitted for -dismembering if necessary, but not for triturating. - -“Rapacious birds that feed on live prey have the upper mandible short, -strong, hooked, and terminating in a sharp point, sometimes with -serrate edges. With this weapon the hunting bird kills its prey, and -tears it to pieces while holding it with its vigorous talons armed with -sharp, curved nails. - -“Fish-eating birds that tear the fish to pieces in order to swallow it -have the hooked beak of the rapacious birds; those that swallow the -fish whole have a straight beak with long, wide mandibles. Some throw -it into the air to catch it in their beak a second time, head first, -and swallow it without any difficulty in spite of the fin-bones, which -lie flat from front to back while the fish is passing through the -narrow gullet. A great fishing bird, the pelican, has in its lower -mandible a large membranous pouch, a sort of fish-pond, where it stores -the fish as long as the catch lasts. Thus stocked up, it seeks a quiet -retreat on some ledge of rock by the water-side and takes out, one by -one, the fish packed away in its pouch, to feed on them at leisure.” - -“The pelican seems to me a wise fisher,” remarked Emile. “Without -losing a minute in swallowing, it begins by filling the bag under its -beak. The time will come later for looking over the catch and enjoying -the fish at leisure. I should like to see it on its rocks with its bag -full.” - -“And that other one,” said Jules, “that throws the fish it has caught -into the air so as to catch it again head first and not strangle when -swallowing it—is not that one just as clever?” - -“Each kind has its special talent,” replied Uncle Paul, “which it uses -with the tool peculiar to the bird, the beak. If the story of the -auxiliaries, related some time ago, is still fresh in your minds, you -will remember that insect-eating birds have the beak slender and -sometimes very long, to dig into the fissures of dead wood and bark; -but those that catch insects on the fly, as the swallow and the -fern-owl, have the beak very short and exceedingly wide, so that the -game pursued is caught in the open gullet and becomes coated with a -slimy saliva which holds it fast. Finally, I will remind you of the -granivorous birds—the sparrow, linnet, greenfinch, chaffinch, and many -others. All these birds, whose chief food consists of grain, have the -beak short, thick, pointed; adapted, in fact, to the picking up of -seeds from the ground, freeing them from their husks, and breaking -their shells to obtain the kernel. By virtue of its strong mandibles, -the beak of the hen belongs to this last category, although at the same -time its rather long, sharp, and slightly hooked extremity indicates -carnivorous tastes. Such a beak calls not only for seeds, but also for -small prey, such as insects and worms.” - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER II - -THE GIZZARD - - -“Nearly all the higher or mammiferous animals,” Uncle Paul continued, -“such as the dog, cat, wolf, horse, have only one digestive pouch—a -stomach—where the alimentary substances are dissolved and made fluid, -so as to enter the veins and be turned into blood, by which all parts -of the body are nourished. But the ox, goat, and sheep—the cud-chewers, -in short—have four digestive cavities, which I will tell you about -later. I will tell you how, in the pasture, these animals hastily -swallow almost unchewed grass and put it by in a large reservoir called -a paunch, from which it comes up again afterward in a season of repose, -to be rechewed at leisure in small mouthfuls. - -“Well, birds are fashioned in a similar way, as far as eating is -concerned. Not being able to chew, as they have no teeth, they swallow -their food without any preparation, nearly as the beak has seized it, -and amass a quantity of it in a spacious stomach, just as the ox does -in his paunch. From this reservoir the food passes, little by little, -into two other digestive cavities, one of which immerses it in a liquid -calculated to dissolve it, and the other grinds and triturates it -better than the best pair of jaws could do. There takes place a kind of -chewing, it is true, only the food, instead of returning to the beak, -where teeth are lacking for its thorough mastication, continues its -journey, and on the way comes to the triturating machine. Birds, then, -are generally provided with three digestive cavities. - -“The first is the crop, situated just at the base of the neck. It is a -bag with thin and flexible walls, its size proportioned to the -resistant nature of the food eaten. It is very large in birds that feed -on grain, especially the hen, and is medium-sized, or even wholly -wanting, in those that live on prey, which is much easier to digest -than dry and hard seeds. In the crop, the food swallowed in haste -remains hours and even days, as in a reservoir; there it softens -somewhat, and is then submitted to the action of the other digestive -pouches. The crop corresponds in a certain sense to the bag in which -the pelican stores up his fishing; it represents also the first stomach -of the ox and the other cud-chewers or ruminants. - -“Next to the crop is a second enlargement, called the succenturiate -ventricle, of small capacity but remarkable for a liquid of a bitter -taste that oozes in fine drops through its walls and moistens the food -as it passes. This liquid is a digestive juice; it has the property of -dissolving the alimentary substances as soon as trituration has done -the greater part of the work. The food does not remain in this second -stomach; it merely passes through to become impregnated with the -digestive juice. - -“The third and last stomach is known as the gizzard. It is rounded and -is slightly flattened on both sides, like a watch-case, and is -composed—especially in birds that live on grain—of a very thick, fleshy -wall, lined on the inside with a kind of hard and tenacious leather -which protects the organ from attrition. Finally, it is to be noted -that at the same time the bird is swallowing grain it takes care also -to swallow a little gravel, some very small stones which, away down in -the gizzard, will perform the office of teeth.” - -“I know what the gizzard is,” volunteered Emile. “When they are -cleaning a chicken to cook, they take out of the body something round -that they split in two with a knife; then they throw away a thick skin -all wrinkled and stuffed with grains of sand, and the rest is put back -into the chicken.” - -“Yes, that is the gizzard,” said Uncle Paul. “Let us complete these -ideas got from cooking. The bird, not having in its beak the molars -necessary for grinding, as in a mill, the seeds that are hard to crush, -supplies its gizzard with artificial teeth, which are renewed at each -repast; that is to say, it swallows little pebbles. The grain, softened -in the crop and moistened with the digestive juice during its passage -through the succenturiate ventricle, reaches the gizzard mixed with the -little stones that are to aid the triturating action. The work then -performed is easy to understand. If you pressed in your palm a handful -of wheat mixed with gravel, and if your fingers, by continual movement, -made the two kinds of particles rub vigorously against each other, is -it not true that the wheat would soon be reduced to powder? Such is the -action of the gizzard. Its strong, fleshy walls contract powerfully and -knead their contents of sand and seeds without suffering damage -themselves from the friction, because of the tough skin that lines -their inside and protects them from the roughness of the gravel. In -such a mill the hardest kernels are soon reduced to a sort of soup. - -“To make you understand the prodigious power of the gizzard, I cannot -do better than relate to you certain experiments performed by a learned -Italian, the abbot Spallanzani. A century ago the celebrated abbot, -while pursuing his researches on the natural history of animals, caused -a number of hens to swallow some little glass balls. ‘These balls,’ he -said, ‘were sufficiently tough not to break when thrown forcibly on to -the ground. After remaining three hours in the hen’s gizzard they were -for the most part reduced to very tiny pieces with nothing sharp about -them, all their edges having been blunted as if they had passed through -a mill. I noticed also that the longer these little glass balls -remained in the stomach, the finer the powder to which they were -reduced. After a few hours they were broken into a multitude of -vitreous particles no larger than grains of sand.’” - -“A stomach that can grind glass balls to powder,” commented Jules, “is -certainly a first-rate mill.” - -“You shall hear something still more remarkable,” returned his uncle. -“Wait. ‘As these balls,’ continued the abbot, ‘were polished and -smooth, they could not create any kind of disturbance in the gizzard.’ -So he was curious to see what would happen if sharp and cutting bodies -were introduced. ‘We know,’ he says, ‘how easily little pieces of -glass, broken up by pounding, tear the flesh. Well, having shattered a -pane of glass, I selected some pieces about the size of a pea and -wrapped them in a playing card so that they would not lacerate the -gullet in their passage. Thus prepared, I made a cock swallow them, -well knowing that the covering of card would break on its entrance into -the stomach and leave the glass free to act with all its points and -sharp edges.’” - -“With all those little pieces of glass in its stomach,” said Jules, -“the bird must surely have died.” - -“Not a bit of it. The bird would have come out all right if the -experimenter had not sacrificed it to see the result. The cock was -killed at the end of twenty hours. ‘All the pieces of glass were in the -gizzard,’ the abbot tells us, ‘but all their sharp edges and points had -disappeared so completely that, having put these fragments on my palm, -I could rub them hard with the other hand without inflicting the -slightest wound. - -“‘The reader,’ he goes on, ‘must be curious to learn the effect -produced on the gizzard by these sharp-pointed bodies that rolled -around there unceasingly until they lost their keen edges and sharp -points. Opening the cock’s gizzard, I examined minutely the inside skin -after having well washed and cleaned it. I even separated it from the -gizzard, which is done without difficulty, and thus it was easy to -scrutinize it as closely as I wished. Well, after all my pains I found -it perfectly intact, without a tear or cut, without even the slightest -scratch. The skin appeared to me absolutely the same as that of the -cocks that had not swallowed glass.’” - -“So the bird that is made to swallow pieces of broken glass,” said -Jules, “grinds them up without injury and without even a scratch, while -we could not so much as handle this dangerous stuff with the tips of -our fingers without wounding ourselves. This power of the gizzard is -really inconceivable.” - -“What follows is still more surprising,” resumed Uncle Paul. -“Spallanzani continues: ‘The experiments with glass not having done the -birds any harm, I performed two others that were much more dangerous. -In a leaden ball I placed twelve large steel needles so that they stuck -out of the ball more than half a centimeter, and I made a turkey -swallow this ball, bristling with points and wrapped in a card; and it -kept the ball in its stomach a day and a half. During this time the -bird showed not the slightest discomfort, and in fact there could have -been none, for on killing the bird I found that its stomach had not -received the slightest wound from this barbarous device. All the -needles were broken off and separated from the leaden ball, two of them -being still in the gizzard, their points greatly blunted, while the -other ten had disappeared, ejected with the excrement. - -“‘Finally, I fixed in a leaden ball twelve little steel lancets, very -sharp and cutting, and I made another turkey swallow the terrible pill. -It remained sixteen hours in the gizzard, after which I opened the bird -and found only the ball minus the lancets; these had all been broken, -three of them, their points and edges entirely blunted, being found in -the intestines, the nine others having been ejected. As for the -gizzard, it showed no trace of a wound.’ - -“You see, my little friends, a bird’s gizzard is the most wonderful -organ of trituration in the world. What are the best-equipped jaws in -comparison with this strong pouch which, without suffering so much as a -scratch, reduces glass to powder and breaks and blunts steel needles -and lancets? You can understand now with what ease the hardest seeds -can be ground when the gizzard of the granivorous bird presses and -rolls them pell-mell with small stones.” - -“Where glass and steel are broken up,” said Emile, “grain ought to turn -to flour as well as in a mill.” - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER III - -THE CHIEF KINDS OF POULTRY - - -“Different kinds of poultry, the originals of our domestic species, are -living to this day in a wild state in the forests of Asia, notably in -India, and in the Philippine Islands and Java. The most noteworthy is -the Bankiva or red jungle fowl. In shape, plumage, and habits the male -bird bears a striking resemblance to the common rooster of our -poultry-yards; but in size it is smaller even than the partridge. It -has a scalloped red comb, a tail of arched plumage, and a neck -ornamented with a falling tippet of bright, golden-red feathers. This -graceful little cock, irritable and full of fight, has the habits of -ours. He struts proudly at the head of his flock of hens, over whose -safety he watches with extreme care. If hunters range the forest, or if -some dog prowls in the neighborhood, the vigilant bird, quick to -perceive, suspects an enemy. He immediately flies to a high branch and -thence gives forth a cry of alarm to warn the hens, which hastily -conceal themselves under the leaves or crouch in the hollows of trees -and wait motionless until the danger is past. To get within gun-shot of -these birds is well-nigh impossible, and to capture them one must have -recourse to the same snares one uses for catching larks.” - -“A fowl smaller than a partridge, and that they catch in the woods with -snares for larks,” remarked Jules, “ought to be a very pretty bird, but -not of much use if raised in poultry-yards. Does our poultry come from -such a small kind as that?” - -“It certainly comes either from the Bankiva fowl or from other kinds -just as small that live in a wild state in the forests of Asia; but -when and how the hen and the cock became domesticated is wholly -unknown. From the dawn of history man has been in possession of the -barnyard fowl, at least in Asia, whence later the species came to us -already domesticated. During long centuries, improved by our care, -which assures it abundant food and comfortable shelter, the original -small species has produced numerous varieties differing much in size -and plumage. They are classed in three groups: the small, the medium, -and the large. - -“To the first group belongs the bantam or little English fowl, about -the size of a partridge. It is a beautiful bird with short legs that -let the tips of the wings drag on the ground, quick movements, gentle -and tame habits. Its eggs, proportioned to the small size of the hen, -weigh scarcely thirty grams apiece, while those of other hens weigh -from sixty to ninety grams each. These pretty little pullets are raised -rather as ornaments to the poultry-yard than for the sake of their -diminutive eggs.” - -“These little fowl,” observed Louis, “look from their size like the -primitive kind.” - -“Yes, it was about like that they looked when man took it into his head -to tame the wild fowl. In the poultry-yards of those times lived, not -the large species of our day, but birds as small in body and as quick -on the wing as the partridge. I leave you to imagine what care and -vigilance were necessary in order not to frighten these timid little -fowl and cause them to go back to the woods that they still -remembered.” - -“It must have been as much trouble,” said Louis, “as it would be for us -to tame a covey of partridges. Such an undertaking would not be easy. -We are a long way from those first attempts at domestication with our -hens of to-day, so tame, so importunate even, that they come boldly and -pick up crumbs under the very table.” - -“The common poultry, that which stocks the greater number of farms, -belongs to the medium-sized breeds. Its plumage is of all colors, from -white to red and black. Its head is small and ornamented with a red -comb, sometimes single, sometimes double, coquettishly thrown to one -side. The cock, for its proud bearing and magnificent plumage, has no -equal among the other species. The common fowl is the easiest to keep, -for its activity permits it to seek and find for itself, by scratching -in the ground, a great part of its food in the form of seeds and worms. -It may be found fault with for its wandering proclivities, favored by a -strong wing which it avails itself of to fly over hedges and fences, to -go and devastate the neighboring gardens. - -“Among the other medium-sized species which, associated with the common -fowl, are found in poultry-yards as ornaments rather than as sources of -profit, I will name the following: - -“First, the Paduan fowl, recognizable by its rich plumage and -particularly by the thick tuft of feathers that adorns its head. This -beautiful headdress of fine plumage, so proudly spread out in fine -weather, is, when once wet by rain, nothing but an ungraceful rag, -heavy and tangled, which tires the bird and makes the rustic life of -the poultry-yard impossible as far as it is concerned. - -“The Houdan fowl wears a thickly tufted top-knot which is thrown back -over the nape of the neck. Sometimes this headdress covers the eyes so -completely that the bird cannot see in front nor sidewise, but only on -the ground, which makes it uneasy at the slightest noise. The plumage -is speckled black and white, with glints of purple and green. The -cheeks and the base of the beak are draped with little upturned -feathers. Each foot has five toes instead of four, the usual number—not -counting the cock’s spur, which is simply a horn, a fighting weapon, -and not a toe. Three of the toes point forward and two backward. - -“The fowl of la Flèche, so renowned for the delicacy of its flesh and -its aptness for fattening, has no crest and is long-legged, with black -plumage of green and purple luster. The legs are blue and the comb -rises in two little red horns. - -“Similar but better developed horns, accompanied by a thick headdress -of feathers, adorn the Crève-cœur species. The hen is a beautiful -black; the cock wears, against body plumage of the same dark color, a -rich gold or silver tippet. - -“Finally, to the large species belongs the Cochin-China, an ungraceful -bird, with very strong body and shapeless and disordered plumage, -generally reddish white. Its eggs are brownish in color.” - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -THE EGG - - -“When moistening your slices of bread with egg, has it ever occurred to -you to examine a little the structure of what furnishes your repast? I -think not. To-day I am going to tell you something about this: I will -show you in detail this wonder called an egg. - -“First, let us examine the shell. In hens’ eggs it is all white, as -also in those of ducks and geese. Turkeys’ eggs are speckled with a -multitude of little pale red spots. But it is particularly the eggs of -undomesticated birds that are remarkable for their coloring. There are -sky-blue ones, such as those of certain blackbirds; rose color for -certain warblers; and somber green with a tinge of bronze is found, for -example, in the eggs of the nightingale. The coloring is sometimes -uniform, sometimes enhanced by darker spots, or by a haphazard -sprinkling of pigment, or by odd markings resembling some sort of -illegible handwriting. Many rapacious birds, chiefly those of the sea, -lay eggs with large fawn-colored spots that make them look like the -pelt of a leopard. I will not dwell longer on this subject, interesting -though it may be, as in telling you the story of the auxiliary birds I -have already described the eggs of the principal kinds.” - -“I have taken care,” interposed Jules, “to remember the curious variety -of coloring that eggs have. I recall very distinctly the nightingale’s, -green like an olive; the goldfinch’s, spotted with reddish brown, -especially at the larger end; the crow’s, bluish green with brown -spots; and so many others that I hesitate to say which are my -favorites, so nearly equal are they in beauty.” - -“Let us learn now about the nature of the shell,” his uncle continued. -“The substance of the shell is, in the hen’s egg, as white as marble; -its own color not being disguised by any foreign pigment. This pure -white and its other characteristics, hardness and clean fracture, do -they not tell you of what substance the shell is composed?” - -“Either appearances deceive me greatly,” answered Louis, “or the shell -is simply made of stone.” - -“Yes, my friend, it is indeed of stone, but stone selected with -exquisite care and refined as it were, in the bird’s body. - -“In its nature the eggshell does not differ from common building-stone; -or rather, on account of its extreme purity, it does not differ from -the chalk that you use on the blackboard, or from the magnificent white -marble that the sculptor seeks for the masterpieces of his chisel. -Building-stone, marble, and chalk are at bottom the same substance, -which is called lime, limestone, or carbonate of lime. The differences, -great as they may be, have to do with the state of purity and degree of -consistency. That which building-stone contains in a state of impurity -from other ingredients is contained also in white marble and chalk, but -free from any admixture. Thus in its nature the eggshell is identical -with chalk and marble, harder than the first, less hard than the -second, being between the two in an intermediate state of pure lime. To -clothe the egg, therefore, with a solid envelope, the hen and all birds -without exception use the same material as the sculptor works with in -his studio and the scholar uses on the blackboard. - -“Now, no animal creates matter; none makes its body, with all that -comes from it, out of nothing. The bird does not find within itself the -material for the eggshell; it gets it from outside with its food. Amid -the grain that is thrown to her the hen finds little bits of stone left -there through imperfect cleaning; she swallows them without hesitation, -knowing full well, however, that they are little stones and not kernels -of wheat. That is not enough; you will see her all day long scratching -and pecking here and there in the poultry-yard. Now and then she digs -up some worm, her great delicacy, and from time to time some fragment -of limestone, which she turns to account with as much satisfaction as -if she had found a plump insect.” - -“I have often seen hens swallowing little stones like that,” remarked -Emile. “I thought it was all their own carelessness or gluttonous -haste, but now I begin to suspect the truth. Would not those little -stones be useful in making the eggshell?” - -“You are right, my little friend. The particles of lime swallowed with -the food are converted into a fine pap, dissolved by the digestive -action of the stomach. By a rigorous sorting the pure lime is separated -from the rest, and it is made into a sort of chalk soup which at the -right moment oozes around the egg and hardens into a shell. By -swallowing little particles of lime, the hen, as you see, lays by -materials for her eggshell. If these materials were wanting, if the -food given her did not include lime, if, imprisoned in a cage, she -could not procure carbonate of lime for herself by pecking in the -ground, she would lay eggs without any shell and simply covered with a -flabby skin.” - -“Those soft eggs that hens sometimes lay come then from lack of lime?” -asked Louis. - -“They either come from the bird’s not having had the necessary -carbonate of lime in her food or in the earth she pecked, or else her -bad state of health did not permit the transformation of the little -stones into that chalky pap which molds itself around the egg and -becomes the shell. In countries where carbonate of lime is scarce in -the soil, or even totally lacking, it is the custom to break up the -eggshells and mix the coarse powder in the fowl’s food. It is a very -judicious way of giving the hen in the most convenient form, the stony -matter necessary for the perfect formation of the egg.” - -“Sometimes,” observed Louis, “we find on the dunghill eggs of a queer -shape and as soft as hens’ eggs without the shell. Instead of a -chicken, a snake comes out of them. They say they are laid by young -cocks.” - -“You are repeating now one of the false notions prevalent in the -country—a foolish notion springing from a basis of actual fact. It is -perfectly true that eggs soft, rather long, almost cylindrical, and of -the same size at both ends, may be turned up by the fork as it stirs -the warm manure of a dunghill. It is also perfectly true that from -these eggs snakes are hatched, to the great surprise of the innocent -person who thinks he sees there the product of some witchcraft. What is -false is the supposed origin of the egg. Never, never has the cock, be -he young or old, the faculty reserved exclusively for the hen, the -faculty of laying. Those eggs found in dunghills, and remarkable for -their strange shape, do not come from fowl; they are simply the eggs of -a serpent, of an inoffensive snake which, when opportunity offers, -buries its laying in the warm mass of a dunghill to aid the hatching. -It is quite natural, then, that from serpents’ eggs serpents should -hatch.” - -“The ridiculous marvel of the supposed cock’s eggs,” returned Louis, -“thus becomes a very simple thing; but one must first know that -serpents lay eggs.” - -“Henceforth you will know that not only serpents but all reptiles lay -eggs just as birds do. Snakes’ eggs are flabby, and for covering have -only a sort of skin resembling wet parchment. Moreover, they are long -in shape, which is far from being the usual form. But the eggs of some -reptiles, notably of lizards, have the shell firm and of the fine oval -shape peculiar to birds’ eggs. If you ever encounter in holes in the -wall, or in dry sand well exposed to the sun, little eggs, all white, -with shell as fine as a little canary bird’s, do not cry out at the -strangeness of your discovery; you will simply have come across the -eggs of a gray lizard, the usual inhabitant of old walls.” - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER V - -THE EGG (Continued) - - -“Let us return to the hen. We know the calcareous nature of the shell; -now let us look at the structure. Open your eyes wide and look -attentively; you will see on the shell, chiefly at the large end, a -multitude of tiny dents such as might be made by the point of a fine -needle. Each of these dents corresponds to an invisible hole that -pierces the shell through and through and establishes communication -between the interior and the exterior. These holes, much too small to -let out the liquid contents of the egg, nevertheless suffice both for -the emission of humid vapors, which are dissipated outside the shell, -and for the admission of air, which penetrates within and replaces the -evaporated humidity. - -“The presence of these innumerable openings is absolutely necessary for -the awakening and keeping up of life in the future chicken. Every -living thing breathes, and all life springs into being and continues -through the action of air. The seed that germinates under ground must -have air. Planted too deep, it perishes sooner or later without being -able to rise, because the thick bed of earth prevents the air from -reaching it. The egg must have air so that its substance, gently warmed -by the brooding mother hen, may spring into life and become a little -chicken; it must have it continually, shut up as it is in its shell. -Thanks to the openings with which the shell is riddled, the air -penetrates sufficiently to meet the needs of respiration; it quickens -the substance of the egg and the little being slowly forming within.” - -“One might say,” Emile here put in, “that these holes are so many -little windows through which air reaches the bird in its narrow cell of -the egg.” - -“These windows, as Emile calls them,” his uncle went on, “deserve our -attention from another point of view. Eggs are a precious alimentary -provision; the difficulty is to keep them for any length of time. If -they get too old they spoil and give out then an infectious, bad smell. -Well, then, what causes the eggs to spoil and changes them to -repulsive-smelling filth is again air—the same air so indispensable to -the formation of the chicken. That which gives life to the egg under -the heat of the brooding hen brings destruction just as quickly when -the warmth is wanting. If, then, it is proposed to preserve in a state -of freshness as long as possible eggs destined for food, it is -necessary to prevent the access of air into their interior, which is -done by closing the openings in the shell. Several means may be -employed. Sometimes eggs are plunged for a moment into melted grease, -from which they are drawn out covered with a coating that obstructs all -the orifices; sometimes they are varnished. The simplest method is to -keep them in water in which a little lime has been dissolved. This -dissolved lime deposits itself on the shell and closes the openings. -These precautions taken, the air can no longer find a passage to -penetrate into the interior and the eggs are preserved in good -condition much longer than they would be without this preparation. -Nevertheless they always spoil in the long run.” - -“If I have properly understood what you have just told us about the -need of air for the awakening of life,” remarked Jules, “eggs thus -coated with varnish or lime will not hatch when under the brooding -hen?” - -“Evidently not. Rendered impervious to air by the varnish, lime, -grease, or what not, the eggs might remain indefinitely under the -brooding hen without ever coming to life; for want of the quickening -action of the air, life would no more awaken in them than in simple -stones. You understand, then, that the method of preservation by means -of a coating that closes the orifices of the shell must only be -employed for eggs destined for food, and that care must be taken not to -make use of it in those destined for hatching. - -“But this is enough about the outside of the egg. Now let us break the -shell. What do we find within? We find a delicate membrane, a supple -skin which lines the whole of the shell and forms a kind of bag, -without any opening, filled with the white and yolk. When by some -accident the limy coating is lacking, this membrane constitutes the -sole covering of the egg—a covering as soft as thin parchment soaked in -water.” - -“Then soft eggs without any shell have this membrane all exposed?” -queried Jules. - -“Exactly. A new-laid egg has its shell completely filled; but it soon -loses some of its humidity, which evaporates through the orifices in -the shell. A void is then created in the interior, near the large end, -where the evaporation is most rapid. At this end, therefore, the -membrane detaches itself from the shell that it lined and draws further -in with the contents of the egg shrunk by the evaporation. Thus is -produced at the large end a cavity which the air from outside enters -and which for this reason is called the air-chamber. This chamber, -wanting at first, grows little by little according to the space left by -the moisture’s evaporation; consequently, the older the egg, the larger -the space. If the egg is placed under the hen, the heat of the mother -aids evaporation and causes the quick formation of the air-chamber. -There gathers, as in a reservoir, the supply of air needed for the -vitality of the egg and the respiration of the coming bird. So the -empty space at the large end is a respiratory storehouse. - -“When you eat an egg boiled in the shell, break it carefully at the -large end. If the egg is very fresh the white will be seen immediately -under the shell without any empty space; but if it is old you will find -an unoccupied hollow of varying size. That is the air-chamber. -According to its size you can judge of the egg’s freshness. But it -would be more desirable to be able to recognize, before using and -breaking it, whether an egg is fresh or stale. I have seen the -following means used, which would seem very strange if what I have just -told you about the air-chamber did not furnish the explanation. The tip -of the tongue is applied to the large end. If the egg is fresh a slight -impression of coolness can be felt; if stale, the tongue remains warm. -This little mystery is based on the different manner of behavior of -liquids and gases when brought into contact with heat. Water and -liquids in general take away rather quickly the heat of the bodies with -which they come in contact; air and other gases, on the contrary, take -it away very slowly. That is why water seems cold when we plunge our -hand into it, while the air, lower in temperature, seems warm by -comparison. In reality, if both be of the same temperature, air and -water give us different sensations: water is cool to us because it -draws our heat away; air warm because it does not take away that same -heat. So if the egg is fresh, and consequently the shell completely -filled, the tip of the tongue applied to the large end feels the same -sensation as comes from contact with liquids; that is to say, a feeling -of coolness. But if the egg is stale, an air-chamber has formed and the -resulting sensation is that produced by contact with a gas; that is to -say, a sensation of warmth, since the tongue loses none of its natural -heat.” - -“That is certainly a curious test,” said Jules, “and I shall make it a -point to carry it out at the next opportunity.” - -“Let us go on with the egg. Now comes the glair or white, so called -because heat hardens it to a pure white matter. For the same reason, -science calls it albumen, from a Latin word, albus, meaning white. The -glair is arranged in a number of layers, which at both ends of the egg -twist round one another and form two large knotty cords called chalazæ. -To see these cords you must break a raw egg carefully in a plate. Then -you can distinguish, on each side of the yolk, a mass where the glair -is thicker and rather knotty. There, somewhat injured by the breaking -of the egg, are found the two cords in question. To give you a clear -idea, take an orange, put it in your handkerchief, and twist the latter -in opposite directions at both ends. The orange in its handkerchief -covering will represent the spherical yolk surrounded by the glair; the -two twisted ends of the handkerchief will be the two strings of white, -the two chalazæ. By means of these two tethers the yolk, the most -important and most delicate part of the egg, is suspended as in a -hammock, in the center of the glair, without being exposed to -disturbances that would be dangerous for the germ of life situated at a -point on its surface. This glairy hammock, with its two suspending -cords, has another rôle—a very delicate one. The first outlines of the -coming chick will appear at a certain point of the yolk. As the little -being forms and grows, it needs more space while still remaining -tightly enveloped and held in position so as to avoid the slightest -disturbance in the half fluid flesh just beginning to assume its proper -shape. How are these conditions realized in the egg? To understand the -matter thoroughly let us go back to the orange wrapped in a -handkerchief twisted at both ends. Is it not true that if both ends -untwist a little, the orange, supposing it to need by degrees more -room, will always find the necessary space without for a moment ceasing -to be enveloped and motionless? In the same manner the suspending cords -of the white slacken and gradually untwist as the little bird grows, at -the expense of the yolk, in its soft hammock of glair; the needed space -is made, and at the same time the feeble little bird remains just as -finely swaddled and suspended in the center of the egg, protected from -contact with the hard shell.” - -“At the beginning,” interposed Jules, “you called an egg a marvel. I -see that there are, in fact, in the egg things very worthy of our -admiration: the shell, with its numerous air-holes; the cavity at the -large end; the air-chamber where provision is made for breathing; the -soft little bed of glair with its suspending cords that untwist to make -more room, and perhaps that is not all?” - -“No, my friend, that is very far from being all. I limit myself here to -the simplest things and those that are not beyond your grasp. How would -it be if you could follow me in the unfolding of higher ideas? You -would see how everything in the egg is arranged with infinite delicacy, -with a foresight that we may call maternal, and then you would find my -word marvel the right one. But, not to go beyond your small powers of -comprehension, I abridge, much to my regret. - -“The yolk or yelk (which means the yellow part) is round and bright -yellow; hence its name. At a point on its surface, generally at the -top, no matter what the position of the egg, is seen a circular spot, -dull white, where the matter is a little more condensed than elsewhere. -It is called the cicatricle, or little scar. That is the sacred spot -where lies the spark of life which, animated by incubation, will -quicken the substance of the egg and mold it into a living being; it is -the point of departure, the origin, the germ of the bird. The yolk -itself is the nutritive reservoir whence are drawn the materials for -this work of creation. Quickened by the heat of the brooding hen and by -the action of the air, it becomes covered with a network of fine veins. -These swell with the substance of the yolk, which turns to blood; and -this blood, carried hither and thither, becomes the flesh of the being -in process of formation. The yolk, then, is the bird’s first food, but -food that no beak seizes and no stomach digests, none being in -existence yet. It changes to blood and afterward to flesh without the -preparatory work of ordinary digestion; it enters the veins directly, -and thus nourishes the whole body. - -“Animals with udders—the mammifers—also have nutriment for the very -young in the form of milk, which is indispensable for the weak stomach -of the nursling. Well, the yolk is to the bird in its shell what milk -is to the lamb and kitten; it is its milk-food, as it can have no -recourse to maternal udders. The popular saying has perfectly caught -the strict resemblance: they call a drink prepared with the yolk of an -egg, ‘hen’s milk.’” - -“That is what Mother Ambroisine makes me take when I cough in the -winter,” said Emile. - -“The delicious beverage that Mother Ambroisine gives you when you have -a cold is very properly called ‘hen’s milk,’ since it is made with the -equivalent of milk; that is to say, the yolk of an egg.” - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -INCUBATION - - -“Incubation means lying upon. The brooding bird does in fact crouch or -lie upon her eggs, warming them with the heat of her body for a number -of days with indefatigable patience. When a hen wishes to set, [1] she -makes it known by her repeated cluckings, little cries of maternal -anxiety, by her ruffled feathers, her restless movements, and -particularly by the perseverance with which she stays on the nest, even -when it has no eggs, where she has been in the habit of laying. - -“Some hens with wandering dispositions go back to the instincts of -their wild race. They leave the hen-house and seek a hedge or thicket, -where they select a hiding-place to suit them, and there make a little -hollow in the earth which they line as well as they can with a mattress -of dry grass, leaves, and feathers. That is a nest in the rough, -without art, a shapeless construction in comparison with the clever -masterpiece of the chaffinch and goldfinch. It is, furthermore, worthy -of remark that all the domestic birds, as if man’s intervention had -destroyed their skill by freeing them from want, fail to display in the -construction of their nests the admirable resourcefulness shown by most -wild birds. Here might be repeated the saying, as true for man as for -beast, necessity is the mother of invention. Sure of finding, when the -time comes for laying, the basket stuffed with hay by the hand of the -housewife, the domestic fowl does not trouble herself to build a nest, -an undertaking in which the tiniest bird of the fields shows itself a -consummate architect. At the most, when her adventurous disposition -makes her prefer the perilous shelter of the hedge to the safe retreat -of the poultry-yard, the hen, gleaning with her beak a few straws and -leaves, and plucking, if need be, some of her own feathers, succeeds in -making, for her period of brooding, a disordered heap rather than a -nest. There, every day, unknown to all, she goes and lays her egg. Then -for three whole weeks she is not to be seen, or only at intervals. That -is the time of incubation. At last, some fine day, she reappears, very -proud, at the head of a family of young chickens, peeping and pecking -around her.” - -“I should like,” said Emile, “to have some hens that set like that in -the fields and then come home again some day with their family of -little chickens.” - -“I must admit it is a sight worthy of interest, that of a hen that has -stolen her nest returning to the farmhouse at the head of her newly -hatched young chickens. Her eyes shine with satisfaction; her clucking -has something joyful about it. ‘Look,’ she seems to say to those who -welcome her, ‘see how fine, alert, and vigorous these young chickens -are; they are all mine; I raised them there all alone in a corner of -the hedge, and now I bring them to you. Am I not a fine hen?’ Yes, my -dear biddy, you are a fine hen, but also an imprudent one. In the -fields prowl the weasel and the marten which, if you are absent a -moment, will suck the blood of your little ones; in the fields the fox -is watching to wring your neck; in the fields there are cold, rain, bad -weather, grave peril for your shivering family. You would do better to -remain at home. - -“The greater number follow this prudent advice and do not leave the -poultry-yard. In the semi-obscurity of a sheltered quiet corner is -placed the egg-basket, lined with a bed of hay or of crumpled straw. In -it are put from twelve to fifteen eggs, the largest and freshest being -chosen, and preferably those not more than a week old. If they were two -or three weeks old they would not be sure to hatch, as in many of them -the germ would have become too old and would have lost the power to -develop. These arrangements made, the eggs are left to the setting hen -without being touched again. - -“Whoever has not seen a setting hen has missed one of the most touching -sights in this world: the devotion of the mother-bird to her eggs, her -self-forgetfulness even to the point of sacrificing her own life. Her -eyes shine with fever, her skin burns. Eating and drinking are -forgotten, and in order not to leave her eggs a moment a hen might even -let herself die of hunger on the nest if some one did not come every -day and gently take her off and make her eat. Others, less persevering, -leave the basket of their own accord, snatch up a little food, and -immediately go back to the nest.” - -“Do hens keep up that tiresome setting very long?” asked Emile. - -“It takes twenty or twenty-one days for the young chickens to come out -of the shell. During the whole of that time, night and day, the mother -remains squatting on the eggs, except for the rare moments that she -spares, as if grudgingly, for the necessities of nourishment. Her only -distraction in this complete retirement is to turn the eggs over every -twenty-four hours and change their place, moving those outside into the -center, and vice versa, so that all may have an equal share of heat. -That is a delicate operation, and it must be left to the hen’s care to -move the eggs with her beak. Let us be careful not to interfere with -our clumsy hands, for the bird knows better than we how to manage it.” - -“If the hen is so careful to move the eggs every day and give them all -the same amount of heat,” said Jules, “it must be heat alone that makes -them hatch?” - -“Yes, my friend, simply the heat of the mother makes the eggs hatch. -That is why the hen can be dispensed with and the eggs hatched by -artificial heat, provided it be well regulated, gentle, and continued -for a long time without interruption. The Egyptians, an ancient people -of great skill, practised this method thousands of years ago. They put -the eggs by hundreds of dozens into a sort of oven gently heated for -three weeks, the period of natural incubation. At the end of that time -the peepings of the countless brood did not fail to announce the -success of the operation.” - -“What a big family that oven-hatched brood must have been!” exclaimed -Emile. “It would have taken a hundred hens to set on all the eggs, but -in this way they were all hatched at once.” - -“A setting hen ceases to lay, and it was doubtless in order not to -interrupt the beneficent daily production of eggs that the Egyptians -invented artificial incubation in an oven. For the same reason -sometimes with us recourse is had to this means, especially where the -raising of poultry is made a business; only the incubation is no longer -carried out in an oven but in ingeniously contrived incubators. In a -drawer, on a bed of hay, the eggs are placed in a single layer. Above, -and separated from the brooder by a sheet-iron partition, is a bed of -water, which a lamp, kept always alight, warms and maintains at the -temperature that the hen’s body would give; that is to say, forty -degrees centigrade. In twenty-one days under this warm ceiling the eggs -hatch just as they would under the hen.” - -“Oh, Uncle,” cried Emile, “I should really like to have an incubator -like that in a corner of my room and watch the progress of the hatching -every day by opening the drawer.” - -“What you would like to do, others, more skilful, have already done, -not only opening the drawer but breaking an egg each day so as to see -how things are going. I told you that the germ of the bird is a round -spot of dull white, the cicatricle, which by its mobility is always on -top at the surface of the yolk, no matter what the position of the egg. -After five or six hours of incubation you can already distinguish in -the center of the cicatricle a minute glairy swelling which will be the -head, and a line which will be the backbone. Pretty soon there begins -to beat, at regular intervals, the organ most necessary to life, the -heart, which chases through a network of fine veins the blood formed, -little by little, out of the substance of the yolk, and distributes it -everywhere to furnish materials to the other organs just coming into -being. It is toward the second day that these first heart-beats, -destined to continue henceforth until death, become apparent. Thus -irrigated with running flesh—for blood is nothing else—this organism -thenceforward makes rapid progress. The eyes show themselves and form a -large black spot on each side of the head; the quills of the large -feathers form in their sheaths; the scales of the feet are outlined in -a bluish tint; the bones, at first gelatinous, acquire firmness by -becoming incrusted with a small quantity of stony matter. From the -tenth day all the parts of the young chicken are well formed. The -little being, softly suspended in its hammock by means of the two -suspending cords that untwist little by little to give more room as it -grows, is bent over on itself, the head folded against the breast and -hidden under its wing. Note, my friends, that it is precisely this -attitude of deep sleep inside the egg that the hen assumes when she -wants to sleep. Crouched on her perch, she again folds her head on her -breast and tucks it under her wing, just as she did when she was a -little chicken in its shell. - -“In the meantime the little bird keeps growing on the yellow and white -matter; matter which soaks and penetrates it and, vivified by the air, -becomes its blood and its flesh. One day it breaks the thin membrane -under the shell, and there it is more at ease with the increase of -space given it by the air-chamber. Now an attentive ear can distinguish -feeble peepings inside the shell; it is the seventeenth or eighteenth -day. A couple of days more, and the young chicken, summoning all its -strength, will apply itself to the arduous work of deliverance. A -pointed callosity, made expressly for the purpose, has formed on the -upper part of the tip-end of the beak. Here is the tool, the pick, for -opening its prison; a tool for that particular purpose and of very -short duration, which will disappear as soon as the shell is pierced. -With this provisional pick, the little chicken begins to hammer the -shell; perseveringly it pushes, strikes, scratches, until the stone -wall yields. For the most vigorous it takes several hours. Oh, joy! the -shell is broken; there is the young chicken’s little head, and all -yellow velvety down, and still wet with the moisture of the egg. The -mother comes to its aid and completes its deliverance; others, weaker -or less skilful, take twenty-four hours of painful effort to free -themselves. Some even exhaust themselves in the undertaking and perish -miserably in the egg without succeeding in breaking the shell.” - -“Those are the very ones the mother ought to help,” said Jules. - -“She would be careful not to, for fear of a worse accident than a -difficult birth. How could she direct her blows accurately enough not -to wound the tender little chicken just inside the shell? The slightest -false move would cause a wound, and at so tender an age any wound is -death. We ourselves, with all the dexterity and care possible, could -not, without danger, help the bird in distress; it can be tried as a -last resort, but the chance of success is very small. The young chicken -is the only one capable of carrying through this delicate deliverance -if strength does not fail it. The hen knows this wonderfully well, and -so does not interfere except to finish freeing the prisoner when half -out of its shell. Let us hope that things will turn out as we wish, and -that on the twenty-first day the whole family may be warmed under the -mother’s wings without mortal accident at the moment of hatching. - -“From the instant of leaving the shell the young chickens already know -how to peck food and how to run around the mother who, clucking, leads -the way. They have besides a little fur of downy hair that clothes them -warmly. This development is not found in all birds; far from it. -Pigeons, for example, come naked from the egg and do not know how to -eat; the father and mother have to feed them by disgorging a mouthful -of food into their beaks. The young of the warbler, chaffinch, -goldfinch, tomtit, lark, in fact of nearly all the field birds, are -naked, very weak, at first blind, and completely incapable of feeding -themselves, even with the food just under their beaks. The parents, -with infinite tenderness, have for a number of days to bring it to them -and put it into their beaks.” - -“That is a difference that has always struck me,” commented Jules. -“Little sparrows open their mouths wide to receive the food offered -them, but for a long time they do not know how to take it even if it is -put at the very end of their beak. On the contrary, little chickens -easily pick up from the ground for themselves the seeds and worms that -the mother digs up for them.” - -“I will tell you, if you do not already know,” continued Uncle Paul, -“that the young of the duck, turkey, goose, and, among wild birds, the -partridge and quail, have the same precocity as those of the hen. They -are clothed with down on coming out of the egg, and know how to eat. -One of the causes of this difference in the way young birds act -immediately after hatching comes from the size of the egg. The chick is -formed wholly from the substances contained in the egg; the larger the -egg in proportion to the size of the animal, the stronger and more -developed the young. Therefore the kind with the largest eggs are -clothed at the time of hatching; they can run and know how to eat, -unaided. Where the eggs are relatively small the young are hatched -weak, naked, blind, and for a long time, motionless in their nest, -demand the mother’s beakful of food. - -“The largest egg known is that of an enormous bird that formerly lived -in the island of Madagascar, and of which the species appears to-day to -have been completely destroyed. This bird is called the epyornis. It -was three or four meters tall and thus rivaled in stature a very -long-legged horse or, better still, the animal called a giraffe. Such -birds ought to lay monstrous eggs; such in fact they are; their length -is three decimeters and a half and their capacity nearly nine liters.” - -“Nine liters!” exclaimed Emile. “Oh, what an egg! Our large vinegar jug -only holds ten liters. Certainly the young that come from that ought to -know how to run and to eat.” - -“To equal in bulk the egg of the epyornis it would take one hundred and -forty-eight hen’s eggs.” - -“I think they could make a famous omelet with only one of those eggs.” - -“A fine large one could be made, too, with an ostrich-egg, which in -size represents nearly two dozen hen’s eggs. It need not be added that -young ostriches know how to run and to eat as soon as they come out of -the shell. - -“Those are the largest eggs; now let us consider the smallest ones. -They are those of the humming-bird, a charming creature whose splendid -plumage would outshine the most brilliant costly metals, precious -stones, and jewels. There are some as small as our large wasps and that -certain spiders catch in their webs just as the spiders of our country -catch gnats. Their nest is a cup of cotton no bigger than half an -apricot. Judge then the size of the eggs. It would take three hundred -and forty to make one hen’s egg, and fifty thousand to make one laid by -the epyornis.” - -“I imagine the little humming-birds in their nest must be all naked at -first and blind, taking their food from their mother’s beak.” - -“From the smallness of the egg it could not be otherwise.” - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -THE YOUNG CHICKENS - - -“The hatching of the eggs does not take place all at once; sometimes it -is twenty-four hours before all the eggs are broken. A danger thus -arises. Divided between her desire to continue setting and her wish to -give her attention to the newly born, the mother may make some sudden -movement and unintentionally trample on the tender creatures, or even -leave the nest too soon, which would cause the loss of the backward -eggs. What, then, is to be done? The first-born are taken as carefully -as possible and placed in a basket stuffed with wool or cotton and put -in a warm place near the fire. When the whole family is hatched it is -restored to the mother. - -“The first days are hard ones for the young chickens; they are so -delicate, poor little things, so chilly under their light yellow down. -Where will they be kept at first? Shall it be with the grown-up -poultry, a turbulent crowd, quarrelsome, rough, and without any -consideration for the weak? What would become of them, the little -innocents, not yet well balanced on their legs, in the midst of the -greedy hens which, in scratching for worms, might give them some brutal -kick? How dangerous for them to be with the quarrelsome cocks that -disdain to look out for the frightened little giddy-heads straying -about under their very spurs! No, no, that is not the place for them. - -“What they require is a place set apart, isolated from the rough -grown-up poultry, heated to a mild temperature, and carpeted with fine -straw. If this place is wanting, recourse is had to a coop, a sort of -large cage, under which the mother is placed with some food. Sometimes -the bars of this refuge are far enough apart to permit the young -chickens to come in and go out at will, so as to enjoy their play; -sometimes they are too close together for this, and then the coop is -lifted a little at one side when it is desired to give liberty to the -captives. But the mother always stays in the cage, whence she watches -over the young chickens, calling them to her at the least appearance of -danger. If the weather is fine, the coop is placed out of doors in an -exposed spot, with a sheltering canopy of canvas, foliage, or straw, -when the sun is too hot.” - -“There the young chickens are safe,” said Emile, “out of danger of any -accident amongst the boisterous population of the poultry-yard. If some -danger arises, the hen gives her warning call, and those that are -outside immediately scamper through the narrow passage and take refuge -with their mother. Now about their food.” - -“Food is not forgotten: under the coop is a plate containing water, and -another with pap. For very young chickens it is not yet time for strong -food, hard grain which requires a vigorous stomach to digest; they must -have something at once nutritious and easy to digest. Their pap is -composed of finely crumbled bread, a few salad leaves well chopped up, -hard-boiled eggs, and a pinch of fine millet to accustom them by -degrees to a diet of grain. The whole is carefully mixed. - -“On coming out of the shell, the young chickens, like other birds from -a relatively large egg, are quick at taking food for themselves; -nevertheless it is necessary, from their utter inexperience, for the -mother to show them how to strike the beak into the pap. Let us witness -this lesson of the first mouthful. The farmer’s wife has just put the -food under the coop. ‘What is this?’ perhaps the innocent little -chickens ask, their stomachs beginning to cry hunger now that they have -been nearly twenty-four hours out of the shell. ‘What is this?’ All -flurried with joy, the mother calls them to the plate in accents -resembling articulate speech. They approach, tottering on their little -legs. The hen then gives a few pecks in the mess, but only pretends to -eat, so as not to diminish the dainty food reserved for the little -ones. One of the chickens, perhaps a little quicker of apprehension -than the rest, seems to have understood; it seizes a crumb of bread in -its beak but immediately lets it fall again. The mother begins again, -urges, encourages with her voice and look, and this time swallows in -plain sight of them all. The young chicken returns to its crumb and -after two or three attempts succeeds in swallowing it, half closing its -eyes with satisfaction. ‘Ha! how good it is!’ it seems to say; ‘let us -try again.’ And another crumb goes down; then a little piece of yolk of -egg follows. Henceforth it can manage for itself. The example spreads; -one here, another there, tries its beak; the hen repeating her patient -lesson for the less clever of the brood. Soon they have all understood -and are vying with one another in their assaults on the pap. Then comes -a lesson in drinking. How to plunge the beak fearlessly into the water, -how to raise the head heavenward so as to let the mouthful of liquid go -down the throat, is what the hen will show her pupils by repeated -examples. In imitating her, some giddy one will perhaps put its foot -into the water or even fall into the plate, a fearful possibility for -the inexperienced drinker. But the hen will dry the unfortunate one -under her wings and show it another time how to manage better. To be -brief, in a single short session the whole brood has been taught the -two chief needs of this world, eating and drinking.” - -“They are scholars quick to learn,” said Jules. “It is true the -prompting of the stomach, hunger, must have helped them.” - -“Hardly a week has passed before the young chickens are out of the coop -and running around, though not to any great distance, for if one -appears to want to go off the mother admonishes it and recalls it to -more prudent ways. If she suspects the slightest danger she recalls -them all to her retreat by a persuasive clucking. Immediately the -little chickens scamper back, squeeze between the bars or crawl under -the lifted end of the coop, and regain the refuge where no intruders -can penetrate. When the time comes for these first sallies outside the -coop, the hen can be set free and allowed to lead her family where she -pleases. - -“One of the most interesting sights of the farm is that of the hen at -the head of her young chickens. With a slow step, measured by the -feebleness of her brood, she goes hither and thither on the chance of -finding something of value to her, always with vigilant eye and -attentive ear. She clucks with a voice made hoarse by her maternal -exertions; she scratches to dig up little seeds which the young ones -come and take from under her beak. Here is a good place chanced upon in -the sunshine for a rest from walking and for getting warm. The hen -crouches down, ruffles up her plumage and slightly raises her wings, -arching them in a sort of vault. All run and squat under the warm -cover. Two or three put their heads out of the window, their pretty -heads, all alert, framed in their mother’s somber plumage. One, in its -boldness, settles down on her back, and from this elevated position -pecks the hen’s neck; the others, the great majority, hide in her down -and sleep or peep softly. The siesta finished, they resume their -promenade, the mother scratching and clucking, the little ones trotting -around her. - -“But what is this? It is the shadow of a bird of prey, which for a -moment has darkened the sunshine of the courtyard. The menacing -apparition did not last more than the twinkling of an eye; nevertheless -the hen saw it. Danger threatens, the rapacious bird is not far away. -At the note of alarm the young chickens hasten to take refuge under the -mother, who makes a rampart for them of her wings. And now the ravisher -may come. This mother, so feeble, so timid, that a mere nothing would -put her to flight on all other occasions, becomes imposingly audacious -where her brood is concerned. Let the goshawk appear, and the hen, full -of tenderness and intrepidity, will throw herself in front of the -terrible talons. By the beating of her wings, her redoubled cries, her -furious pecks with her beak, she will hold her own against the bird of -prey, until at last it beats a retreat, repulsed by this indomitable -resistance. - -“The attachment of the hen to her young is shown in another very -remarkable circumstance. As she is an excellent brooder, they sometimes -give her ducks’ eggs to hatch. The hen brings up her adopted family as -she would her own; she exercises the same care over the little ducks as -she would over chickens of her own. All goes well as long as the -ducklings, covered with a velvety yellow down, conform to the ways of -their nurse and run under her wing at the first summons. But a time -comes when their aquatic instinct awakens. They smell the pond, the -neighboring pond, where the frog croaks and the tadpole frisks. They go -waddling along, one after another, the old hen following them in -ignorance of their project. They reach the pond and dash into the -water. Then it is that the hen, believing the very lives of her little -ones in peril, gives vent to the most desperate outcry. In her mortal -terror the poor mother races in distraction along the bank, her voice -hoarse with emotion, her plumage bristling with fear. She calls, -menaces, supplicates. An angry red mounts to her comb, the fire of -despair illumines her eye. She even goes—miracle of mother love—she -even goes so far as to risk one foot in the water, that perfidious -element, the sight of which makes her almost faint with fear. But to -all her supplications the little ducklings turn a deaf ear, happy in -their pursuit of the silver-bellied tadpole among the cresses.” - -“Oh, the little rascals,” exclaimed Emile, “not to listen to their -nurse’s warnings! However, as they are ducks they can’t get along -without water.” - -“They go there very often alone at first, in spite of the hen’s -remonstrances; then, reassured by the first attempts, she willingly -leads them to the bath and from the bank watches their joyful gambols.” - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -THE POULARD [2] - - -“In a month the young chickens are strong enough to do without the -tender care of their early days. The pap, the dainty dish of -hard-boiled eggs mixed with lettuce and bread crumbs, is no longer -served to them, but their rations consist simply of grain and green -stuff. This kind of weaning is not effected without some regret on -their part at the remembrance of the pap; but the mother makes amends -for it by teaching them to scratch the earth and seek insects and -worms, a royal feast for them. She shows them how a fly should be -snapped up when warming itself in the sun against the wall; how the -worm is to be caught and drawn from the ground before it goes into its -hole. She shows them in what manner to proceed in order to derive the -largest profit from a tuft of grass where the ants have stored their -eggs; with what nice attention they must search the under side of large -leaves where various insects are in hiding. How to carry out little -predatory excursions in the neighboring cultivated fields when -opportunity offers, how to scratch up the newly made garden-plots and -rummage in every nook and corner, pillaging here and pilfering -there—this, too, is all comprised in the educational curriculum -prepared by the careful mother. After a couple of weeks of such -practice the pupils are past masters; they lose the name of chickens -and take that of pullets and roosters. Then the family disbands, the -hen returning to her laying of eggs, and the chickens, thenceforth -expert in the difficult science of earning their living, being left to -themselves. - -“Very diverse fates await them. Some, fortune’s favorites, will grow -peacefully to increase the poultry-yard; others, more numerous, as soon -as they are large enough will be given over to the kitchen knife; some, -chosen from those easiest to fatten, will undergo a diet that will make -them peculiarly suitable for the table. Let me tell you to-day through -what grievous trials the poor bird passes to become, by artificial aid, -the plump, fat, succulent fowl that we call a poulard.” - -“Then a poulard is not a separate species of hen?” asked Jules. - -“No, my friend. The poulard is only an ordinary hen artificially -subjected to a kind of life that fattens it. All species do not lend -themselves with equal success to this artificial fattening; the best -known in this respect is that of la Flèche, which furnishes the -celebrated poulard of Mans. - -“I have already told you a few words about this species, which is -distinguished from the others by its dashing appearance and long legs. -The plumage is entirely black, touched with glints of violet and green. -The cock carries proudly, for comb, two horns of brilliant red flesh; -its wattles are pendent and very long. The hen has two similar but -shorter horns; her wattles are small and rounded; finally, her legs -have not the disproportionate length of the cock’s tall stilts. Such -are the patients preëminently destined for the cruel industry of -fattening. Let us come now to the practice of it. - -“The greatest care in this world is that of the family. You know with -what continual and laborious solicitude the hen watches over her little -ones, with what self-sacrifice the mother spends herself in order to -keep her nest of eggs warm. If pains were not taken to remove her from -the nest and make her eat, she would let herself starve to death, -sacrificing her own life for the sake of her eggs. Is it possible for a -bird to take on flesh with such ardent maternal love burning in her -veins? Certainly not. The first condition for becoming large and fat is -to consider one’s self alone, a thing permitted only to the beast whose -end is to become an excellent roast. - -“Well, in order that the hen may consider solely herself, think of -nothing but eating and digesting well, so as to take on fat and flesh -abundantly, it is put out of her power to lay, which in turn takes from -her all idea of brooding and of raising young chickens. Out of a -mother, ready to devote herself unstintingly, is made a brute that, if -only its crop be full, has no care of any kind; in fact, a veritable -fat-factory. The operation is a cruel one. With the blade of a penknife -a slight incision is made in the stomach, and the organ in which the -eggs are formed is removed. With a little care the slight wound soon -heals, and the mutilated bird is ready for the life of a poulard. Let -loose in the poultry-yard, it has henceforth nothing to do but eat, -digest, and sleep; sleep, digest, and eat. Leading such a life, the -bird soon begins to grow fat. Things go all the better and quicker, -however, if the bird cannot move freely, cannot come and go at will; -for it is to be remarked that no more than love of offspring does love -of liberty fatten those that feel its generous ardor. You will ponder -that later, my children, when you are older. So they confine the -poulards in coops.” - -“What sort of coops?” asked Emile. - -“They are low cages divided into cells, with one poulard to a cell. -Crouching in its narrow compartment, the fowl cannot move or even turn -round. Solid partitions bar the view except in front near the -feed-trough, and prevent its seeing its neighbors, its companions in -confinement, so that nothing may distract it from its ceaseless work of -digestion. The cage is placed in a room heated to a mild temperature, -far from all noise and in a semi-obscurity which induces sleep, so -favorable to the functions of the stomach. At punctually regulated -hours, far enough apart for appetite to be aroused, but near enough -together to prevent its becoming actual hunger, which would impair the -well-being of the stomach and hinder the fattening of the bird, three -meals a day are served in the feed-trough. Raw beets, cooked potatoes, -crushed grain, curdled milk, barley, wheat, maize, buckwheat, compose -the menu in turn, so as to excite by variety and choice of food an -appetite that satiety daily makes more languishing. Thus fed to -repletion, the poor creature, with nothing to distract it from the -filling of its crop, eats to pass the time, falls asleep from sheer -stupor, awakes, and begins to eat again, only to fall asleep once more. -Toward the end of this treatment the poulard, gorged beyond measure, -refuses to eat any more. To arouse the last feeble promptings of -appetite recourse is had to more delicate food, calculated to keep -alive a few days longer the desire for nourishment. For solid food a -dough of fine flour is served, and for liquid refreshment, milk, pure -milk, if you please. If the bird, already stuffed to bursting, -positively refuses to eat any more, it is made to eat by force.” - -“By force?” said Emile, “when it is bursting and can eat no more?” - -“Yes, my friend, by force. Willy, nilly, it must still swallow for some -days longer, after which comes the end of its miseries. It is killed -and appears on the table as a tender and juicy roast abounding in fat. - -“This forced feeding is the essential feature in the method followed to -obtain the renowned poulards of Mans. - -“According to the masters of this art, the process is as follows: -Without preliminary subjection to the mutilation I spoke of, the fowls -are placed in narrow cages in a warm, dark room, the doors and windows -of which have been made tight to prevent the free circulation of air. -For food, a mixture of barley-flour, oats, and buckwheat is moistened -with milk, and the dough is divided into little pieces or oblong balls -shaped like an olive and of about the length of the little finger. At -meal times, which must be very regular, the feeder takes three hens at -a time, ties them together by the legs, puts them on his knees, and, by -the light of a lamp, begins by making them swallow a spoonful of water -or whey; then, taking them by turns, he introduces a bolus into the -beak of each of the hens, and to facilitate the descent of the large -pieces he presses lightly with his fingers, passing from the base of -the beak down to the crop. While the bird that has been fed is -recovering from its painful deglutition, the two others are treated in -the same manner. To this first ball are added a second, a third, and so -on up to a dozen or fifteen, all put into the beak and swallowed -willingly or otherwise. Their crops sufficiently full, the three hens -are replaced in their cages, where they have nothing to do but sleep -and peacefully digest their copious meal. The others go through the -same treatment, three by three, in a fixed order.” - -“And if the crop is stuffed too full with these twelve or fifteen lumps -of dough,” asked Jules, “may not the bird die, choked with food?” - -“There is no great danger; all will go well. Remember the bird’s -astonishing powers of digestion and the experiments I related to you on -this subject.” - -“It is true that a gizzard capable of getting rid of leaden balls stuck -with needles or lancets ought easily to dispose of a few lumps of -dough.” - -“Besides, heed is taken not to go beyond the fowl’s digestive powers. A -halt is called as soon as the crop appears to be full. It takes from -six weeks to two months of this treatment to bring the poulard to -perfection.” - -“I am too fond of the poulard served up as a choice roast to speak ill -of what I have just heard; nevertheless I will admit, Uncle, that this -barbarous fattening process is repulsive to me. I pity those poor -things crouching there in the dark, in cells where they cannot move, -and forcibly crammed with food until almost stuffed to death.” - -“This sympathy proceeds from a good disposition, and I approve of it; -but, after all, what is to be done? Since we need the poulard, we must -needs countenance the process by which the hen is turned into the -poulard. Our life is sustained by animal life. Therefore all that our -pity can do is to lessen as much as possible the unavoidable suffering -and, above all, see to it that the victims of our needs do not become -also the victims of a useless and stupid brutality.” - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -THE TURKEY - - -“Of our barnyard fowls, the turkey is the most remarkable except the -peacock, which is raised only for the incomparable richness of its -plumage. The turkey-gobbler has his head and neck covered with bare -bluish skin, embellished behind with white nipples and in front with -red ones, which swell and hang down in large pendants, resembling -sealing wax in color. Over his beak falls a piece of flesh, short and -wrinkled when the bird is in repose, hanging far down and of brilliant -coloring when he wishes to display his charms. In the middle of his -breast is fastened an unkempt sort of mane. To show off, he bridles up, -inflates his red pendants, elongates the piece of flesh over his beak, -throws his head back, spreads out his tail feathers in the shape of a -wheel, and lets the tips of his half-opened wings trail on the ground. -In this grotesquely proud posture he turns slowly to let himself be -admired from all sides. From time to time a low sound, puff-puff, -accompanied by a sort of convulsive stretching of the wings, is the -sign of his supreme satisfaction. If some noise, especially whistling, -disturbs him, he hauls down his colors and, stretching his neck, -hastily gives a gloo-gloo-gloo that seems to burst from the very depths -of his stomach.” - -“By whistling to the turkeys feeding in the fields,” said Emile, “I can -make them repeat their cry as often as I want to. The turkey hens do -not say gloo-gloo; they peep plaintively.” - -“This fowl is a recent acquisition of our poultry-yards,” resumed Uncle -Paul. “It came to us from North America in the sixteenth century. As -America was called West Indies in contrast with the Asian or East -Indies, the bird originating in the forests of the New World was called -the Indian cock (coq d’Inde) and the Indian hen (poule d’Inde); from -which have come the French terms dindon and dinde. For a long time the -bird spread but little; it was raised merely as a curious rarity. The -first that appeared on the table was, they say, at the wedding feast of -Charles IX. - -“The turkey lived, and still lives to-day, in a wild state, in the -forests of the United States of North America. Its habits are described -by a celebrated naturalist, Audubon, [3] who, with his gun on his -shoulder, his notebook, pencil, and brushes in his game-bag, traversed -the most secluded solitudes in order to observe, paint, and describe -birds. - -“‘The nest,’ he tells us, ‘which consists of a few withered leaves, is -placed on the ground, in a hollow scooped out by the side of a log, or -in the fallen top of a dry leafy tree, under a thicket of sumach or -briars, or a few feet within the edge of a cane-brake, but always in a -dry place.... When depositing her eggs, the female always approaches -the nest with extreme caution, scarcely ever taking the same course -twice, and when about to leave them covers them carefully with leaves, -so that it is very difficult for a person who may have seen the bird to -discover the nest.... - -“‘The mother will not leave her eggs when near hatching, under any -circumstances, while life remains. She will even allow an enclosure to -be made around her, and thus suffer imprisonment, rather than abandon -them. I once witnessed the hatching of a brood of turkeys, which I -watched for the purpose of securing them together with the parent. I -concealed myself on the ground within a very few feet, and saw her -raise herself half the length of her legs, look anxiously upon the -eggs, cluck with a sound peculiar to the mother on such occasions, -carefully remove each half-empty shell, and with her bill caress and -dry the young birds, that already stood tottering and attempting to -make their way out of the nest. Yes, I have seen this, and have left -mother and young to better care than mine could have proved—to the care -of their Creator and mine. I have seen them all emerge from the shell, -and, in a few moments after, tumble, roll, and push each other forward, -with astonishing and inscrutable instinct.’” - -“That’s the kind of hunter I like,” declared Jules; “one who knows how -to restrain himself at the touching sight of a nest of young birds. -What did you say his name was?” - -“Audubon.” - -“I shan’t forget that name again.” - -“And that will be right, for few observers have discoursed on birds -with so much sympathetic understanding as he. - -“I continue to draw from his account. ‘About the beginning of October,’ -says he, ‘when scarcely any of the seeds and fruits have yet fallen -from the trees, these birds assemble in flocks, and gradually move -towards the rich bottom lands of the Ohio and Mississippi.... When they -come upon a river, they betake themselves to the highest eminences, and -there often remain a whole day, or sometimes two, as if for the purpose -of consultation. During this time, the males are heard gobbling, -calling, and making much ado, and are seen strutting about, as if to -raise their courage to a pitch befitting the emergency. Even the -females and young assume something of the same pompous demeanor, spread -out their tails, and run round each other, purring loudly, and -performing extravagant leaps. At length, when the weather appears -settled, and all around is quiet, the whole party mounts to the tops of -the highest trees, whence, at a signal, consisting of a single cluck, -given by a leader, the flock takes flight for the opposite shore. The -old and fat birds easily get over, even should the river be a mile in -breadth; but the younger and less robust frequently fall into the -water—not to be drowned, however, as might be imagined. They bring -their wings close to their body, spread out their tail as a support, -stretch forward their neck, and striking out their legs with great -vigor, proceed rapidly toward the shore; on approaching which, should -they find it too steep for landing, they cease their exertions for a -few moments, float down the stream until they come to an accessible -part, and by a violent effort extricate themselves from the water. It -is remarkable that, immediately after thus crossing a large stream, -they ramble about for some time, as if bewildered. In this state, they -fall an easy prey to the hunter. - -“‘Of the numerous enemies of the wild turkey, the most formidable, -excepting man, are the lynx, the snowy owl, and the Virginia owl.... As -turkeys usually roost in flocks, on naked branches of trees, they are -easily discovered by their enemies, the owls, which, on silent wing, -approach and hover around them for the purpose of reconnoitering. This, -however, is rarely done without being discovered, and a single cluck -from one of the turkeys announces to the whole party the approach of -the murderer. They instantly start upon their legs, and watch the -motions of the owl, which, selecting one as its victim, comes down upon -it like an arrow, and would inevitably secure the turkey, did not the -latter at that moment lower its head, stoop, and spread its tail in an -inverted manner over its back, by which action the aggressor is met by -a smooth inclined plane, along which it glances without hurting the -turkey; immediately after which the latter drops to the ground, and -thus escapes, merely with the loss of a few feathers.’” - -“To make a breastplate of the tail spread out like a wheel is a very -ingenious means of defense,” remarked Emile. “The turkey is not so -foolish as people think.” - -“It is so far from being foolish that we have not in the poultry-yard a -more impassioned lover of liberty. In their native country turkeys -wander through the great woods from morning to night in untiring search -of insects and fat larvæ, fruit and seeds of all kinds, acorns and nuts -especially, of which they are very fond. Thus the stay-at-home habits -of the poultry-yard do not suit them at all. They must have the open -air of the fields and the exercise of long walks. Moors, woods, hills -abounding in grasshoppers, are their favorite haunts. Their timid -nature makes them very docile. A child armed with a long switch is -enough to lead the flock to the fields, however numerous it may be. -Then, step by step, to-day in one direction, to-morrow in another, the -flock explores the stubble and gleans the grain fallen from the ear, -traverses the grassy meadows where the crickets leap, and penetrates -the woods where is found abundant pasturage of chestnuts, beechnuts, -and acorns. - -“In spite of these rambles afield, which remind it a little of the -wandering life it leads in the immense forests of its native country, -the turkey never acquires in domesticity the plumpness of body and -richness of plumage that belong to it in its free state. It is a -curious fact that, contrary to all our experience with other animals, -which have improved under human care and have increased in size, the -turkey alone has degenerated in our hands, as if preyed upon by an -ineradicable regret for its native forests, where bellows the buffalo, -chased by the red-skinned Indian. The domestic turkey is not much more -than half as large as the wild one. And then what a difference in the -plumage! Our poultry-yard fowl is of a uniform black or of a dull red, -sometimes white. The bird of the wooded solitudes of the New World is -splendid in costume. Bronzed brown predominates, but the neck, throat, -and back have, in the light, metallic reflections; and as the plumage -is clearly imbricated, the whole gives the appearance of scale armor in -gold and steel. Furthermore, the large wing-feathers have a pure white -spot on the tip.” - -“From that description,” said Jules, “I see well enough that the bird -has not gained by living with us.” - -“Nor has its flesh gained in nutritive quality, that of the wild turkey -being considered incomparably superior.” - -“It is just the opposite with the common hen,” observed Louis. -“Originally as small as the partridge and with as little flesh, it has -developed into the fat poulard.” - -“Such as it is,” said Uncle Paul, “the domestic turkey is none the -less, next to the common fowl, the most valuable acquisition of the -poultry-yard. Let us now turn our attention to it. - -“The laying of its eggs takes place in April, when about twenty to a -nest are laid, of a dull white with reddish spots. These eggs are -scarcely ever used as food; not that they are bad—far from it—but they -are too precious and too few to be converted into omelets. As fast as -the turkey-hen lays them they are gathered and kept in a basket lined -with hay or old rags until the time for setting. The gathering of these -eggs is not always easy. Faithful to her wild habits, the turkey-hen -does not willingly accept the poultry-house nest. She steals away to -lay her eggs in neighboring straw-ricks, underbrush, and hedges. One -must watch her proceedings therefore, foil her ruses, and from time to -time visit her favorite haunts. - -“Incubation presents no difficulties, the female turkey being so good a -brooder. Like the common hen, she devotes herself to her eggs with -passionate love; like the hen, too, while setting she forgets her food, -so that she must be taken off the nest every day and made to eat and -drink, as otherwise she might let herself die of hunger. The little -ones hatch at the end of thirty days. There is nothing more delicate -than these new-born chicks; the least cold chills them, a shower of -rain is fatal to them, even the dew imperils their lives, and a hot sun -kills them in a trice. If there is delay in feeding, and the mother, of -ponderous bulk, awkwardly plants her feet in the midst of her numerous -offspring, then the greedy little things are liable to be trampled on -and crushed to death. Another danger awaits them at the age of two or -three months. Young turkeys hatch with the heads covered with down, -with no sign of the red nipples that will ornament them later. Within -two or three months these nipples, real collars, and pendants of coral -begin to show; they say then that the red is starting. At this time -there takes place in the bird a painful change which to many is mortal, -especially in a damp season. To succor the sick ones, they are made to -swallow a few mouthfuls of warm wine. All things considered, there are -numberless chances of death for the turkey-hen’s brood. Add to that the -small number of eggs laid, and we can understand why, in spite of its -great utility, the turkey is less common than the ordinary fowl. - -“Audubon has told us that when, from his concealment in the bushes, he -witnessed the mother turkey’s anxious procedure, the young ones left -the nest almost as soon as the shell was broken. For a moment the -mother warms and dries them under her breast; then, trotting and -tumbling, they abandon the bed of leaves, never to return. In -domesticity it is much the same; no sooner are they hatched than the -little turkeys leave the nest and thenceforth have no other shelter -than the cover of their mother, who protects them under her wings -exactly as the hen protects her brood. She also takes the same care of -her family, exercises the same vigilance in foreseeing danger, shows -the same audacity in coping with the bird of prey. For the first few -days the refuge afforded by the wide and deep coop, so useful to the -little chickens, is not less useful to the young turkeys. The -hen-turkey is put there with choice provisions, and the little ones are -free to come and go as they please. These provisions consist of a pap -similar to that given to young chickens and composed of bread-crumbs, -curds, chopped salad leaves and nettles, a little bran, and hard-boiled -eggs. Later comes grain, oats in particular. When the weather is fine -the coop is put out of doors in a sunny spot, on very dry ground, and -the brood is allowed to play about for a couple of hours in the middle -of the day. Great care must be taken to avoid rain, dew, and dampness; -a wet turkey chick is in grave danger. - -“The more delicate the bird at the beginning, the more robust it is -when it has successfully passed the period called the red. It no longer -needs the shelter of the poultry-house at night. However cold it may -be, it sleeps in the open air, roosting on the branches of some dead -tree or on a perch fixed to the wall. Vainly does the north wind -whistle and the frost nip; the turkey rests peacefully in the manner of -its fellows in the woods of America, and without fear lest a snow-owl -come to disturb its slumbers and compel it to spread its tail quickly -and make a breastplate against the marauder’s talons. - -“I will finish this story with a few words on a curious method of -fattening used in certain countries, especially in Provence, Morvan, -and Flanders. Over and above the usual food that fattening birds eat -voluntarily, they force both the gobbler and the hen to swallow whole -nuts.” - -“Whole, but without the shell?” queried Emile. - -“No, my friend; with the shell too; in fact, nuts just as the tree -bears them.” - -“A nut with the shell, no matter how small, must make a hard mouthful -to swallow, and still harder to digest.” - -“I don’t deny it; but finally, with the finger pushing the nut a little -into the throat, and the hand gently pressing from the base of the beak -to the crop, the voluminous mouthful ends by going down, not without -some grimaces on the part of the bird.” - -“And reason enough for them!” exclaimed Emile. - -“One nut would be nothing; but that is not all. The next day they force -it to swallow two, the next three, and so on, augmenting the dose each -day. In Provence they stop at forty nuts a day; elsewhere they go on to -a hundred.” - -“And the turkey does not die, stuffed thus with nuts as large and hard -as stones?” asked Jules. - -“You would be pleased to see how the bird prospers and fattens on food -that would choke any other creature.” - -“With a hundred nuts in its crop, or even only forty,” was Louis’s -comment, “the turkey can’t be very comfortable.” - -“They are not swallowed all at one time, but in portions during the -day.” - -“No matter,” persisted Jules; “if you hadn’t already told us, according -to that learned Italian—Wait a minute; what was his name?” - -“The abbot Spallanzani.” - -“Yes, the abbot Spallanzani. If you hadn’t told us about his -experiments and the wonderful power of the gizzard, I should never be -able to understand how a turkey could manage to digest nuts, shell and -all, up to forty and even a hundred a day.” - -“Everything is reduced to a sort of soup in the gizzard—shells and -kernels; all becomes as soft as butter; and the bird, fat as a pig, -finally serves as the chief dish at the Christmas feast.” - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER X - -THE GUINEA-FOWL - - -“Once upon a time—That begins, you see, like the stories of Cinderella -and of the Ass’s Skin. Are we going to spend our time in the recital of -the wonders of some fairy godmother? Not at all. I am simply going to -tell you the story of the guinea-fowl; and this story happens to be -connected, in its first part, with a certain fable told thousands and -thousands of years ago, in the evening by the fire-side, to little -boys, just as to-day you are told the tragic adventures of Hop o’ my -Thumb with the Ogre. I start again then. - -“In that corner of the world known as Greece, a corner so illustrious -in ages long past, there was once upon a time a valiant young man, son -of the king of the country, whose favorite occupation was hunting. I -say occupation and not recreation, because in those hard times when -industrial pursuits were just beginning, the country was overrun with -wild animals from which one had constantly to defend oneself and one’s -flock, only recently herded together under the shepherd’s crook. At the -risk of their own lives brave men undertook this harsh duty. Many -succumbed to it, some acquired renown great enough to survive the lapse -of centuries and come down to our time. Surrounded by a heroic aureole, -the names of these ancient slayers of monsters have reached us. Such is -the name of Meleager, borne by the young man I just mentioned. - -“The skin of a wild beast on his back for clothing, in his hand a stout -stake sharpened to a point and hardened in the fire, on his shoulder a -quiver full of arrows pointed with little sharp stones, in his belt a -bludgeon of hard wood and a stone hatchet sharpened on the sandstone, -the ardent hunter ranged over the country, tracking the formidable -animals to their very lairs in dark forests and mountain caves -overgrown with an impenetrable barrier of reeds.” - -“Why didn’t those men,” asked Emile, “if they had to fight such -ferocious animals, use something better than sharpened sticks and -stone-pointed arrows? Why didn’t they take regular firearms?” - -“For the very best of reasons: metals were unknown, and iron, one of -the latest to be discovered, was not used by man until long after this -time. Men armed themselves, therefore, as best they could, with the -point of a bone or the sharp edge of a broken stone.” - -“I understand, then,” said Louis, “how dangerous such hunts must have -been, and how courageous the hunters. To-day one would cut a sorry -figure attacking a wolf with only a sharpened stake for a weapon.” - -“And how would it be if one found oneself face to face with the wild -boar of which Meleager rid the country? According to the old writers -who handed down the affair to us, it was an animal such as had never -been seen before and will never be seen again. Heaven, in its wrath, -had sent it to ravage the fields. It surpassed in size, they say, the -strongest bulls. From its bloodshot eyes lightning darted; from its -horrible mouth exhaled a fiery breath that instantly withered the -leaves of trees; with a few blows of its snout it uprooted oaks; with -its tusks, more formidable than the elephant’s, it ripped up the earth -and sent great masses of rock flying like so much dust. What became of -the poor people when this brute rushed at them in all its fury? They -all fled, wild with terror, their hands upraised to heaven, their -voices choked with fright.” - -“There must be some exaggeration there,” interposed Louis. “A wild boar -does not grow to such a size and such strength.” - -“Yes, certainly, there is exaggeration in this as in many other stories -in which the real facts, coming down through long centuries, finally -become greatly magnified and take on most marvelous additions. Let us -bring things back to something like probability. An enormous wild boar -sets the country in a panic. For a people unprovided with good weapons -and having no refuge but fragile huts of reed, it must be a very -dangerous situation. - -“To exorcise the common peril, Meleager calls together the best men in -the neighborhood and places himself at the head of the hunters, among -whom are to be found two of his uncles, his mother’s brothers, violent -men and very jealous of the fame their nephew has already acquired by -his valorous exploits. They go to meet the monster. The first to -approach the beast pay for their temerity with their lives. Already -several have been made to bite the dust, without any result, when -Meleager, more fortunate and no doubt also more skilful, succeeds in -stabbing the beast with his stake. Victory is his, and the boar should -belong to him, or at least the head, as a trophy of his courage; but -his uncles, furious at their nephew’s acquisition of a new title to -fame in addition to so many former ones, do not look at it in that -light. The dispute becomes heated, and, as usual in those brutal times, -the disputants pass quickly from argument to blows. Meleager, beside -himself with wrath, kills his two uncles with the same stake that has -drunk the blood of the beast.” - -“Oh, wretched man!” cried Jules. - -“Evil overtook him. On hearing of the death of her two brothers, -Meleager’s mother loses her reason from grief. She draws from a -cupboard, where she has kept it with the greatest care, a firebrand -blackened at one end. With a hand trembling with anguish, she takes -this firebrand, this precious firebrand for which hitherto she would -have given her very eyes, life itself, and throws it into the fire, -where it is straightway consumed. Ah, what has she done, the unhappy -mother, what has she done! At that moment her son Meleager is dying, -consumed by an inner fire; he is dying, he is dead, for the firebrand -has just given its last flicker. In her despair the poor mother kills -herself. - -“The connection between this firebrand that was reduced to ashes and -Meleager’s end escapes you; I hasten to throw some light on this point. -I will tell you then that at Meleager’s birth a firebrand suddenly -sprang from beneath the ground and began to burn in the middle of the -room, while a voice from the depths, like an infernal rumbling, said: -‘This child will live until the firebrand is consumed.’” - -“Why, this is nothing but a fairy tale!” Jules exclaimed. - -“Very true. History here gives place to fable. Now the firebrand was -burning on the floor and threatened soon to be entirely consumed. They -hastened to pick it up and extinguish it with water. From that time the -mother preserved it with the greatest care, as the most precious thing -she had, persuaded that her son would live to a great age, when, crazed -with grief at the news of her brothers’ death, she threw it into the -fire. As the subterranean voice had said, the moment the firebrand was -consumed Meleager succumbed, devoured by an inner fire.” - -“It’s a good story,” was Emile’s comment, “but I don’t at all see what -it has to do with the guinea-fowl.” - -“You will see in a minute,” his uncle reassured him. “Inconsolable at -the death of their brother, Meleager’s sisters unceasingly shed tears -that rolled like pearls over their mourning garments; night and day -they filled the house with their distressing sobs. Heaven had pity on -them and changed them into birds until then unknown, into guinea-hens, -whose plumage is still sprinkled with the tears of the unhappy girls, -and whose unceasing cries are the continuation of their sobs. Such, -according to the ancients, is the origin of guinea-fowls, called by -them Meleagridæ in honor of the hero of the legend. - -“The childish imagination of the ancients elaborated this story of the -metamorphosis of Meleager’s sisters out of the two most prominent -traits of the guinea-fowl, its plumage and its cry. On a background of -bluish gray, the color of mourning, are sprinkled innumerable round -white spots. Those are the tears, running in pearly drops over the bird -as they ran over the somber garments of the inconsolable sisters. The -guinea-fowl’s voice is a discordant, continuous, unendurable cry, in -which the fable recognizes, unquestioningly, the painful sobs of -Meleager’s sisters.” - -“Those resemblances are ingenious,” said Louis, “but they do not take -the place of real knowledge of the guinea-fowl’s origin. Not even in -those old days could every one have believed in the singular tale you -have just told us.” - -“Many were satisfied with it and sought no further information. And -even in our day, my friend, in this so-called enlightened century, is -it so unusual that the more absurd a thing is the more easily it takes -root in our minds? Many were satisfied with the story, but the wise -knew well that the bird came to us from Africa, and for that reason -called it the African fowl. - -“These old names are now out of use and are replaced by the word -guinea-fowl, or pintade, which some, not without reason write peintade -(painted). In fact, the white spots, spread over the bluish-gray ground -of the plumage, are so round and so regularly distributed that one -might say they were traced with a brush by a painter. The bird looks -painted; hence its name. - -“The guinea-fowl has rounded outlines. Its short wings, its drooping -tail, and the general arrangement of the feathers on its back give it a -deformed appearance, which is misleading, for when plucked the bird -shows none of its former gibbosity. The neck is lank. Imitating in that -respect its compatriot, the camel, the guinea-fowl straightens it up -and stretches it out when it runs away, and then it looks like a -rolling ball. The head is small and partly bald, like the turkey’s. Two -wattles, tinted red and blue, hang from the base of the beak. The top -of the skull is protected by dry skin, which rises in the shape of a -helmet and is perhaps not without use when in their quarrelsome moods -the guinea-fowls have a trial of skill in splitting one another’s head -with blows of the beak. - -“Many qualities recommend this bird to our notice. The eggs are -excellent and numerous, a hundred and more annually. They are a little -smaller than the hen’s, with remarkably thick shells of a yellowish or -dull reddish color. Its flesh is superior, veritable game, nearly equal -to that of the pheasant and partridge; and yet the guinea-fowl is rare -almost everywhere. Three great faults are the reason: its cry, its -quarrelsome disposition, and its wandering habits. - -“First, its cry. He who has not had, for hours and hours, his ear -tortured by the satanic music of the bird is ignorant of one of the -most irritating of minor torments. The rasping of a file upon the teeth -of a saw in process of sharpening, the discordant screech of a -strangling cat, the final roulade of a braying donkey, are trifles in -comparison. And this charivari goes on from morning to night with a -reënforcement of the orchestra when the weather is about to change or -something unexpected happens to worry the performers. If one is not -blessed with a special ear, if the head is not void of all -preoccupation, one simply cannot stand this deafening racket. They say -the guinea-hens have inherited the wailings of Meleager’s sisters; but -I like to think that the poor girls put a little more reserve into the -heartbreaking expression of their grief. In short, never tell Uncle -Paul to have guinea-hens under his window; he would flee to the -farthest depths of the forest, never to return. There are others, and -they are numerous, whose nerves are irritated just as much by the -insufferable bird; that is why the guinea-fowl is rare in -poultry-yards, and by reason of its music escapes the spit. - -“Second, its love of fighting. The parchment helmet standing up on top -of the head betrays at the first glance the quarrelsome mania of the -bird. The guinea-fowl is the bully of the poultry-yard; it domineers -over the others and for a mere nothing will pick a quarrel. Hens and -chickens are tormented for the possession of a grain of oats; the cock -must on all occasions have a trial of skill with the beak to make his -and his family’s rights respected; the turkey-gobbler himself, the -burly gobbler, must reckon with it. The guinea-cock, quick at attack, -delivers ten assaults and twenty blows of the beak before his big -adversary can put himself on the defensive. When at last the gobbler -parries and thrusts, the turbulent aggressor makes use of tactics that -he seems to have learned from his compatriot, the Arab. He turns his -back on the enemy, flees in haste, then abruptly returns to the charge -and hurls himself suddenly on the gobbler at a moment when the latter -is off his guard. The beak having dealt its blow, the flight -recommences. Nearly always the gobbler is forced to capitulate. I leave -you to imagine what sort of harmony must prevail in a poultry-yard -harboring such disturbers of the peace. - -“Third, its wanderlust. The narrow limits of the poultry-yard are -irksome to guinea-fowls. They are glad enough to be on hand at feeding -time, but, their crops once full, they must have a long walk across -country. Off they go, always by themselves, without ever admitting the -common poultry to their ranks. To the music of its harsh chatter the -flock goes on from one hedge to another, one bush to the next, snapping -up insects. The distraction of the hunt makes them forget distance, and -soon they are beyond supervision. Let a dog appear, and these -half-tamed game-birds are seized with a foolish panic. They fly in all -directions, with a cry of alarm resembling the harsh note of a rattle. -The disbanded flock will have much trouble in getting together again; -perhaps when they do come together one or two will be missing. Another -inconvenience no less grave: during these excursions the eggs are laid -almost anywhere, in the wheat-field, on the broad meadow, amid the -tangled underbrush. Except by attentive watching at the moment of -laying, it would take a sharp eye to find the nest of the suspected -bird. - -“The guinea-hen broods in about the same manner as the common hen, but -it is preferable to set the eggs under a common hen; she will perform -the imposed task perfectly and make no distinction between her own eggs -and those of a stranger. The hatching takes place about the -twenty-eighth or thirtieth day. On coming out of the shell, the little -guinea-chicks can walk and eat alone quite as well as the other -chickens. They need warmth and assiduous care. The first week they are -fed with a pap of bread-crumbs and hard-boiled eggs, to which are added -ants’ eggs or at least a little chopped meat. After that they have the -same diet as ordinary chickens. Like young turkeys they pass through a -critical period, the time when the red begins to show on the bald skin -of the head. To pass through it well, the best way is to give them -strengthening food and shelter them from all dampness.” - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XI - -THE PALMIPEDES - - -“The workman is known by his tools, and by the tools of the feathered -creatures—that is to say, their beaks and claws—their way of life is -not less easily recognized. If it were not already known to us, who -could fail to infer the carnivorous disposition of the hawk from the -shape of its beak—short, sharp, and hooked—and from the structure of -its talons, armed as they are with pointed nails grooved underneath -with a narrow channel after the manner of certain daggers, to -facilitate the flow of blood from the wound? Does it call for any -extraordinary perspicacity to recognize, in the heron’s long legs, -veritable stilts which enable it to traverse, step by step, without -getting wet, the inundated flats, as does the hunter in his long, -waterproof marsh boots? And then, that long beak, pointed like a nail, -does it tell us nothing? Does it not say that the bird bores deep in -the tufts of rushes and in the soft mud to pull out reptiles and -worms?” - -“It is the heron,” put in Emile, “that the fable tells about when it -says: - - - “The long-necked, long-beaked heron went walking; - On its stilt-like legs one day it went stalking.” - - -“Yes,” said Uncle Paul, “that is the bird. Everything about the heron -is long—legs, beak, neck. The length of its legs enables the bird to -explore the swamp at its ease all day long without wetting a feather; -its length of neck is needed that it may reach the ground without -stooping; and the long beak is indispensable for burrowing in the tall -tufts of grass where the reptile lurks, and for probing the mud where -the worm buries itself.” - -“I begin to see now,” said Jules, “how the character of a bird may be -judged from its shape. The heron bears its trade stamped on its form.” - -“The duck, in its turn, makes an equally unmistakable announcement. Let -us forget its habits, which are so familiar to us, and try to -rediscover them in the shape of the legs and beak. - -“The duck’s beak is very wide and flat, and round at the end. Shall we -compare it with the hen’s beak, a slender pair of pincers that snaps up -seeds and kernels one by one? Comparison is impossible. Do we see there -a tool working in the manner of the heron’s pointed probe? Still less. -Shall we make it the equivalent of the bloody hooked beak of the bird -of prey? No one would dream of such a thing, so great is the -difference. But one sees at once in this wide, rounded beak a spoon -shaped expressly for scooping up food from the water, just as our -table-spoons enable us to take out pieces of bread or lumps of rice -swimming in a thin soup. The duck dabbles, then: it dips up water in -large spoonfuls—that is to say, in beakfuls—and seeks its food therein. -It is a soup of the thinnest sort and, in itself, of no nutritive -value. Consequently the liquid that fills the bird’s mandible must be -rejected, but at the same time it must be drained out in such a manner -as to leave behind what little alimentary matter it may contain. For -this purpose the edges of the beak are fringed with a row of thin, -short blades which let the liquid run out when the bird has once filled -its mouth.” - -“That’s an ingenious way to eat,” remarked Jules. “In order to snap up -what it takes a fancy to, perhaps a tadpole, or a little water shell, -or a worm, the duck is obliged to fill its beak with water. To swallow -the whole mouthful without sorting would simply stuff the crop with a -useless liquid. What does the bird do? It closes the beak, and the -water, driven back, runs out through the fringed edges as if through a -grating. The tadpole alone remains behind the grating, and goes down -into the stomach.” - -“You can see, any time,” observed Louis, “the ducks on the pond dipping -up water by the mouthful. It certainly isn’t just for drinking that -they work their beaks so.” - -“Certainly not,” assented Uncle Paul; “they drain the water of the pond -through the fringe of the beak to gather worms and other small aquatic -prey. - -“The spoon-shaped beak of the duck indicates the bird’s dabbling -habits; now let us see what the feet have to say. They are composed of -three toes connected by an ample and supple membrane. Is that, I ask -you, the footgear of a bird destined to long walks? With such a sole, -so fine, so tender, and by its extent of surface exposing itself so -much to the hardness of the stones, is the duck made for foot-racing? -Note, on the contrary, the foot of the hen and the guinea-fowl, both -untiring walkers. The toes are short, knotty, and sheathed with strong -leather, without any connecting membrane. That is the true footgear of -the pedestrian. But what will become of the duck on rough ground, with -its wide sandals that a mere nothing can wound? You all know its -pitiful walk. It waddles along, as ill at ease as a person afflicted -with corns on the rough pavement of some of our streets. No, the duck -is not made for walking. - -“But in water those expanded feet will make vigorous swimming oars. If -the bird throws them out behind, they spread wide open merely with the -resistance of the water; and their fan-shape gives them purchase enough -to send the duck forward. When the duck draws them in again under its -breast, they are closed automatically by the resistance of the liquid -acting in a contrary direction; the membrane refolds in the manner of a -closed umbrella, thus doing away with all shock or recoil. The twofold -essential of a perfect oar lies in its presenting to the water the -greatest possible surface on the stroke, and the least possible surface -on the recovery, so as to furnish adequate purchase against the water -in the first movement and to offer only very feeble resistance in the -second. If the oar moved alternately forward and backward while -presenting the same extent of surface to the water and driven with the -same vigor, the recoil would equal the advance and there would be no -progress. Man, with all his skill, does not yet know how to ply his oar -so that it shall offer this alternating maximum and minimum of surface. -Therefore, in propelling a boat, he is obliged to bring the oars back -to their first position through the air instead of through the water, -which latter would be much more direct. The duck scorns this clumsy -method: with its foot, which opens wide of itself in the backward -thrust and closes again of its own accord in the return movement, it -moves forward or puts about, without ever lifting the oars from the -water. - -“Thus the duck is an expert swimmer; the shape of its feet tells us as -much, and a glance at any duck-pond demonstrates it. Who has not -admired the aquatic evolutions of the bird, so awkward on land with its -tender feet, so graceful when once on the water, its proper element? -Sometimes they race with one another, whitening their breasts with a -band of foam; sometimes, in order to explore the depths with their -beaks, they plunge half-way in and point their tails heavenward; -sometimes, also, yielding to the current, they let themselves drift -idly down-stream or hold their position by paddling a few strokes when -necessary. Water is their chosen domain; there they take their -recreation, seek their food, and enjoy their sleep. - -“The membrane connecting the duck’s toes is called a web, and the feet -converted into oars by means of this membrane are spoken of as webbed. -Similar feet are found in all good swimming birds such as the swan, -teal, goose, and many others. Hence this group of birds, especially -skilled in swimming, is designated by the term of palmipede, meaning -web-footed.” - -“Then the duck is a palmipede?” asked Emile. - -“It is a palmipede, as also the goose, swan, and teal. All four are -equally endowed with a large spoon-bill shaped for dabbling in the -water; that is to say, a wide, round beak; but there are palmipedes, -notably among sea-birds, that live on prey, on fish, and consequently -are equipped with the crooked mandible appropriate for a predatory -life. Such, to take but a single example, is the albatross, of which I -here show you the picture. By its ferociously hooked beak it can easily -be recognized as a sea pirate, an insatiable devourer of fish.” - -“I certainly don’t like its looks,” declared Emile. “But tell me now -what name they give the heron on its tall stilts.” - -“The heron belongs to the group of stilt-birds or wading-birds. That is -what they call all birds mounted on long legs for traversing the -marshes.” - -“A bird on stilts is a stilt-bird; it would be hard to improve on that. -It is just the kind of name I like.” - -“Instead of allowing ourselves to be turned from our theme by the heron -and its stilts, let us come back, my little friend, to the palmipedes, -the swimming birds. Clothing made expressly for the purpose is required -by the bird that passes the greater part of its time on the water. It -is indispensable that this clothing should keep out both cold and wet. -Well, the plumage of an aquatic bird, especially in very cold -countries, is a marvel of delicate precautions. The outside feathers -are strong, placed very accurately one on the other and glossed with an -oily varnish that water cannot wet. Have you ever noticed ducks as they -come out of the water? They may have prolonged their bath for hours, -swimming, diving, playing; but they leave the stream without getting -the least bit wet. If a drop of water has got between their feathers, -they have only to shake themselves a moment, and they are perfectly -dry. That, you must agree, is a precious privilege, to be able to go -into the water and not get wet.” - -“A privilege that, for my part,” rejoined Emile, “I have often envied -without being able to explain—the secret of a duck’s keeping dry when -right in the water.” - -“I will explain the secret to you. Watch the ducks as they come out of -their bath. In the sun, some lying at ease on their stomachs, others -standing up, they proceed to make their toilet with minute care. With -their large beak they smooth their feathers, one by one, coat them over -with an oily fluid, the reservoir of which is situated on the bird’s -rump. There, just at the base of the tail, is found, hidden under the -down, a kind of wart of grease, from which oil oozes constantly. From -time to time the beak presses the wart, draws from the oily reservoir, -and then distributes here and there, methodically, all over the -plumage, the oil thus obtained.” - -“That greasy wart might be called a sort of pomatum pot,” suggested -Emile. - -“It is a pomatum pot, if that comparison pleases you. Thus greased, -thus anointed with pomatum, feather by feather, the duck furnishes no -foothold for moisture, because, as you all know, water and oil do not -mix, and from an oiled surface drops of water run off without wetting -it. Such is the secret of the duck’s keeping itself dry when immersed -in water.” - -“That is one of the most curious things I ever heard of,” declared -Jules, “and one that I shouldn’t have known anything about for a long -time if it hadn’t been for Uncle Paul. Should I ever have guessed that -the duck presses a certain wart on its rump to get the grease for -oiling its feathers?” - -“The duck’s secret is known to all birds without exception; all have -this oil-sac on the rump, and obtain from it the oil for giving luster -to their plumage and making it impervious to wet; but aquatic birds are -more abundantly provided in this respect. And it is only right that -those most exposed to dampness should have the largest reservoir of -this oily coating.” - -“In all birds the fattest part is always the rump,” said Louis. “Grease -gathers there by preference, no doubt, to maintain the store of oil in -the oil-sac?” - -“Evidently. It is in this storehouse that the oil attains its perfect -state and becomes the finished product that oozes from the sac. As to -the making of it in the first place, nearly all parts of the body take -part; and as the swimming bird uses a great deal of this pomatum, the -result is that the palmipede tends to fatness and, as it were, sweats -grease: witness the plump duck and goose, which carry under the breast -a heavy, fat swelling. As a general rule, the web-footed fowl of our -poultry-yards is analogous to the pig: it is a fat-factory. We divert -to our own use the excess of fat accumulated primarily for the supply -of the oil-sac on the rump and the maintenance of the luster that -distinguishes the plumage. - -“The palmipede, you see, is admirably protected against wet. Neither -rain nor the finest drizzle can penetrate the first covering of -feathers, always kept, as it is, well coated with the varnish laid on -by the point of the beak. The bird can plunge into the deepest water, -swim on its surface, or sleep there cradled by the waves, and the wet -will not reach it. Neither will cold affect it, for under this outer -covering is found a second, designed for resisting inclement weather -and made of what is most efficacious for preserving the heat of the -body. This under-clothing of aquatic birds is a down so delicate and -soft that, unable to compare it with anything else, we have given it a -special name, that of eiderdown. In its proper place I will come back -to this down. For the present let us confine ourselves to a general -survey of the palmipedes, and of the duck in particular.” - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XII - -THE DUCK - - -“I will begin with the wild duck, parent stock of our domestic duck. It -is a splendid bird, at least the male, for the costume of the female is -less rich, as may be remarked in all the other species. The head and -upper part of the neck are emerald green, with glints as of polished -metal, while beneath is a white collar, its dull coloring contrasting -with the brilliance of the adjacent tints. A brownish purple extends -from the base of the neck down over the breast, where it gradually -fades into gray on the sides and stomach. Changeable green, mixed with -black, colors the region of the tail, whence rise four small feathers -curling in the shape of a crook. In the middle of each wing a spot of -magnificent azure is encircled, first, with velvety blue, then with -white. The back, sides, and stomach are speckled with black spots on a -gray ground. Finally, the beak is yellowish green, and the feet are -orange. Such is the duck in its wild state, and such it often is under -domestication, notwithstanding the numerous variations of plumage that -captivity has caused it to undergo.” - -“The head superbly clothed in green,” observed Emile, “the little curly -tail-feathers, and the spot of blue in the middle of the wing—I have -noticed all these lots of times in tame ducks.” - -“The wild duck is strong of wing and a passionate lover of travel. -Consequently it is found nearly everywhere; but it does not stay long -anywhere, unless it be in the most northerly regions, Lapland, -Spitzbergen, and Siberia, where it delights in the solitude so -favorable for nesting undisturbed and passing the summer. Twice a year -it visits us: in the spring on its way to the North, and in the autumn -on its return from the Pole, when it goes as far as Africa to take up -its winter quarters in warmer countries. On a gray November day when it -threatens snow you can see, passing from north to south, at a great -height, migrating birds arranged one behind another in two files which -meet in a point, like the two arms of a V. It is a flock of ducks -emigrating. They are fleeing the approach of cold weather and seeking a -milder climate, perhaps beyond the sea, where they may find assured -nourishment in waters that do not freeze. The better to cleave the air -and husband their strength on such a long journey, the flying squadron -arranges itself in the form of a wedge, the point of which opens the -way through the resisting air. The post at the tip is the hardest, -since the leader of the file, being the first, has to overcome the -resistance of the atmosphere. Each one takes it in turn for a certain -time, and when it is tired falls back to the rear to rest while another -takes its place.” - -“To come from countries near the Pole to this one, and still more to -Africa,” said Jules, “is a very long journey, at least a thousand -miles. I can understand how, in order to accomplish it, the ducks must -save their strength by arranging themselves in the form of a wedge, -point foremost. But tell me, Uncle, what makes these birds prefer the -countries of the extreme north, where they go to pass the summer and -build their nests? Wouldn’t they be better off with us than in those -wild countries, so cold and covered with snow and ice a great part of -the year?” - -“Such is not the opinion of the duck, which prefers the gloomy -solitudes of the most desolate islands to countries disturbed by the -presence of man. In those peaceful spots it can raise its family in -complete security; and, besides, provisions abound in the neighboring -waters, which are thawed out for several weeks by the summer sun. -Neither is it the opinion of the teal, goose, plover, lapwing, and many -others, which all, as soon as spring comes, leave us and return to the -North, journeying by long stages. Then it is that, from his ambush in a -hut of foliage in the middle of a swampy field or in the dried bed of a -wide torrent, the hunter imitates with a reed whistle the plaintive -note of the plover, to call the migrating bird to his nets. The flock -arrives, circles about a moment undecided, suspects danger, and flies -off again into the distant blue, where it is soon lost to sight. -Whither is it going? It is going where its instinct calls it, to the -solitudes of the North. At the first thawing of the ice, when the -ground, still wet from the melting snows, begins to be clothed with -flowers, in fact in May or June, it will reach perhaps the Faroe -Islands, perhaps the Orkneys or Iceland, or maybe Lapland. It is never -without a lively interest that I watch the flight of one of these -migrating flocks, better guided on its audacious journey than the -navigator with the aid of the compass. I picture to myself the joys of -arrival, the common delight when the long flight finally ends on the -home island, the friendly land where, in a mossy hollow, the -red-marbled eggs will presently be laid. - -“For a great many birds, and among them the duck, the archipelagoes of -the North are a promised land, an earthly paradise. The most varied -species meet here from all parts of the world. What a lively scene, -therefore, what a festival, when nesting time comes! Nowhere else is -there such a reunion of birds. Let me tell you the strange scene that -takes place then, according to travelers who have witnessed it. - -“We are at Spitzbergen, facing some towering cliffs that overlook the -sea and extend back in the form of receding shelves, one above another, -like the rows of seats in a theater. These shelves are all covered with -myriads of female birds sitting on their eggs, with heads turned -seaward, as numerous and as crowded as the spectators in a theater at a -first-night performance. They cackle to each other from neighbor to -neighbor and seem to be engaged in an animated conversation, as a -diversion from the tedium of prolonged incubation. All around the -cliff, on the bosom of the waters, swimmers of all kinds dive and -dabble, chasing, pecking, and beating one another. Others fill the air -with their hoarse or shrill cries, going unceasingly from sea to nests -and from nests to sea, calling to their mates, wheeling around above -them, caressing their little ones, playing with their brothers, and -showing in a noisy and innocent way their fears and wants, their joy -and happiness. To describe the agitation, confusion, noise, cries, -croakings, and whistlings of these countless birds of all shapes and -colors and styles, is quite impossible. The hunter, dizzy and stunned, -knows not where to fire in this living whirlpool; he is incapable of -distinguishing and still more of following the bird he wishes to aim -at. Wearied by vain effort, he directs his fire at the very midst of -the cloud. The shot is sped. Immediately confusion is at its height; -clouds of birds, perched on the rocks or swimming on the water, take -flight in their turn and mingle with the others; a deafening discordant -clamor rises to the skies. Far from dissipating, the cloud grows -thicker and whirls about still more. Cormorants, at first motionless on -the rocks betwixt wind and water, become noisily excited; sea-gulls fly -in circles about the hunter’s head and strike him in the face with -their wings. All these different species, peacefully assembled on an -isolated rock in the midst of the glacial ocean waves, seem to reproach -man for coming to the very end of the world to trouble the joys of the -brooding mother. The females, still motionless on their eggs in the -midst of this disorder, content themselves with joining their protests -to those of the indignant males.” - -“I have never heard anything like that before, Uncle,” said Jules. -“Under the roof-tiles we sometimes find a dozen nests of sparrows -living as neighbors; but how far these little gatherings are from the -Spitzbergen throngs! Those rocks on the borders of the sea are populous -towns, with nests for houses and birds for inhabitants.” - -“Are there ducks on those rocks, too?” asked Louis. - -“No, my friend,” replied Uncle Paul; “there are only sea-birds. Wild -ducks and geese flock by themselves and make their nests inland, far -from the waters of the sea, which do not suit them. They prefer the -borders of a lake or swamp. Their nests are built on the ground among -tufts of grass. Sometimes they are so numerous one could not take a -step without treading on eggs.” - -“Oh, what a fine harvest of eggs I should have if I were there!” - -“You forget, my child, that Uncle Paul expressly forbids you to touch -birds’ nests. However, as once is not a habit, and as, moreover, the -temptation would be irresistible, I would shut my eyes and would leave -you to your own devices if we were on those famous bird-rocks of -Spitzbergen, Greenland, or Lapland. Basket, hat, handkerchief, all -would soon be full; you would simply be perplexed what to take and what -to leave. All shapes are there together. There are some eggs as round -as balls, some oval and like those of our own poultry, some equally -pointed at both ends, and some very much enlarged at one end and small -at the other, almost like pears. All these sea-birds’ eggs are large, -because the young, on leaving the shell, must be strong enough to -follow their parents on the water and begin to earn their own living. -And then, what variety of color and design! There are white eggs, -yellowish eggs, and red eggs. Some are dark green, imitating the color -of the waves that roar at the base of the rock; others seem to borrow -their pale blue from the azure itself. These are diversified with areas -of different colors, like the maps in your geography; those are painted -with large spots and remind one of the leopard’s skin.” - -“Oh, if I were only there!” sighed Emile. - -“As we are not there, let us leave the beautiful rock-eggs to the birds -and return to the duck. - -“It is in order to get back to these northern countries, their -paradise, that wild ducks pass over us at the end of winter. The -journey is chiefly made at night, the day being reserved for rest among -the rushes. While the flock sleeps, each bird’s head under its wing, -some members station themselves at favorable points and, vigilant -scouts, watch over the common welfare. At the first appearance of -danger the cry of alarm is sounded, a sort of hoarse clarion call. -Immediately the flock takes wing or dives under the water. In -descending from the upper air and alighting on a suitable spot, the -cautious bird is equally prudent. The flock comes and goes several -times, and circles about repeatedly to give the place a thorough -examination. If nothing disquieting appears, it descends in an oblique -flight, grazes the surface of the water with the tips of its wings, and -then swims to the middle of the pond, far from the shore where the -danger would be greatest. Nothing, then, is more difficult than to -catch a flock of wild ducks off their guard. The hunter has recourse to -a ruse and turns to his own account the friendly relations that always -exist between the tame duck and its brother, the wild duck. Hidden on -the edge of the pond in a reed hut, he releases two or three tame -ducks, whose cries call the strangers and bring them within gunshot. - -“Although the laying of eggs generally takes place in the northern -regions, there are always a few pairs of ducks that linger and make -their nests with us, either from being tired with too long a journey or -because they have strayed away from the migrating flocks. For her -nesting place, the mother chooses some cluster of reeds in the middle -of the swamp. She beats down and flattens the central rushes; then, -using her beak to intertwine the outer ones, she succeeds in weaving a -kind of coarse basket, which she lines with warm down, plucked from her -breast and stomach. More rarely she establishes herself in some large -tree where she makes use of a nest abandoned by the magpie. The rude -structure of dry sticks is restored, and especially is it well lined -with fine feathers plucked from her own body. The eggs are laid in -March and number about fifteen. Incubation takes thirty-one days. -Whenever the need of food makes her leave the nest for a few minutes, -the mother takes care to cover the eggs with a thick layer of down, so -that they shall not become cold. When she comes back it is never in a -straight line or uninterrupted flight. She alights at some distance -from the nest, then cautiously approaches by tortuous windings, varied -every time and calculated to baffle whoever may be watching her. - -“The young ones are born clothed with a delicate fur of yellow down, -which they keep for some time. As soon as hatched, the brood is led to -the water and abandons the nest, never to return to it. If the pond is -too far away for such young legs, or if the nest is at the top of some -tall oak, the father and mother take the little ones tenderly by the -nape of the neck and carry them one by one to the shore. The removal -accomplished, the mother goes into the water, the boldest one of her -brood follows her, and the others imitate its example. Their aquatic -education immediately begins. In order to swim you must do so and so, -are the parents’ instructions; and to dive and tack about you must do -like this. The tadpole, that dainty morsel, is caught in this manner, -but if you don’t catch it with the first snap of the beak, you get it -by diving. The little shell-fish hides under the leaves, and that’s -where you must hunt if you want to find it. The larva frequents warm -mud; seek, my children, near the shore and you will find it. The lively -frog calls for nimble tactics: a quick snap of the beak will fetch him. -All that is so soon and so well understood by the ducklings, that the -mother does not have to look after their food; her part is simply to -gather them under her wing to keep them warm when the family retires to -the shore to rest or to pass the night. - -“Apart from the love of traveling, which many centuries of -domestication have caused to be forgotten, the habits of the tame duck -do not differ from those of the wild. The female duck begins to lay in -February or March, and lays from forty to fifty eggs a year, if one is -careful to remove them as they are laid. These eggs are slightly larger -than the hen’s, smoother, rounder, sometimes dull white, sometimes a -little greenish. The duck is impelled by instinct to lay them among the -neighboring reeds and rushes, and it is therefore necessary to watch -her if one does not wish to run the risk of losing the eggs. - -“Domestication does not by any means always improve the qualities of -animals subjected to our care. If there is gain in corpulence, in -quantity of alimentary matter, there is frequently loss on the side of -what might be called the moral qualities. So it is that the tame duck -is not so good a brooder nor so devoted a mother as the wild one. The -hen, on the contrary, has forgotten none of her maternal duties; she -even carries them to excess in the hen-house, until she lets herself -die of starvation on her nest, a thing she would not do in her wild -state. Hence, it is to the hen, a better mother than the duck, that the -latter’s eggs are usually entrusted. - -“The period of incubation is thirty-one days, the same as with the wild -duck. If the brood is hatched at a time of year when the weather is -still cold, it would be dangerous for the ducklings to go immediately -into the water, whither their instinct calls them, and whither the -mother duck that had brooded them would not fail to lead them. Hence -the little ones and their mother, hen or duck, are put under a coop in -a place apart, where there is no danger of trampling or other rough -treatment from the rest of the poultry. During this sequestration the -food consists of a mixture of barley flour, boiled potatoes, bran, and -chopped nettles, all made into a mush with greasy dish-water. Ducklings -have a strong stomach and active digestion; they need from six to eight -meals a day, so quickly does their food pass. Let us not forget to put -a large plate of water under the coop. It will serve them as a swimming -basin in which their wide beaks will practise dabbling and their webbed -feet will learn their destined use. Daily sport on this little sheet of -water will help them to have patience until the great day when larger -evolutions on the broad pond will be allowed. - -“A week, two weeks, pass in this way. At last the longed-for moment -arrives. The mother duck leads her family to the neighboring pond, or -the ducklings find their way thither unaided if they have a hen for a -nurse. I have told you of the fright of that adoptive mother when she -sees her little ones throw themselves joyously into the water, deaf to -her supplications. If the pond is not too deep, the hen wades in till -the water reaches half-way up her legs, and runs along the edge, -calling her dear brood. In vain her courageous devotion, to no purpose -her anxiety and grief: the ducklings gain the deep water whither she -cannot follow them, and, heedless of the mother admonishing them from -the shore, they wag their little pointed tails with joy. - -“Like the pig, the duck will eat anything and everything. In still -waters, in which it delights, it snaps up tadpoles and little frogs, -worms of all kinds and soft shell-fish, water insects and little -minnows. In the field it eats the tender herbage and makes prey of the -slimy slug and even the snail, no whit abashed by the latter’s shell. -In the poultry-yard offer it the kitchen leavings, parings of all -kinds, garden refuse, dish-water, and garbage, and the glutton will -feast royally. - -“Thus because of its voracity the duck is easy to fatten; provided it -has abundant food and a chance to play in the water, you may be sure it -will take on fat without any other care. Nevertheless, in order to -obtain certain results it is necessary to go beyond the bird’s natural -gluttony and have recourse to forcible feeding. For a couple of weeks -ducks are shut up in a dark place. Morning and evening, a servant takes -them on her knees, crosses their wings, and opens their beak with one -hand while with the other she stuffs their crop with boiled maize. Thus -gorged to excess with food, the miserable ducks pass their captivity -resting on their stomachs, always panting, almost breathless, half -stifled. Some die of surfeit. Finally the rump, distended with fat, -spreads the tail-feathers out fan-wise so that they cannot be closed -again. This is a sign that the fattening process has reached its -extreme limit. Haste is then made to behead the poor creature, which -otherwise would soon die of suffocation.” - -“And why, if you please,” asked Jules, “these horrible tortures if the -duck fattens so easily by itself?” - -“Alas, my friend, the satisfaction of the stomach makes us cruelly -ingenious. In the state of continual suffocation that overtakes the -bird when it is gorged with boiled maize, a mortal disease sets in, the -disease of the glutton, among men as among ducks. The liver becomes -tremendously enlarged and changes to a soft, shapeless mass, oozing -grease. Well, this liver, decomposed by disease, furnishes to the -palate of connoisseurs an incomparable delicacy. I take their word for -it, not being able to speak from experience, as I have none; for, -between you and me, my friend, I own that such delicacies would be -repugnant to your Uncle Paul. In my humble opinion, it is paying too -much for a greasy mouthful to subject the duck to those frightful -tortures. I will add that the pasties of Amiens and the celebrated -ragouts of Nérac and Toulouse are made of these livers. - -“To bring this subject to a close, a few words on a second kind of -duck, less common in our poultry-yards than the first. It is the -Barbary duck, called also the musk duck on account of its odor of musk, -and likewise known as the silent duck, because it utters no cry. It is -much larger than the common duck, its plumage is darker, of a -variegated black and green, and the head of the male is adorned with -scales and with fleshy growths of a bright red color.” - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - -THE WILD GOOSE - - -“When we say of some one, ‘He is as silly as a goose,’ we think we have -applied the strongest term indicative of foolishness that our language -furnishes. Is the goose then so silly? That is what I am about to -discuss with you, my friends. - -“I agree at the outset that its appearance is not such as to give a -high idea of its intellectual faculties. Its head is too small for its -body, its diminutive and expressionless eyes, its enormous beak hiding -its whole face, its waddling walk made still more awkward by the fatty -protuberance that hangs down under its stomach and strikes its feet, -its neck sometimes awkwardly outstretched, sometimes sharply bent as if -broken, its cry surpassing in hoarseness the note of the hoarsest -clarion, its angry or frightened whistle resembling the hiss of the -snake when surprised—all that, I hasten to acknowledge, does not -prepossess one in favor of the bird. But how often, under a rude -exterior, is hidden a refined nature! Let us not judge the goose by its -appearance, but let us go deeper before forming a fixed opinion.” - -“I see what you are up to, Uncle,” interrupted Jules; “you are taking -up your favorite refrain, the praise of the slandered. A while ago you -extolled the two ugliest of creatures, the bat and the toad; now you -are going to undertake the defense of the goose and clear it of the -slander it suffers in being called silly.” - -“Why should I deny it, my child? Yes, my favorite occupation is -pleading the cause of the weak, the miserable, the traduced, the -outlawed. The strong and the powerful are not wanting in admirers, so I -can pass them over very quickly; but I should reproach myself all my -life were I to forget the forsaken and not bring to light their good -qualities, unrecognized and, indeed, too often shamefully -misrepresented as they are. As to its treatment, the goose needs no -pleading of mine: it is too valuable to us not to be taken care of as -it deserves. The only reproach I have to bring has to do with the -reputation for stupidity it has been made to bear. I am well aware that -the goose, as a sensible creature, is superbly indifferent to this -calumny, and I offer it my congratulations; but, after all, this false -repute is an instance of error, and wherever I find error I give it -battle. - -“First, I will show you the goose as an adept in geography. In spite of -our books, maps, and atlases, how the reputedly silly bird would -surpass all of us and many others! Know that in its wild state the -goose is an impassioned traveler, even more so than its companion, the -duck. Influenced by considerations of convenience, the latter often -nests in our latitudes; the goose is more given to mistrust and passes -us by. For the laying of its eggs it must seek regions as near the Pole -as possible, regions of never-melting ice. The desolate wastes of -Greenland and Spitzbergen, and, still farther north, the islands lost -in the fogs of the polar ocean, are the regions whither they feel bound -to return every summer. The point of departure, where the bird has -passed the winter in the midst of plenty when its native country was -plunged in continual night and buried under fathomless depths of snow -and ice—the point of departure is far south, in central Africa perhaps, -so that the distance to be covered measures almost a -quarter-circumference of the earth. Now, my friends, let us put -ourselves in the place of the wild goose just about to take its flight -for the long expedition, and see which of the two parties will be the -more perplexed, the more stupid. I leave out of the account means of -transportation: however good a mount we might have, we should cut a -pitiable figure beside the goose, which with powerful wing soars above -the clouds and conquers space. I pass by the means of transportation -and ask only what direction is to be taken. I appeal to your knowledge -of geography.” - -“Since it is only necessary to go north,” answered Jules, “I should -first make sure of the points of the compass. I should turn toward the -sun, and if it is rising, the north would be on the left; if setting, -the north would be on the right. This direction fixed, I should set out -accordingly.” - -“In the supposed case that method is inapplicable. As an experienced -traveler husbanding its strength and hence making the most of the -cooler hours, the goose travels only at night.” - -“Then I would turn toward the constellation of the Bear, toward the -polar star. The north is in that direction.” - -“Very good: you would find the north in that way if the night were -clear; but if the night were dark and you could not see the stars, what -would you do?” - -“I should use a compass, the needle of which always points nearly -northward.” - -“But if you did not have that precious instrument, the traveler’s guide -in the midst of the waste solitudes of land and sea—if you had no -compass, how would you find your way, my friend?” - -“In that case, Uncle, I should be very much perplexed. Perplexed is not -the word; on the contrary, I should see very clearly that there was no -possibility of my finding my way. I should not budge from the spot, for -I might as well try to guide myself blindfolded.” - -“Here, my dear child, the bird reputed to be so stupid, so foolish, -towers above us all by a thousand cubits. Without consulting the rising -or setting sun, paying no heed to the constellations, for which it has -no use, availing itself of no compass but its instinct, which says, -‘This is the way’—in darkness as well as in light, the goose plunges -into space and flies northward. - -“But that is only the beginning of the problem. A simple northern -direction leads, according to the point of departure, to very different -regions, sometimes to Siberia, sometimes to Spitzbergen and Lapland, -sometimes to the northern islands of Iceland, Greenland, and what -others shall I say? But no such vague destination will do for the -goose. The bird must return to its native country, of which it retains -an ineffaceable remembrance, just as a man, through all the shifts and -changes of his stirring life, preserves the cherished memory of his own -village. The goose, then, must again find the sea whose murmur it -listened to in youth. In that sea is a certain islet, on that islet a -certain moor, and on that moor a certain hidden retreat covered with -rushes and sheltered from the wind by a rock. That is its birthplace; -it must find its way. - -“Propose such an undertaking to a navigator provided with first-rate -charts and versed in all the special lore of his calling, and he would -finally succeed, it is true, but would encounter difficulties due to -the inhospitable seas of those parts. Propose it to one of us, who have -none of the requisite nautical knowledge, and it would put our -geography to the test without any chance of ultimate success. But this -task which man, with all his reasoning powers, would in the great -majority of instances be incapable of performing, the goose -accomplishes without the slightest hesitation. As though the desired -spot were right before its eyes, it goes straight forward. The -featureless expanse of ocean and the confusing details of the -landscape, the halts on the margins of lakes, the damp and obscurity of -clouds that have to be traversed, the emotions of terror excited when -the ambushed hunter discharges his leaden hail—none of these things -diverts it from its course. If detours must be made in order to avoid -danger or find food, it makes them, however long they may be, and then -resumes the right direction without a moment’s hesitation. It -calculates its speed and regulates its halts so as to arrive neither -too early nor too late; for it knows perfectly the order of the -seasons, when the snow melts and when the grass turns green. At last, -on a fine day when the first little flowers are just peeping through -their snowy shrouds, it reaches its ocean inlet, its little island, its -native heath, its cherished nesting-place. - -“I have finished. Now, my friends, which one of you would like to -engage in a geography match—not with a veteran goose experienced in -such voyages; you would be too hopelessly outclassed—but with the -youngest gosling, the merest novice of them all?” - -“On that subject,” Jules made answer, “I admit that the youngest -gosling knows more than I.” - -“And than I,” chimed in Louis, and Emile added: “If the goose knew that -I can’t even find my bearings yet on the map, how it would make fun of -poor Emile! You will tell us so much about its cleverness, Uncle, that -after this I shan’t be able to meet a goose without blushing.” - -“It is very praiseworthy to blush at one’s ignorance,” his uncle -assured him, “especially on a subject as necessary as geography; for it -is a sign that in future one will do one’s best; but none may expect to -rival the goose. We acquire our knowledge by reflection, study, -observation, experience; an animal does not acquire knowledge, it -possesses knowledge from its birth. Without ever having learned it, -without ever having seen it done, it does everything belonging to its -manner of living, and does it admirably well. A feeling not reasoned, a -secret impulse proper to its nature, guides it in its acts; it is -instinct, the marvels of which I have often related to you. If, to -accomplish its astonishing journeys, the goose had to learn geography -as we do, it would never see its beloved native land again; but it has -as guide the infallible inspiration of instinct, and with this inner -compass it wings its unerring way straight toward its natal islet, -however hidden by polar fogs that islet may be. - -“Its manner of traveling is not less remarkable. I have already told -you something about the duck; I come back to the subject in order to -emphasize the high degree of mechanical science possessed by the goose. -A bird on the wing is held up by the air which its wings strike; it is -also impeded in its progress by the air, the resistance of which it -must conquer. To overcome this obstacle with the least possible fatigue -what does the bird do, especially the crane, heron, stork, and other -wading birds encumbered with long legs and a long neck? They bring the -neck back on the breast, point their sharp beak forward, and, holding -their outstretched legs close together, trail them behind. With form -thus trimmed to extreme slimness, and with beak acting as the point of -a spear-head, they cleave the air as a ship plows the wave with its -sharp prow. No bird is wanting in this elementary principle of -mechanics: to gather the members together and taper the body in the -direction of motion, so as to encounter the least resistance. By -undertaking these very long flights in large flocks the duck and the -goose improve upon this general method. - -“Before going further let us draw a comparison. I will suppose that you -are a company of playmates running across lots, and you come to a tract -all covered with thick brushwood that has to be parted with feet and -hands before you can get through. If each one goes about it in his own -way, one here and another there just as it happens, is it not true that -the sum total of fatigue for the whole company will be the greatest -possible, since each one will have spent his strength in opening a way -for himself through the thicket? But now let us suppose, on the other -hand, that one of you, the most vigorous of the company, walks at the -head, parting the underbrush, and that the others follow him, step by -step, taking advantage of the path opened by the leader of the file. Is -it not true that under these conditions the sum total of fatigue will -be the least possible?” - -“All that is obvious,” Emile replied. “They could even, if it were a -long way through the brushwood, take turns in going ahead, and then no -one would be really tired out.” - -“This device of Emile’s has, as you already know, been put in practice -from time immemorial by ducks on their long flights. Nor is the goose -less happily inspired. If the flock is a small one, the birds composing -it range themselves in a continuous single file, each following bird -touching with its beak the tail of the preceding one, in order that the -way opened through the air may not have time to close again. If the -flock is numerous, two files of equal length are formed, and they join -each other at an acute angle, advancing point first. This angular -arrangement, which we find imitated in the ship’s prow, in the farmer’s -plowshare, in the thin edge of a wedge, and in any number of utensils -fashioned for penetrating a dense mass by overcoming resistance, is the -one best suited for cleaving the air with the least possible fatigue. -If, to arrange its flying squadron, the goose had taken counsel of the -most consummate science of our engineers, it could not have done -better. But the goose has no need of others; advised by its instinct, -it knew long before us, who call it stupid, one of the great secrets of -mechanics, the principle of the wedge. - -“Moreover, to divide among all the members of the flock the excess of -fatigue felt by the leader of the file in being the first to cleave -with a stroke of his wing the resisting atmosphere, each one in its -turn occupies the post of honor, the forward end of the single file, or -the apex of the two joining files. It is a repetition of Emile’s -expedient for penetrating a considerable extent of brushwood. After its -turn of service at the front the leading goose retires for rest to the -rear of one or other of the branches of the angle, while a new leader -takes its place. By this means of equitable rotation excessive fatigue -on the part of any one of the migrating flock is avoided, and no -stragglers are left behind.” - -“And no goose has to be urged to take what you call the post of honor, -the arduous post at the front?” queried Emile. - -“None has to be urged. It is their duty, and they all fulfil it with a -zeal that in many instances man might take as a model. To the recusant -slacker the smallest gosling would give a lesson in what is owing to -the common welfare. As soon as the leader feels its strength weakening, -the next one in order takes its place without having to be told.” - -“Decidedly,” interposed Jules, “those geese, with their cleverness in -geography and their skill in the art of flying in flocks and in -devising means for mutual assistance, are not so silly as they are said -to be.” - -“The flight of a flock of geese is generally very high; they do not -come near the ground except in foggy weather. If on such an occasion -some farm chances to be near, it occasionally happens that resounding -clarion calls answer each other from sky to earth and earth to sky. -That is the interchange of greetings between wild and tame geese. The -wild ones invite the captives to come and join them in their pilgrimage -to the promised land of the North. The proposal puts the poultry-yard -all in a turmoil, so compelling is the call of instinct. The farm geese -become excited, scream, beat their sides with their large wings; but -the plumpness of captivity prevents their flight. One less impeded -takes wing, rises in the air, and is gone.” - -“To Spitzbergen?” asked Emile. - -“Yes, to Spitzbergen, if strength does not fail it, but it is very -doubtful whether it will be able to follow its wild companions to the -end. - -“The goose feeds chiefly on herbage. With its wide beak furnished at -the edges with little scales resembling sharp teeth, it browses the -turf very much as does the sheep. A field of green wheat particularly -delights it. If a rather large flock alights there the harvest is -seriously injured. During the devastation sentries keep a look-out, -some here, others there, motionless, neck outstretched, eye and ear on -the alert. Let danger approach, and immediately the trumpet sounds. At -the warning the flock ceases grazing, runs with wings open to get a -start, then takes flight and mounts obliquely to heights above the -reach of a shot. The same precautions are taken in the hours of repose; -furthermore, actuated by an excess of prudence, they refuse to trust -entirely to the sentinels, but each sleeps with one eye open, as we -say. Thus are the ruses of the hunter nearly always baffled when he -tries to get near them. - -“I will stop here for to-day. I hope that, without going into other -details that would carry us too far, I have reinstated the slandered -bird in your esteem. The goose is not silly; on the contrary, it -possesses to a high degree the wiles, the talents, in fact everything -necessary for the admirable fulfilment of its mission as a goose.” - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - -THE DOMESTIC GOOSE - - -“Before America had given us the turkey, the goose was sought for its -flesh, which does not lack merit, although inferior to that of the bird -from the New World. Roast goose was the dish of honor at family feasts. -Now that the turkey has supplanted it in the solemnities of the table, -it is raised chiefly for its fat, which is very fine and savory, -rivaling butter in its uses. As to its flesh, relegated to secondary -rank and regarded as a mere accessory, it is salted and preserved like -pork. The region of which Toulouse is the center is the most renowned -for this branch of agricultural industry. Large flocks are raised there -of a species of goose called the Toulouse goose, remarkable for its -large size and its tendency to corpulence. Its pouch of fat hanging -down under its stomach reaches even to the ground, and grows so heavy -as to interfere with the bird’s walk. The plumage is dark gray, with -brown or black spots; the beak is orange, and the legs flesh color. - -“When it is desired to fatten the goose to the utmost limit, the -process calls for the fundamental conditions expounded in the chapter -on the poulard; that is to say, as much food as the stomach can bear, -immobility, complete repose, and almost continual sleep. These -principles recalled to mind, let us consider the Toulouse method. The -geese are shut up in a dark place, cool without being damp, where they -cannot hear the noises of the poultry-yard. The trumpet-calls of their -free companions would awaken in them vexatious regrets and would -interfere with their digestion. Three times a day the woman employed to -fatten them seats herself on a low chair and takes them one by one -between her knees so as to control their movements. She opens the beak -by force and thrusts far down the throat the tube of a tin funnel.” - -“That funnel is for feeding them?” asked Emile. - -“Precisely.” - -“Then they are compelled to swallow even if they don’t want to.” - -“What does the fattener care? All that concerns her is not to wound the -bird during the operation. Furthermore, to make the utensil slip into -its place better she takes care to oil the end of it a little. The poor -creature struggles and protests as best it can against the violence to -which it is subjected. But all in vain: the woman keeps at it. Now she -pours a handful of maize into the funnel, and as the grains would not -descend of themselves, the bird contracting that part of its throat not -reached by the tube, she pushes them down with little blows on the crop -with a wooden rammer; she crams (that is the word) the patient’s -stomach with maize. From time to time a little cold water is given to -aid this painful deglutition. When the crop is full, which is -ascertained by the touch of the hand, the bird is set free; another -takes its place and, willy nilly, receives the funnel in its throat. -During the thirty-five days that this feeding lasts, a goose consumes -forty liters of corn; that is to say, more than a liter a day.” - -“After such a cramming with quantities of corn rammed down by main -force,” remarked Jules, “the goose must get discouraged and pine away.” - -“Get discouraged! You don’t realize a goose’s appetite. The miserable -creature becomes accustomed to this diet, even takes a liking to it, -and toward the end of the operation comes of its own accord and opens -its beak to receive the funnel which ere long proves fatal to it. Soon -we see the pouch of fat under the stomach dragging on the ground, the -orange color of the beak turning pale, the breathing rendered -difficult, and every sign pointing to a near end—suffocation by excess -of corpulence. But the knife forestalls this. The bird is cut into -quarters and salted; its melted grease is put into pots or bottles, -where it can be kept for two years with its beautiful white color and -fine flavor unimpaired. - -“In other countries the fattening process includes the application, in -its utmost rigor, of the principle of immobility. Under an earthen pot, -the bottom of which has been broken, the goose is put in such a way -that only its head is left free, projecting through the opening. Thus -immured in its earthenware coffin, which barely permits it to turn -round, the goose has only one distraction, eating. With food served in -abundance, it eats just for the pleasure of it, and consumes so much -that at the end of two weeks it becomes a ball of fat. To get it out of -its cell the pot must be broken. - -“Elsewhere, especially in Alsace, the goose is shut up in a little pine -box so narrow that the bird cannot turn round in it. The floor of the -cell is made of slats far enough apart for the dung to fall through; -the front wall is pierced with an opening for the passage of the head, -and beneath this opening is a trough always full of water, in which are -placed a few pieces of charcoal as a disinfectant. Charcoal, in fact, -possesses the property of absorbing infectious gases, and thus prevents -the corruption that might develop in the bird’s drink. The captive in -its narrow cage is kept in the cellar or at least in a dark place. -Morning and night it is forcibly stuffed with corn softened by several -hours’ soaking in water; the rest of the time it thrusts its head -through its dormer-window and drinks, dabbling as much as it pleases in -the trough just below. With twenty-five liters of corn—for the northern -species is smaller than that of Toulouse—the goose, at the end of a -month, is fattened sufficiently. - -“The presence of a ball of grease under each wing, together with -difficulty in breathing, announces that the time has arrived for -cutting the prisoner’s throat; if deferred, it would die from -suffocation. - -“The lack of exercise that attends the fattening process in captivity, -whether in a pot with broken bottom or in a pine box, makes its effects -felt principally in the structure of the liver, which grows to an -enormous size and becomes charged with fat, as I have already told you -in speaking of the duck. With the method used in Alsace the liver -attains the weight of half a kilogram and sometimes double that. -Moreover, in the process of cooking, a goose yields from three to five -pounds of fat admirably suited for use with vegetables through the rest -of the year. Goose livers serve the same purposes as ducks’ livers: -they go to the making of the ragouts of Nérac and Toulouse, and they -form the chief ingredient in the celebrated Strasburg pâtés de foie -gras. - -“We have not yet exhausted the uses of the goose. Before the invention -of steel pens, in general use to-day, large goose quills were employed -for writing. Their preparation consisted in passing them through hot -ashes and then scraping them a little to remove their greasy coating, -which would prevent the ink’s flowing. Of very convenient size for the -fingers, their combined firmness and elastic flexibility made them also -admirably adapted for writing; but they had to be recut from time to -time, and the handling of a penknife was not without its difficulties, -its dangers even, in inexperienced hands like yours. So steel pens have -almost entirely supplanted them. - -“Another product of the goose’s plumage consists in the small feathers -and down used for bedding. I have told you how aquatic birds, -especially those of cold countries, have under their outside coat of -feathers, which is impregnated with oil to resist wet and storm, an -inner coat composed of the finest down and very fit for protecting the -bird from the cold. This down we called eiderdown. I revert to it now -on account of its importance. - -“The best eiderdown is furnished by a kind of duck called the -eider-duck, intermediate in size between the goose and the tame duck. -This duck lives in a wild state in the frozen regions of the North. It -is whitish in color with a black head as well as black stomach and -tail. The female, which is rather smaller than the male, is gray except -for some brown spots under the body. Its food is composed of fish, -which its untiring wing enables it to catch at long distances from the -coast and well out to sea. On the water all day searching for fish, the -eider-duck returns at night to some icy islet, a warm enough resting -place for its purpose, well muffled as it is in eiderdown. - -“In some hollow of the sharp rocks of the shore it builds its nest, -composed on the outside of mosses and dry seaweed, and on the inside of -a thick eiderdown lining which the mother plucks from her stomach and -breast. On this soft little bed rest five or six dull green eggs.” - -“We have already seen the wild duck plucking its stomach to cover its -eggs with down,” put in Jules. - -“The eider-duck does the same, but with a greater expenditure of down. -When the mother leaves her nest for a moment, she shelters her eggs -under an abundant covering of her finest down. After the departure of -the brood, those who hunt for eiderdown, especially the Icelanders, -visit the abandoned nests and collect the down, but not without danger, -since the nests are generally situated in inaccessible places on the -ledges of high cliffs. They can reach them only by being lowered with -ropes along the face of the precipitous rocks. - -“The quilts that we call eiderdown are large coverlets filled with -these very fine feathers. Their flocky mass, very light in spite of its -size, is the best covering for retaining heat. Those most in demand are -made of the down of the eider-duck, and are so elastic and light that -one can press and hold in two hands the quantity of down necessary for -a large bed-coverlet. But as this down is rare and very high-priced, -the coarser kind, from the poultry-yard duck and goose, is commonly -used. - -“Every year the sheep yields its fleece to the shearer, and in the same -way, four times a year, the goose is robbed of a part of its fine -feathers and down. The operation is especially easy at molting time, -for then the feathers come out with the least effort. The goose is -plucked, but not entirely, you understand, beneath the stomach, on the -neck, and on the under side of the wings; it is only when dead that it -is plucked completely. This harvest of feathers is put into a bag -without being pressed, and must next be subjected for some time to the -heat of an oven from which bread has just been taken out. This removes -its disagreeable odor and the parasites that often infest it. If, -however, other parasites appear later, notably moths, greedy, as you -know, for anything of animal origin, such as cloth, hair, down, or -wool, the feathers must be fumigated with burning sulphur. - -“The eggs of the goose are white and remarkably large, as one would -expect from the size of the bird. When one sees, generally in February, -a goose dragging with its beak some bits of straw and carrying them to -its nesting place, it is a sign that laying time is approaching. The -goose is then kept at home instead of being sent out into the fields. A -laying numbers fifteen eggs at the most; but if care is taken to visit -the nest and remove the eggs as fast as they are laid, the number -increases and may go, it is said, as high as forty. The goose has the -same fault as the duck: she is not a very assiduous brooder. Hence it -is thought best to have the turkey do the setting. As for the hen, she -is, despite her motherly qualities, out of the question, however small -the setting may be: goose eggs are so large that she could not cover -more than half a dozen at the most. - -“Incubation lasts a month. As the eggs do not all hatch at the same -time and as the brooder, goose or turkey, might be tempted to abandon -the backward eggs in order to take care of the first-born goslings, it -is advisable to take the little ones from the nest as fast as they -hatch and to put them in a wool-lined basket. When the hatching is all -finished, the family is given back to the mother. Warmth and a special -diet are necessary the first few days. The goslings are fed with a -mixture of bread-crumbs, corn-meal, milk, lettuce, and chopped nettles. -At the end of eight or ten days this careful treatment may cease, and -if the weather is fine the mother goose can be allowed to lead the -brood whither she pleases, even to the neighboring pond, providing the -water is warm. The male, the gander, as it is called, generally -accompanies the family, protects it, and proves his courage in time of -danger. Woe betide the thoughtless person who, even with no evil -intention, approaches the goslings. The gander runs at him, neck -outstretched, with loud and hissing cry, and gives him battle with wing -and beak. When I was young I knew a little scamp who threw a stone at -the goslings and was straightway knocked down by a blow of the gander’s -wing and then well thrashed. Timely aid was rendered, else the -imprudent assailant would have been disfigured by the bird.” - -“You caught it that time, stone-thrower!” cried Emile. “For my part, I -never pick a quarrel with geese; but one day they chased me and caught -me by the blouse. Oh, how frightened I was!” - -“If you are not strong enough to defend yourselves, children, do not go -near the goose when she has her little ones with her. She is very -distrustful then and might do you harm.” - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XV - -THE PIGEON - - -“The strong resemblance that the tame pigeon often bears to the wild -one known as the rock-pigeon makes us suspect this latter to be the -ancestor of the bird that inhabits our dove-cotes. The rock-pigeon has -ashy-blue plumage with black-spotted wings and pure-white tail. The -neck and breast are changeable in color according to the light in which -they are seen, and shine with a metallic luster, in which sometimes -purple and sometimes golden green dominates.” - -“That is exactly the ordinary plumage of our pigeons,” said Emile. -“When they come and peck the bread that I crumble for them in the sun, -I like to see their magnificent breasts shining first with one color -and then with another, every time the bird moves.” - -“Fond of traveling and endowed with a power of flight in accord with -this predilection, the rock-pigeon is scattered over the greater part -of the world. Nevertheless it is rare in France, where a few wretched -pairs, always in dread of the talons of the bird of prey or the -hunter’s shot, make their nests in the most sparsely settled cantons, -on the shelves of high rocks. The rocky and mountainous regions of the -Mediterranean islands are their chosen haunts in Europe.” - -“But it is no uncommon thing,” Louis remarked, “to hear of wild pigeons -being shot in this country.” - -“You confound the rock-pigeon, my friend, with another kind of wild -pigeon, the wood-pigeon. This, as its name indicates, perches on the -branches of tall trees, which the rock-pigeon never does.” - -“Yes, that’s so,” Jules interjected. “I have never seen pigeons that -are descended from the rock-pigeon alighting on trees. They alight on -rocks, on roofs, or on the ground.” - -“In its free state the rock-pigeon builds its nest in the hollows of -rocks; the wood-pigeon, on the contrary, builds in trees, in the depths -of dense forests, where it finds in abundance the acorn and beech-nut, -its principal food. These habits are not the only difference between -the two birds. The wood-pigeon is much larger; its breast has the color -of lees of wine; its neck, gleaming with variegated metallic glints -like that of its brother, is further adorned on each side with a white -spot in the shape of a cross. Its flight is sustained and rapid, its -cooing sonorous, its sight piercing. It feeds on all sorts of seeds, -especially acorns, which it swallows whole. - -“Wood-pigeons like to perch on dead branches at the tops of trees. -During the cold winter mornings they stay there motionless, waiting for -a little warmth to come with the rising sun and arouse them from their -torpor. In summer they frequent full-grown forest-trees, and their -cooing may be heard in the very midst of the dense foliage. Their -nesting place is by preference at the junction of several forking -branches. The male goes forth and gathers from neighboring trees, never -from the ground, the building material of dry twigs. If he sees a dead -twig attached to the branch on which he is perching, he seizes it with -his claws, sometimes with the beak, and tries to break it either by -leaning on it with all his weight or by pulling it toward him. -Possessed of his prize, he returns at once to his mate, who contents -herself with putting the materials into place without taking part in -getting them. In building the nest, therefore, the male is the worker -and the female the architect; but an architect without talent, we must -admit, for the structure is nothing but a mass of intertwined sticks -without lining of feathers and flock, and, worse still, without -firmness. Hence it is not unusual for this nest to fall to pieces -before the brood has taken its flight; fortunately the strong branches -on which it rests save the young ones from a disastrous fall. - -“Wild and mistrustful, the wood-pigeon has never been willing to accept -the calculated hospitality of the pigeon-house; it prefers the perilous -life of the woods to the full-fed existence of servitude. This is the -wild pigeon that frequently falls before the hunter’s fire. In certain -defiles of the Pyrenees it is caught with large nets, hundreds at a -time. The rock-pigeon, on the contrary, has from time immemorial been -dependent on man; and in return for the shelter of the pigeon-house -which protects it from birds of prey it has been willing to forget so -completely the rocks where it first nested that to-day one seldom -finds, at least in our country, any wild pairs. - -“Not all our pigeons, however, show the same degree of tameness; far -from it. Some, voluntary captives rather than real prisoners, are -faithful to the pigeon-house only as long as they find suitable food in -the neighboring fields, whither they go in flocks. If the house is not -to their liking, or if food is lacking, they seek another abode, the -more adventurous sometimes even returning to the wild life. The others, -thoroughly enslaved, have completely lost their desire for -independence. Seldom do they leave their roof, and some are such -stay-at-homes that the most pressing hunger could not make them go out -and try to find a little food for themselves in the neighboring -furrows. Food must always be given them, for they are incapable of -procuring it themselves. - -“Those first mentioned, the pigeons that venture afield and find food -for themselves, are called rock-pigeons, after the wild pigeon whose -ways, and frequently whose plumage, they have retained in part. They -are also known as flighty pigeons (fuyards), either on account of their -occasional distant expeditions, or because they sometimes take flight -from the pigeon-house and never return. They are the least costly to -raise, but they are small and not very productive, as they lay only two -or three times a year. The second kind, those that scarcely ever leave -the pigeon-cote and cannot do without our care, are called -cote-pigeons. Their maintenance costs more because they must be fed all -the year round; but in compensation they do not ravage the neighboring -harvests, which cannot be said of the rock-pigeons; and beside they are -much more productive, their periods of laying numbering as many as ten -a year. Modified from the earliest times by man’s intervention, the -cote-pigeon includes a number of varieties in which the traits of the -primitive species are often no longer recognizable. Let us mention some -of these. - -“First of all are the pigeons with feathered legs and feet, looking as -if they wore gaiters. This growth of feathers reaches to the very tips -of the claws, forming a cumbersome and unsightly sort of footgear which -is found to be due to captivity, the wild bird never having anything of -the kind. Then come the pouter pigeons, which have the faculty of -swallowing air and inflating the crop in a large ball, so that the base -of the neck seems to be affected with the deformity known as goiter. -That is their way of showing off: the larger the ball, the prouder they -are of their figure.” - -“What a queer idea,” Emile exclaimed, “to think it improves one’s looks -to have a frightful goiter or to wear those feathered leggings that -trail in the mud and interfere with walking!” - -“A life of idleness, my friend, engenders many caprices: examples -abound in man even more than in pigeons. But let us get on; these -things do not concern us. - -“Now, here are some pigeons that have their heads adorned with a crown -of feathers, are shod like the preceding, and imitate in their cooing -the roll of a drum.” - -“Then they ought to be called, from the roll of the drum, -drummer-pigeons,” declared Emile. - -“You have hit it exactly: that is precisely their name. Here are others -with trailing wings, tail erect and expanded like a fan, and the body -in an almost continual state of trembling. You would say they had a -fever. The spread tail gives them the name of fan-tails, while from -their ceaseless shaking they are sometimes called shakers. Ruffled -pigeons have the neck encircled with a ruff of disordered feathers. -Jacobins wear a sort of hood resembling a monk’s cowl. The turbit -carries on the nape of its neck a tuft of feathers thrown back and -hollowed out like a shell. Tumblers are remarkable for their strange -evolutions in the air: in mid-flight they will suddenly let themselves -fall and turn a somersault as if shot in the wing. This recreation is -their favorite pastime.” - -“The pleasure of a vertical fall,” remarked Jules, “accompanied by a -somersault, must carry some fear with it. Perhaps that is what gives -zest to this exercise.” - -“But the pigeon pulls up in time?” queried Emile. - -“Whenever it wishes to,” his uncle replied, “it brings to an end its -downward hurtling from these airy heights, ordinary flying is resumed, -and presently the tumbles begin again finer than ever. Here let us -pause, without exhausting the list of varieties, amounting to -twenty-four, counting only the principal ones. These few examples show -you sufficiently what diversity pigeon-house life has stamped on the -form, habits, and plumage of the primitive bird. - -“All pigeons, wild as well as tame, lay never more than two eggs to a -hatching, from which generally spring brother and sister. The cares of -brooding are shared by the father and mother alike, a practice found in -no other tame bird. In the morning, when hunger makes itself felt, the -female calls the male by a peculiar cooing and invites him to come and -take her place on the eggs, which he does with alacrity. About three or -four o’clock in the afternoon the rôles change. If the pigeon which -until then has remained on the nest does not see its mate coming, there -follows an anxious search, with admonitory cooings and, in case of -need, admonitory peckings; and the laggard is brought back to the -serious business of brooding. But as a rule the mother is -irreproachably punctual; she returns to the nest at the hour agreed -upon and does not leave it again until the next morning. Incubation -takes seventeen or eighteen days. - -“The little ones are born naked, blind, ungraceful. The father and -mother, sometimes one, sometimes the other, feed them from the beak. -This beak-feeding method of the pigeons is exceptional and deserves -special consideration. I need not tell you how other birds feed their -brood; any one that has ever raised a sparrow will know that.” - -“The little sparrow,” Jules hastened to explain, “opens its beak as -wide as it can and the parents put into it the food they have brought, -just as I put a grasshopper into it, or a piece of a cherry, or a -soaked bread-crumb.” - -“Jules forgets,” said Emile, “that it is well to tap the little bird on -the tail to excite its appetite and make it open its beak.” - -“Emile’s improvement is not indispensable,” Uncle Paul replied. “If it -is hungry the bird will open its beak without being asked. Into this -beak that gapes so wide the parents put the point of theirs and drop -whatever prize they have found; but if the little bird is very young -the father and mother begin by half-digesting in their own stomach the -food destined for the little one. Then they put their beak into the -little one’s and disgorge the nutritious pap that they have prepared. - -“Well, pigeons do exactly the reverse: it is the father and mother that -gape, and the little ones that plunge their beak deep down into the -throat of the parent bird. The latter is then seized with a convulsion -of the stomach accompanied by a rapid trembling of the wings and body. -Little plaintive cries denote that the operation is perhaps not quite -painless. From the crop thus done violence to, the half-digested -nutritive matter comes up in a jet that passes into the half-open beak -of the nursling. Twice a day the little pigeons receive their food in -this way; twice a day, but no more, so painful to the nurses seems this -mode of feeding from beak to beak.” - -“I should think,” said Jules, “that the parents would feel rather -uncomfortable when the young pigeon tickles their throat, deep down, -with its beak. If we can judge by what would happen to us, the stomach -would rebel and would throw up its contents painfully.” - -“That is apparently the way of it. The disgorged food is a pap of seeds -all ground up fine in the crop; but for the first three or four days -after hatching a special food is given, fine and strengthening, suited -to the weakness of the little one. It is a white substance, almost -liquid, having the appearance of real milk. It does not come entirely -from digested food; for the most part it consists of a sort of milkfood -that is distilled by the stomach on this occasion only. So for the -first days of the brood’s rearing the pigeons have, deep down in the -throat, a sort of milk factory, or what one might call the equivalent -of an udder.” - -“That reminds me,” Jules interposed, “of a joke common enough among us -fellows. When we want to gull some poor innocent, we tell him that -pigeons suck. This jest comes nearer the truth than is commonly -thought. Pigeons do not suck the breast, it is true, but it might well -enough be said that they are suckled, since what they are fed on has so -much resemblance to milk.” - -“Little pigeons stay in the nest a long time,” resumed Uncle Paul. -“Entirely covered with feathers and almost as large as their parents, -they still continue to receive parental care. To induce them to shift -for themselves and give up their place when the time for a new laying -approaches, some cuffs have to be given to these spoiled children that -are so reluctant to leave home. But at last they consent, though not -without returning from time to time to torment the mother with their -lamentations and to beg her for something to eat. The father, less weak -on the side of his affections, thenceforth receives these importunate -lazy-bodies with a peck of the beak. - -“Let us consider certain other details of the pigeon’s habits. I will -not tell you, these things being pretty well known to you, of the -cooings of the pigeon when it puffs out its throat, of its ceremonious -salutations, its bowing to the very ground, its pirouettes when it -shows off before its mate. I shall interest you more by acquainting you -with its gregarious instinct, which impels it to assemble in immense -flocks when it travels, in its wild state, to find food.” - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - -A STORY FROM AUDUBON [4] - - -“Here is what we are told on this subject by the celebrated -ornithologist, Audubon, whom I have already quoted in describing to you -the habits of the turkey as it is found in its free state in the great -forests of its native land. - -“‘The passenger pigeon, or, as it is usually named in America, the wild -pigeon, moves with extreme rapidity, propelling itself by quickly -repeated flaps of the wing, which it brings more or less near the body, -according to the degree of velocity which is required.... - -“‘This great power of flight is seconded by as great a power of vision, -which enables them, as they travel at that swift rate, to inspect the -country below, discover their food with facility, and thus obtain the -object for which their journey has been undertaken. This I have also -proved to be the case, by having observed them, when passing over a -sterile part of the country, or one scantily furnished with food suited -to them, keep high in the air, flying with an extended front, so as to -enable them to survey hundreds of acres at once. On the contrary, when -the land is richly covered with food, or the trees abundantly hung with -mast, they fly low, in order to discover the part most plentifully -supplied.... - -“‘The multitudes of wild pigeons in our woods are astonishing. Indeed, -after having viewed them so often, and under so many circumstances, I -even now feel inclined to pause, and assure myself that what I am going -to relate is fact. Yet I have seen it all, and that too in the company -of persons who, like myself, were struck with amazement. - -“‘In the autumn of 1813, I left my house at Henderson, on the banks of -the Ohio, on my way to Louisville. In passing over the Barrens a few -miles beyond Hardensburgh, I observed the pigeons flying from northeast -to southwest, in greater number than I thought I had ever seen them -before, and feeling an inclination to count the flocks that might pass -within the reach of my eye in one hour, I dismounted, seated myself on -an eminence, and began to mark with my pencil, making a dot for every -flock that passed. In a short time finding the task which I had -undertaken impracticable, as the birds poured in in countless -multitudes, I rose, and counting the dots then put down, found that one -hundred and sixty-three had been made in twenty-one minutes. I traveled -on, and still met more the farther I proceeded. The air was literally -filled with pigeons; the light of noonday was obscured as by an -eclipse; the dung fell in spots, not unlike melting flakes of snow; and -the continued buzz of wings had a tendency to lull my senses to repose. - -“‘Whilst waiting for dinner at Young’s inn, at the confluence of Salt -River with the Ohio, I saw, at my leisure, immense legions still going -by, with a front reaching from beyond the Ohio on the west, and the -beech-wood forests directly on the east of me. Not a single bird -alighted, for not a nut or acorn was that year to be seen in the -neighborhood. They consequently flew so high, that different trials to -reach them with a capital rifle proved ineffectual; nor did the reports -disturb them in the least. I cannot describe to you the extreme beauty -of their aërial evolutions, when a hawk chanced to press upon the rear -of a flock. At once, like a torrent, and with a noise like thunder, -they rushed into a compact mass, pressing upon each other toward the -center. In these almost solid masses, they darted forward in undulating -and angular lines, descended and swept close over the earth with -inconceivable velocity, mounted perpendicularly so as to resemble a -vast column, and, when high, were seen wheeling and twisting within -their continued lines, which then resembled the coils of a gigantic -serpent. - -“‘Before sunset I reached Louisville, distant from Hardensburgh -fifty-five miles. The pigeons were still passing in undiminished -numbers, and continued to do so for three days in succession. The -people were all in arms. The banks of the Ohio were crowded with men -and boys, incessantly shooting at the pilgrims, which there flew lower -as they passed the river. Multitudes were thus destroyed. For a week or -more, the population fed on no other flesh than that of pigeons, and -talked of nothing but pigeons. The atmosphere, during this time, was -strongly impregnated with the peculiar odor which emanates from the -species.... - -“‘It may not, perhaps, be out of place to attempt an estimate of the -number of pigeons contained in one of those mighty flocks, and of the -quantity of food daily consumed by its members.... Let us take a column -of one mile in breadth, which is far below the average size, and -suppose it passing over us without interruption for three hours, at the -rate mentioned above of one mile in the minute. This will give us a -parallelogram of 180 miles by 1, covering 180 square miles. Allowing -two pigeons to the square yard, we have 1,115,136,000 pigeons in one -flock. As every pigeon daily consumes fully half a pint of food, the -quantity necessary for supplying this vast multitude must be 8,712,000 -bushels per day. - -“‘As soon as the pigeons discover a sufficiency of food to entice them -to alight, they fly round in circles, reviewing the country below. -During their evolutions, on such occasions, the dense mass which they -form exhibits a beautiful appearance, as it changes its direction, now -displaying a glistening sheet of azure, when the backs of the birds -come simultaneously into view, and anon suddenly presenting a mass of -rich deep purple. They then pass lower, over the woods, and for a -moment are lost among the foliage, but again emerge, and are seen -gliding aloft. They now alight, but the next moment, as if suddenly -alarmed, they take to wing, producing by the flappings of their wings a -noise like the roar of distant thunder, and sweep through the forests -to see if danger is near. Hunger, however, soon brings them to the -ground. When alighted, they are seen industriously throwing up the -withered leaves in quest of the fallen mast. The rear ranks are -continually rising, passing over the main body, and alighting in front, -in such rapid succession, that the whole flock seems still on wing. The -quantity of ground thus swept is astonishing, and so completely has it -been cleared that the gleaner who might follow in their rear would find -his labor completely lost. While feeding, their avidity is at times so -great that in attempting to swallow a large acorn or nut, they are seen -gasping for a long while, as if in the agonies of suffocation. - -“‘On such occasions, when the woods are filled with these pigeons, they -are killed in immense numbers, although no apparent diminution -ensues.... As the sun begins to sink beneath the horizon, they depart -en masse for the roosting-place.... - -“‘Let us now inspect their place of nightly rendezvous. One of these -curious roosting-places, on the banks of the Green River in Kentucky, I -repeatedly visited. It was, as is always the case, in a portion of the -forest where the trees were of great magnitude, and where there was -little underwood.... My first view of it was about a fortnight -subsequent to the period when they had made choice of it, and I arrived -there nearly two hours before sunset. Few pigeons were then to be seen, -but a great number of persons, with horses and wagons, guns and -ammunition, had already established themselves on the borders. Two -farmers from the vicinity of Russelsville, distant more than a hundred -miles, had driven upwards of three hundred hogs to be fattened on the -pigeons which were to be slaughtered. Here and there the people -employed in plucking and salting what had already been procured, were -seen sitting in the midst of large piles of these birds. The dung lay -several inches deep, covering the whole extent of the roosting-place, -like a bed of snow. Many trees two feet in diameter, I observed, were -broken off at no great distance from the ground, and the branches of -many of the largest and tallest had given way, as if the forest had -been swept by a tornado. Everything proved to me that the number of -birds resorting to this part of the forest must be immense beyond -conception. As the period of their arrival approached, their foes -anxiously prepared to receive them. Some were furnished with iron pots -containing sulphur, others with torches of pine knots, many with poles, -and the rest with guns. The sun was lost to our view, yet not a pigeon -had arrived. Everything was ready, and all eyes were gazing on the -clear sky, which appeared in glimpses amidst the tall trees. Suddenly -there burst forth a general cry of “Here they come!” The noise which -they made, though yet distant, reminded me of a hard gale at sea, -passing through the rigging of a close-reefed vessel. As the birds -arrived and passed over me, I felt a current of air that surprised me. -Thousands were soon knocked down by the pole-men. The birds continue to -pour in. The fires were lighted, and a magnificent, as well as -wonderful and almost terrifying, sight, presented itself. The pigeons, -arriving by thousands, alighted everywhere, one above another, until -solid masses as large as hogsheads were formed on the branches all -round. Here and there the perches gave way under the weight with a -crash, and falling to the ground, destroyed hundreds of the birds -beneath, forcing down the dense groups with which every stick was -loaded. It was a scene of uproar and confusion. I found it quite -useless to speak, or even to shout to those persons who were nearest to -me. Even the reports of the guns were seldom heard, and I was made -aware of the firing only by seeing the shooters reloading. - -“‘No one dared venture within the line of devastation. The hogs had -been penned up in due time, the picking up of the dead and wounded -being left for the next morning’s employment. The pigeons were -constantly coming, and it was past midnight before I perceived a -decrease in the number of those that arrived. The uproar continued the -whole night.... Toward the approach of day, the noise in some measure -subsided, long before objects were distinguishable, the pigeons began -to move off in a direction quite different from that in which they had -arrived the evening before, and at sunrise all that were able to fly -had disappeared. The howlings of the wolves now reached our ears, and -the foxes, lynxes, cougars, bears, racoons, opossums, and polecats were -seen sneaking off, whilst eagles and hawks of different species, -accompanied by a crowd of vultures, came to supplant them, and enjoy -their share of the spoil. - -“‘It was then that the authors of all this devastation began their -entry amongst the dead, the dying, and the mangled. The pigeons were -picked up and piled in heaps, until each had as many as he could -possibly dispose of, when the hogs were let loose to feed on the -remainder.’ - -“Here ends Audubon’s story. What do you think of it, my friends?” - -“I think,” Jules replied, “that those flocks of pigeons darkening the -sky and taking several days to pass over are the most astonishing thing -I have ever heard of about birds.” - -“And I,” said Emile, “am still thinking of that shower of dung that -falls from the sky, as thick as flakes of snow in winter, when the -pigeons are flying over. Everywhere they fly the ground is whitened -with this singular shower.” - -“And those trees breaking under the pigeons’ weight,” Louis exclaimed; -“those three hundred pigs let loose to surfeit on what the hunters have -left—all that would seem incredible to me if Uncle Paul had not assured -us it was so.” - -“It’s a great pity,” sighed Emile, “that we have no such flocks of -pigeons here. If they are knocked down with nothing but a pole, as we -knock down apples and nuts, I would undertake to bag a fine lot -myself.” - -“Would you also,” his uncle asked him, “undertake to find food for the -pigeons, when for a single day’s supply for one of their flocks it -takes from eight to nine million bushels of seeds? You see well enough -that such multitudes would be calamitous: the entire harvest of a -province would scarcely be enough to fill the crops of these ravenous -birds. Such flocks require vast tracts of woodland not exploited by -man, such as America had sixty years ago, in Audubon’s time. But -to-day, in that country, as civilization extends its boundaries the -primeval forests disappear and give place to cultivated fields. Food -becoming scarce, pigeons also become scarce; and it is doubtful whether -one could ever again witness such prodigious scenes as formerly.” - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - -A SUPPOSITION - - -“Let us suppose ourselves, my friends, in the heart of a desert -country, left to shift for ourselves, without any of the resources that -come with civilization. To defend life and procure food are our -constant great care. Around us extend endless dark woods where roar, -howl, bellow a thousand ferocious animals that would tear us to pieces -with their claws or quarter us with their horns if they took us by -surprise. To shelter ourselves from their attack, we have to choose -between the refuge of a grotto, the mouth of which we close with -fragments of rock rolled painfully into place, and the hollow trunk of -an old tree, or, better, its large branches, if we can manage to climb -up to them.” - -“It is the story of Robinson Crusoe on his Island,” Emile interrupted. - -“Not quite. I am supposing our state much worse than his. Robinson -Crusoe had at his disposal a quantity of things saved from the -shipwreck—tools of all kinds, formidable weapons, guns, powder, and -shot. We have nothing, absolutely nothing but our ten fingers.” - -“Not even a knife to cut a stick with?” asked Emile. - -“Not even a knife.” - -“Rather an unpleasant situation,” remarked Louis; “and all the more so -as we couldn’t stay shut up all the time. We should have to leave our -grotto to procure food, and then beware of the wolves and all the -dangerous creatures in the wood.” - -“Nothing imparts courage like the terrible need of food. We should -start out, then, armed with some stones and with a stick clumsily -broken off with our hands. If the wild beast runs at us we shall do our -best to knock it down.” - -“But what if we don’t succeed?” was Emile’s query. - -“In that case we are done for: we shall become its prey.” - -“To tell the truth, Uncle, in spite of the pleasure the reading of -Robinson Crusoe on his Island gave me, I prefer this trip through the -woods to be simply a supposition on your part rather than a reality.” - -“Emile is not the only one of that opinion,” declared Jules. “When I -have nothing to defend myself with I don’t like those woods where there -are wolves and still worse things.” - -“I continue my supposition. Hunger drives us and we start. I assume -that heaven favors us and that no serious danger comes to disturb us in -our hunt for something to keep us from starving. If we are on the -seashore we shall catch shell-fish; if inland, we shall gather berries -from the brambles and sloes from the thicket. If we hunt long enough we -may perhaps find a handful or two of hazel-nuts. That will be our -dinner, which will beguile our hunger for a while without satisfying -it.” - -“I should think so,” exclaimed Emile. “Berries and sloes, and nothing -else—a sorry feast! I’d rather have a crust of bread, no matter how -hard.” - -“So had I. But the crust of bread means cultivated fields, the -husbandman, the harvester, the miller, and the baker; it presupposes an -advanced civilization, whereas we are in a wilderness. We must do -without the crust of bread. If, however, you find something better than -berries and sloes, I will gladly give up the detestable fruit.” - -“Since the woods where you suppose us to be,” said Jules, “are full of -all sorts of animals, there ought to be game in abundance.” - -“Yes, indeed, game is there in plenty.” - -“Well, then; let us hunt it, and then we will light a fire and I will -see to roasting what we have got. That will be much better than horrid -sloes, sour enough to set your teeth on edge.” - -“That is a good idea, but I see two great difficulties: first, we must -catch the game; secondly, we must make a fire.” - -“Making a fire is the easiest thing in the world,” Emile declared. “All -we need is a match, as long as there is plenty of wood.” - -“You forget, my friend, that there are no matches. We have nothing, -absolutely nothing.” - -“That is true. What shall we do, then? If I remember right, Robinson -Crusoe too had no end of trouble in making a fire. He finally found a -tree that had been set on fire by lightning.” - -“Would you wait for a thunderstorm to come and set fire to a corner of -the forest? Long before that we should have time to starve, for it is -very seldom that lightning starts a fire.” - -“Must we, then, give up the roast that I was proposing?” Jules asked. - -“Before giving it up we might try the means employed by certain savage -tribes for obtaining fire. The operator takes his seat on the ground -and holds between his feet a piece of soft and very dry wood in which a -small cavity has been hollowed; then he twirls rapidly between his -hands a stick of hard wood with its point in the cavity. As a result of -this energetic friction the soft wood becomes heated at the bottom of -the hollow, and ends by catching fire. Success necessitates, it is -true, a rapidity of friction and a skill that certainly we should not -be able to acquire without a long apprenticeship; but I pass over that -difficulty and assume that we have a fire. - -“Now for the game. A hare will be a great plenty for us. This animal -abounds, and we should be very unskilful if we did not soon find one -curling its mustaches with its velvety paw under a tuft of broom. But -the hare has quick ears and sharp eyes. Long before we can get within -striking distance it hears and sees us, and decamps. Run after it now -if you think you can catch it.” - -“For my part,” said Jules, “I won’t undertake it.” - -“With the weapons we possess,” Louis admitted, “with only our sticks -and stones, the chase seems to me out of the question: all game of -whatever sort would foil our attempts by its vigilance and rapid -flight.” - -“Are you all thoroughly convinced of it?” asked Uncle Paul. - -“I certainly am,” replied Jules. “Not being able to match the game in -fleetness of foot, we shall always come back from the hunt -empty-handed.” - -“That’s plain enough,” Emile assented. - -“Then let us be content with sloes, and if hunger presses too hard we -must tighten our belts. Since, too, at any moment, some furious wild -beast might pounce upon us and devour us, let us lose no time in -getting back to reflect on our sad plight. - -“Our wretched state is indeed lamentable. Incessant hunger torments us, -despite the extreme abundance of game, which would be an invaluable -resource for us, but which unfortunately we cannot turn to account. If, -to stay our hunger, we go in search of wild fruit, a thousand dangers -await us. We may fall into clutches that no stone will intimidate and -no sticks cause to relax. We are without provisions, defenseless. A -terrible alternative awaits us: to die of hunger or be devoured by -those that are stronger than we.” - -“Such a Robinson Crusoe life I should not care for,” declared Emile. - -“Now let us suppose one thing more: Heaven takes pity on our distress -and, to extricate us from our difficulty, offers us the aid of one of -our domestic animals, whichever one we choose to name. Which will you -ask for, children?” - -“My stomach is so tired of sloes,” Emile replied, “and my teeth are so -set on edge with this sour fruit that I think I should choose a sheep. -Some cutlets broiled over live coals would make up to me for my dinners -on wild berries.” - -“But the sheep will soon be eaten up,” objected Jules, “and then back -you go once more to the sloes. I should prefer a goat. Every evening it -would come back to the grotto with its big udders swollen with milk. In -this way I should be sure of food with some variety, because I could -make butter and cheese out of the milk.” - -“Your goat will perhaps not last so long as Emile’s sheep. It must go -out to get pasturage, and who can say that it will not be devoured by -wolves in the woods the first time it ventures forth?” - -“I will keep careful watch over it.” - -“But who will watch over you, my friend? Who will protect you?” - -“That’s so. Let us give up the goat and choose a cow. She is strong -enough to defend herself with her horns.” - -“If one wolf is not enough, they will bring to the attack two, three, -ten, and the cow will be overcome.” - -“The horse, mule, or donkey, in our supposed circumstances, cannot be -very useful to us. I leave them out. With a hen I should at least have -an egg a day.” - -“A poor dependence if one hen’s egg has to be divided between four. -Besides, what grain have you for feeding your hen? And how about the -fox—will he leave her in peace?” - -“The pig is still left,” was Jules’s final suggestion. “But there we -have the same difficulty as with Emile’s sheep: once the animal is -eaten, hunger overtakes us again. I leave the choice to some one -cleverer than I.” - -“My choice,” said Louis, “would be the dog, without a moment’s -hesitation.” - -“What a queer choice!” cried Emile. “The dog will lick our hands in -sign of friendship, he will bark in front of the grotto, and he will -gnaw the bone we throw to him. But as there are no bones in our dinners -of sloes, the poor beast will die of hunger without being of any use to -us whatever.” - -“I can find use for him,” replied Louis, “and it is a great one. With -the dog, game, even the nimblest hare, will be caught in the chase, -with such ambuscade as we can contrive on our part, and food will be -assured for all—flesh for us, bones for the dog. Accompanied by him, we -can go wherever we please, without the continual fear of being attacked -any moment. If a wolf appears, our vigorous companion will cope with -it, seize it by the nape of the neck, and give us a chance to lay on -with the cudgel.” - -“Louis is right,” declared Jules; “I vote for the dog.” - -“The reasons Louis gives,” Emile chimed in, “are too clear to admit of -any but a unanimous vote in the dog’s favor.” - -“Yes, my friend,” his uncle rejoined, “unanimous, even to the vote of -your Uncle Paul, who for some moments has been making you live Robinson -Crusoe’s life in imagination for the express purpose of leading you to -decide for yourselves in favor of the dog. - -“In the early days, centuries and centuries ago, man lived mostly by -the chase, as to-day the last surviving savage tribes still live. The -raising of herds, the tilling of the soil, the manufacture of goods, -all were unknown. Wild animals, hunted in the forests with stone -weapons and pointed sticks, furnished almost the only resource. Their -flesh gave food, their skins provided clothing. To catch the game, a -fleet-footed auxiliary in the chase was necessary; to keep these -dangerous animals in a proper state of awe, a courageous defender was -needed by man. This auxiliary, this defender, and, best of all, this -friend, devoted even to death, was the dog; a gift from Heaven to help -man in his pitiful beginnings. With the aid of the dog, life was -rendered less perilous, food more assured. Leisure followed, and from -being a hunter man became a herdsman. The herd was formed, at first -very indocile and at the slightest lack of watchfulness taking again to -the wild life of old. Its keeping was confided to the dog, which, -posted on some rising ground of the pasture, its scent to the wind and -ear on the watch, followed the herd with vigilant eye and rushed to -bring back the runaways or to drive off some evil-intentioned beast. -Thanks to the dog, the herd gave abundance—milk and its products, flesh -for food, and warm wool for clothing. Then, relieved from the terrible -anxiety concerning daily provision, man took it into his head to dig in -the earth and make it produce grain. Agriculture sprang into being, and -with it, little by little, civilization. By the very force of -circumstances, therefore, man in all countries is at first a hunter, -later he becomes a herdsman, and ends by being an agriculturist. The -dog is absolutely necessary to him, first for hunting, then for -watching and defending the herd. Of all our domestic animals, -accordingly, the dog is the earliest on record and the one that has -rendered us the greatest service.” - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - -A FRAGMENT OF HISTORY - - -“I understand,” began Jules, “the usefulness of the dog to a man left -to his own resources in a desert country in the midst of woods. With -the help of this courageous friend he procures food and defends himself -against animals that endanger his life. But in our countries around -here, it seems to me, that wretched sort of existence can never have -been known.” - -“In our countries things took their course just as everywhere else,” -his uncle replied. “Even in places now enjoying the most advanced -civilization, man began with an era of misery of which it will be not -unprofitable to give you some idea; then you will see better from what -depths of barbarism the dog’s services have helped to raise us. - -“In the earliest times of which history has preserved some vague -record, what was one day to be the beautiful country of France was a -wild country covered with immense forests, where, living by the chase, -there wandered some few tribes of Gaels; for thus the first inhabitants -of our country were called. They were men of low stature, broad -shoulders, white skin, long blond hair, and blue or green eyes. For -weapons they had stone axes and knives, arrows tipped with fish-bones -or a sharp piece of flint. Fastened to the left arm, they carried for -defense a long and narrow wooden shield; with the right hand they -brandished, as an offensive weapon, sometimes a stake hardened in the -fire, sometimes a heavy bludgeon or club. For the perilous passage of -rivers and of ocean inlets they had fragile little boats made of -wicker, plaited as in our baskets, but covered on the outside with the -hide of a wild ox to exclude the water.” - -“But those are the weapons and boats of savages!” interposed Emile. - -“Without doubt, my friend; and, equally without doubt, the first Gaels, -ancestors of ours though they were, were veritable savages, differing -hardly at all from those of our own day. They lived mainly by the -chase, herds and agriculture being for ages unknown to them. In their -gloomy forests, damp and cold, using only their poor weapons of stone -and pointed sticks, they attacked a terrible wild ox, the aurochs or -urus, which is now almost extinct. This ox, nearly as large as the -elephant, had enormous horns, a mane of curly wool on its head and -neck, beard under its throat, a deep, hoarse bellow, and a ferocious -look. Its extraordinary strength and indomitable fury made it the -terror of the forests.” - -“And weren’t they afraid,” asked Louis, “to attack this fearful -creature with their stone hatchets?” - -“They fell upon the furious animal without other weapons than pointed -stakes and stone hatchets; but they had the help of powerful dogs that -seized the beast by the ears and got the mastery of it. The urus held -the place of honor among game. The valiant huntsman who killed it had -for a cup, at the banqueting board, one of the animal’s monstrous -horns.” - -“What did they drink from those horns?” Emile inquired. - -“At first clear water from the fountains; then, after the race had made -some little progress, an intoxicating drink called cervisia, made from -fermented barley. That was the forerunner of our beer.” - -“Can it be,” asked Louis, “that our peaceful ox came from that -intractable beast, the urus, as you call it?” - -“Not at all. The domestic ox is a different kind altogether, -originating in Asia and not in the ancient forests of Europe. In our -day there is hardly a urus left. Hunted century after century by -growing civilization, the formidable ox with a mane has long since -deserted these regions to take refuge in the solitudes of the North. -But these solitudes in turn have been taken possession of by man, and -the aurochs has found its last retreat in the swampy forests of -Lithuania in Poland. There a few pairs still live in perfect security, -for it is expressly forbidden to kill them.” - -“And why do they keep those ugly oxen?” was Emile’s next question. - -“They are not numerous enough to do any harm, and it would really be a -pity to exterminate the last one of these animals that afforded our -ancestors such joy in the hunt. - -“The Gaels hunted the elk also, a kind of large stag the size of a -horse or even larger. The elk has under its throat a kind of goiter or -fleshy pendant; its fur is short, stiff, and ash-colored; its horns, -called antlers, are wide-spreading and flattened, and they extend in a -vast triangular expanse with a deeply indented outline; the weight of -each antler may amount to as much as thirty kilograms. That must, as -you see, be a fine specimen of game: an animal that bears on its -forehead, without effort, an ornament weighing a hundred weight and -more.” - -“A stag as large as a horse must really be a noble prize for a hunter,” -said Louis. - -“Without his companion, the dog,” Jules put in, “man certainly could -not have caught such an animal in the chase.” - -“The elk,” resumed Uncle Paul, “though common at that period in our -forests, is found to-day only in the wooded marshes of Russia and -Sweden. It also inhabits, and in greater numbers, the northern part of -America. - -“You will notice that these two animals, the aurochs and the elk, which -were formerly spread over our own regions, are now settled in climates -much colder than ours. The few aurochs that have survived the general -destruction of their species graze in the woods of Lithuania; the elk -inhabits the extreme north of Europe and America. Transported to our -warmer climate, they would soon perish, being unable to endure a -temperature too high for them. Since they flourished here in ancient -times, the climate of our regions must at that distant epoch have been -colder, more severe, than it is to-day. Immense forests, always damp -and full of shade, were doubtless one of the causes of this more -rigorous climate. When these woods, impenetrable to the rays of the -sun, were felled by the ax of nascent civilization, the soil warmed up -freely and the temperature rose. But then the aurochs and elk, harassed -besides by man, who explored all their retreats, fled a country too -warm for them and took refuge in the cold fogs of the North. - -“Despite this change of climate some animals have remained with us the -same as in the old time of the Gaels. In our day the same wolf still -howls with hunger in the woods, the same bears haunt the mountain -caves, the same wild boar, beset by a pack of hounds in some bushy -thicket, pokes its bristly snout out of the brake, sharpens its tusks, -and gnashes its teeth as formerly when a band of tattooed hunters flung -their stone hatchets at its head.” - -“Those first inhabitants of France were tattooed like island savages?” -asked Jules. - -“Yes, my friend. They decorated their bodies with designs in blue, a -pigment extracted from a plant called woad; and to make the decoration -ineffaceable they forced the coloring matter into the skin by pricking -themselves till the blood flowed. - -“This practice, called tattooing, is still found in our day in many -countries, among tribes unacquainted with the benefits of civilization. -At the other end of the world, at our antipodes, the natives of New -Zealand are most expert in this kind of decoration. With a sharp awl, -impregnated with divers colors, they prick themselves with little stabs -and trace, point by point, fanciful designs which turn their skin into -veritable living embroidery. Red and blue spirals turn in inverse -directions from both sides of the forehead and continue in rose-work on -the cheeks. Little palm-leaves spread over the nostrils; a sun darts -its rays all around the chin; two or three little stars give a blue -tinge to the lower lip. The rest of the body is ornamented in the same -lavish manner: fantastic animals cover the middle of the back; a -tortoise pokes out its head and four feet in the hollow of the breast; -the hands and feet, pricked in fine tracery patterns, look as if -covered with open-work gloves and stockings. Our ancestors of the -stone-hatchet age decorated themselves very much like this.” - -“Those poor New Zealanders,” remarked Emile, “must hurt themselves -dreadfully, disfiguring themselves like that.” - -“The operation is indeed most painful, and yet they bear it without a -murmur. A single needle-prick makes us recoil; those rude savages -remain unmoved while the tattoo artist punctures their bodies with his -awl.” - -“Why do they submit to such a torture?” - -“Chiefly that they may cut a more dashing figure, present a more -formidable aspect, before the enemy. In certain archipelagoes of -Polynesia we should find still stranger customs. One tribe, for -example, gashes the face by removing narrow strips of skin so that the -cicatrized wounds form various patterns in hideous little red weals. -Others pass a small pointed stick through the cartilage of the -nostrils; others make a large hole in the lower lip and set a shell in -it. - -“Had the ancient Gaels similar customs? It is quite possible; at least -it is certain that they tattooed themselves with woad. Certain customs -are sometimes so tenacious that after many centuries in the midst of -the most flourishing civilization tattooing has not entirely -disappeared even with us. On the strong arms of some of our laborers -are seen, any day, tattooed in blue, trade emblems and other devices. -They are, without doubt, the survivals of primitive customs. - -“The Gaels had long, silky hair, like flaxen tow, and they gave it a -tinge of bright red by frequent washing in lime lye. Sometimes they -smeared it with rancid grease and let it hang down over their shoulders -in all its length; sometimes they gathered it above the forehead in a -high tuft or mane, to make themselves look taller and to give -themselves a more terrifying aspect.” - -“In a book of travels,” said Jules, “I saw pictures of some North -American Indians with a tuft of hair like that on top of the head. The -Gaels, then, had the same custom?” - -“Yes, my child. Thousands of years apart, in the forests of the Old -World and those of the New, the Gael and the Indian adopt the same -head-dress, a coil of hair over the forehead. When he dresses for the -combat, the Indian fastens to his top-knot of hair divers ornaments, -such as the wing of a hawk, the claw of a leopard, the teeth of a bear. -Thus doubtless the Gael likewise adorned his person when he made -himself fine for the urus-hunt or for battle with some neighboring -tribe. - -“The Indian’s top-knot is an audacious defiance, a horrible bravado. -When the enemy is thrown to the ground, beaten down by a blow of the -club, the conqueror seizes him by his top-knot, cuts the skin all round -the head with the point of a sharp flint, then with a jerk pulls off -the bleeding scalp all in one piece.” - -“Oh, how horrible!” cried Jules. - -“This scalp is a trophy which he will dry in the smoke of his hut and -will wear hanging from his waist as token of his exploit. His position -in the tribe, his weight in the council, are proportioned to the number -of scalps taken from the enemy. Now you understand the fierce bravado -of the Indian with his top-knot of hair all gathered up and ready for -the horrible operation. Let any one offer to touch it, and he will soon -feel the weight of the wearer’s club.” - -“I hope the Gaels did not have that abominable custom.” - -“They had one that was worse: they carried not only the scalp, but the -whole head, which they dried in the sun, after nailing it by the ears -to the entrance of the hut in the midst of hunting trophies, boars’ -heads and wolves’ heads. Those were their titles of nobility.” - -“And we are descended from those frightful savages?” - -“The tattooed Gaels with red hair, nailing the enemy’s head to their -door, are, as far back as history can show, the first inhabitants of -our country; we count them as among our earliest ancestors. Some of -their barbarous customs have come down to us, greatly modified, it is -true. I have just given you an example, in tattooing; I give you -another in the matter of trophies of the chase. After the manner of the -ancient Gaels, it is still the custom in the country to nail to the big -barn-doors wolves’ and foxes’ heads and the dead bodies of hawks and -owls.” - -“Those who do that,” said Louis, “little suspect to what horrible -custom their practice is related.” - -“Your tattooed hunters interest me very much,” Emile declared. “Their -houses, dress, furniture—how about all those things?” - -“In those wretched times a shelter under rocks, a natural excavation, a -grotto, were the first dwelling-places. But there came a day when those -wild retreats were found insufficient, and human ingenuity made its -first attempts in the art of building. To provide oneself with a -shelter was not enough; it was necessary above all to maintain an -unremitting state of defense. The forests were overrun with formidable -animals, and there was perpetual warfare between neighboring tribes. As -a safeguard against surprise, wherever there were lakes, the houses -were built on piling in the middle of the water. - -“It must have taken a prodigious expenditure of energy for man, as yet -so poorly provided with tools, to build these lake villages, or -lacustrine villages, as they are called. With a stone ax the tree that -was to be felled was laboriously girdled at the base, and then the -application of fire completed the process. Whole days and perhaps the -united efforts of a number of workers were necessary to obtain one -joist such as a wood-cutter would now turn out with a few strokes of -his steel ax. But with their tools of flint, hardly hitting the wood -and falling to pieces with the slightest maladroit blow, it was an -enormous undertaking for them. They were in about the same plight that -our carpenters would be in if the latter were obliged to cut down and -trim an oak with nothing but an old rusty knife. I leave you to -imagine, then, the labor and patience expended in obtaining the -thousands of joists needed in this piling. Apparently each head of a -family furnished one as his share, which gave him the right to erect -his hut on the common building-lot. At a later period, perhaps, in -order to extend the area of the straggling village as the population -increased, the furnishing of a new pile was required of each adult male -inhabitant. It was the extraordinary contribution, the sacred debt, -that he was obliged to pay once in his lifetime. - -“The piles, pointed and hardened in the fire at one end, were dragged -to the edge of the lake, where canoes of plaited wicker towed them to -the chosen spot. There they were stood on end and driven into the soft -mud until the tops were on a level with the water. Finally the spaces -between the multitude of piles were filled with stones. The whole -formed an artificial islet of great solidity, or rather a shoal -submerged and covered with several feet of water. On the tops of the -piles, just above the general level, cross-beams were laid, then boughs -of trees, and on top of these beaten earth. Finally, on this artificial -soil, beneath which circulated the waters of the lake, dwellings were -erected. - -“They were round or oval huts, made of a framework of interlacing -branches and a layer of rich earth. A single opening, very low, through -which one had to crawl, gave access to an interior, not unlike our -baker’s oven. - -“The furnishing corresponded with the rudeness of the dwelling. Big -tun-bellied pots of black clay variegated with grains of white sand -held the provisions, which consisted of aurochs-flesh dried in the sun, -beech-nuts, and hazel-nuts. These pots were rudely made by hand without -any potter’s wheel to give them a regular outline. Thick, misshapen, -unsteady, they had an uneven surface and bore the finger-marks of those -who had molded them. Some attempts at ornamentation appeared on the -best jars, and took the form of a row of imprints made with the end of -the thumb on the still soft clay, or a line of angular marks engraved -with a thorn. The rest of the work was not less simple. To give our -pottery, however slight its value, more consistency and hardness, we -bake it in a very hot oven; we also coat it with a glaze to make it -impermeable. The inhabitants of the lake villages were content to -expose their pieces of wet clay to the rays of the sun until dry, -without baking or glazing. Hence it was a sorry kind of pottery, good -for the keeping of provisions, but incapable of holding water or of -being used over the fire.” - -“How did they manage, then,” asked Jules, “to get hot water and cook -their food?” - -“When one is unprovided with the invaluable saucepan, when one is -without even those homely utensils that we think so little of, despite -the inestimable service they render us, one imitates the Eskimos of -Greenland, who cook their viands in a little skin bag.” - -“But that queer kind of pot would burn on the fire,” asserted Emile. - -“They are very careful not to put it on the fire. Stones are heated -red-hot in the fire, and after they are thus heated they are popped -into the little bag containing water and food to be cooked. After -cooling off they are taken out to be reheated and dropped once more -into the water, which finally boils. The result of such cooking is a -mixture of soot, mud, ashes, and half-raw flesh; but with their hearty -appetites the Eskimos are not over-particular. Besides, if they -entertain a guest of distinction they begin by licking off with the -tongue all the dirt on the pieces destined for him. Whoever should -refuse to accept what was offered him after this extraordinary act of -courtesy in cleaning it, would be regarded as an impolite, ill-bred -person.” - -“Bah! the dirty things!” cried Emile. “I will take good care never to -be one of their guests.” - -“And the tattooed hunters cooked in that way?” Jules inquired. - -“For want of proper utensils they apparently employed similar means. -But let us finish our inspection of the inside of the aquatic hut. - -“The highest point in the roof is pierced for the passage of smoke from -the fireplace situated in the center of the hut, between two stones on -a bed of beaten earth, which prevents the floor, made of branches, from -catching fire. On the walls are hung the hardwood tomahawk, flint -hatchets, bone arrows, and the net of bark thongs, still damp from -fishing in the lake and ornamented on the edges with round pierced -stones. On the branching antlers of a stag the clothes are hung, -consisting of leopards’ and wolves’ skins with the hair on. In the most -sheltered corner rush mats and furs carpet the floor for the night’s -rest. Finally, in front of the door the little wicker boat bobs up and -down. Into this boat its owners can step right from their threshold. - -“The straggling village, in fact, instead of being built on a -continuous artificial soil, is cut up into numerous passages of open -water; the village streets are canals. To pass from one quarter to -another, or merely to visit one’s neighbor, one must go by water. So -all day long there is a continual coming and going of boats from one -group of huts to another. There is no less movement between the village -and the shores of the lake, whither the men go a-hunting and whence -they return with their boats laden with venison, when the aurochs or -elk has succumbed to the combined exertions of men and dogs. - -“Thus, in prehistoric times, were settlements established on the -various lakes of France, and, still more, of Switzerland—lakes large -enough to hold these villages by the hundred. To-day the fisherman -whose line ripples their limpid waters sees in the blue depths, amid a -great mass of stones, the tops of piles carbonized by the centuries, -and large, bulging pieces of earthenware, which he breaks with his oar -without suspecting their venerable origin. That is what is left us of -the ancient lake villages.” - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XIX - -THE JACKAL - - -“What you have just told us, Uncle Paul,” Jules remarked, “is not -unlike what navigators tell us of the life of savages.” - -“Nevertheless,” rejoined his uncle, “it is our own history, my friend; -it is really a chapter of French history.” - -“I never read anything like it in my history-book.” - -“Your schoolbooks generally begin with the Frankish chief, Pharamond, -at an epoch when civilization had already made considerable progress, -and when agriculture and grazing had been known for a long time. My -story goes back to a much earlier period, one almost lost in the -darkness of the past, and shows us man in his painful beginnings, -unskilled and almost wholly dependent on hunting for his food and -clothing. - -“In that state of extreme destitution in which the day’s supply of food -depended, above all, on fleetness of foot and quickness of scent, the -dog was the most precious of acquisitions. With its aid, first the game -fell more abundantly under the stone hatchet and flint-head arrow; then -came the possibility of the herd, which, furnishing a reserve of food, -freed man from the alternation of famine and abundance, and gave him -leisure to devise means for the improvement of his condition. Then the -ox was tamed, the horse mastered, the sheep domesticated, and finally -came agriculture, preëminent source of our well-being. That is how the -tattooed hunters of our country lost the barbarism of their habits and -advanced from one stage of progress to another, until they became the -cultivated race from which we are descended. First in Asia, then -throughout all Europe, a similar development took place: everywhere the -dog was the first and most valuable of man’s conquests, and everywhere -the dog has represented the first element of progress. Without the dog, -no such thing as human society, says an old book of the East, whence -this most serviceable animal came. And the old book is a thousand times -right, for without the dog the chase in old times would have been too -little productive to satisfy the devouring hunger of a very thinly -scattered population; without the dog, no herds or flocks, no assured -food, and consequently no leisure, for the inexorable necessity of -providing food would have occupied the whole time. Without leisure, no -attempt at culture, no observations leading to the birth of science, no -reflections bearing fruit in manufactures and commerce. The primitive -mode of life was a hand-to-mouth existence, with a slice of broiled -urus or elk to stay the cravings of hunger. A surfeit one day was -followed by fasting the next; it all depended on the chances of the -hunt. Hatchets continued to be fashioned out of stone, the tattooing of -the body in blue went on, and at the entrance to the hut the enemy’s -head was still nailed as a horrible trophy of war.” - -“I see,” said Louis, “how immensely useful the dog has been and still -is to us; so I should like to know at what time and by whom this -valuable animal was trained for our service.” - -“No one could give a satisfactory answer to that question. The taming -of the dog goes back to the earliest times and all remembrance of it is -lost. There is the same deep obscurity as to its origin and the wild -species from which it is descended. Nowhere has the dog been seen by -travelers in its primitive state, in a state of complete independence. -If some dogs are found leading a wild life, they are runaways; that is -to say, dogs that have fled from domestic life to live as they please -in desert regions. Such are those that burrow and hunt for themselves -in the vast plains of South America. They are certainly descended from -domestic dogs carried thither by Europeans; for at the time of its -discovery, nearly four centuries ago, the New World had no dogs. All -that can be affirmed is that the dog came to us from Asia already -trained for man’s use. Apparently Asia made a gift to Europe of the -oldest known domestic animals, such as the ox, the ass, and the hen. - -“On account of the almost infinite variety in respect to its coat, its -shape, and its size, it is suspected that the dog is not derived from a -single source but comes from various species that have been improved by -man and profoundly modified in their characteristics by cross-breeding. -Among these wild species to which is given the honor of being regarded -as ancestors of the domestic dog, I will mention the jackal, which -abounds in Africa as well as Asia. - -“The jackal looks a little like the wolf, but is smaller and is -harmless to man. Its coat is red, varied with white under the stomach -and black on the back. It has a pointed muzzle and erect ears. Its -timidity causes it to feed on the remnants left over by animals bolder -and stronger than itself. When the gorged lion abandons its -half-devoured prey, the jackals, crouching in the neighborhood and -waiting until his lordship has finished, hasten up in companies to the -disdained carcass and clean it to the bone. For the same reason the -jackal frequents in troops the outskirts of villages and encampments in -the hope of finding garbage and carrion. In the daytime it stays -quietly in its den among the rocks, but at nightfall it issues forth in -quest of food with a sort of sharp howling that continues all night. -There is nothing so disagreeable as the nocturnal concert of a band of -jackals prowling around dwellings. One of them begins with a cry -something like argee in a very piercing and prolonged tone. Scarcely -has it finished when a second takes up the refrain and improves upon -it; then a third and a fourth, until the whole band has joined in, -producing a veritable charivari composed of a mixed chorus of -discordant howls. After this musical feat, solos are in order again, -interspersed with choral productions; and so it goes on until daybreak. -Such is the infernal music that awaits the sleeper every night.” - -“Oh, what disagreeable neighbors!” exclaimed Jules. “If the dog had -kept any of those detestable habits it would be a very troublesome -animal, useful though it is.” - -“The dog shows not seldom, it must be admitted, a mania for making the -night hideous; but it cannot be reproached with anything comparable to -the jackal’s concert. The dog has two cries, without counting those -that are secondary. One of the two is natural, the howl; the other -artificial, the bark. Is it necessary to point out to you the -difference between the two?” - -“I know what you mean, Uncle,” Jules was quick to reply. “The dog howls -when it gives a long, wild cry, so mournful and terrifying in the -night; it barks when it gives those short, jerky yelps. It howls from -fright, sadness, ennui; it barks with joy and pleasure.” - -“Yes, that is it. I told you, then, that howling is the dog’s natural -voice. In it can be found, but with a very different action of the -throat and a less sharp tone, something of the jackal’s cry. As for the -bark, it is an artificial utterance; that is to say, it has been -acquired. Dogs that have gone back to the wild state, as for example -those of South America, can no longer bark. Deserters from -civilization, they have lost the language and are reduced to their -primitive howling, which they share with the jackal and the wolf.” - -“And how does a dog learn to bark when it is with us?” - -“It learns by hearing its fellows, the other dogs, bark. If it were -brought up far from its own kind, it would never know how to bark, any -more than we could speak our language if we had never heard it spoken. -Well, the jackal also can acquire the habit of barking by education. -Placed in company with the dog, which by its example initiates it into -a new language, it barks at first badly, then a little better, then -well, and in a short time the scholar almost equals the master. - -“The primitive species, if it really is the jackal, must have, as you -see, undergone profound changes affecting even its most inveterate -habits, to become the domestic dog. It must have lost its habit of -nocturnal prowling, forgotten its predilection for concerts of -ear-piercing cries, learned to bark, and, what is far more difficult, -exchanged its timidity for boldness. Another improvement was -indispensable. The jackal gives forth from all over its body a strong -fishy smell. To become the companion of man and to live in his home, -the animal had to be rid of this infection. That is what the progress -of time has done almost completely: to-day the dog has scarcely any -odor except when warm from rapid hunting; but it is likely, in view of -its presumed origin, that in the beginning the dog was not precisely a -bouquet of roses beside its master. Doubtless it was denied access to -the hut, which it would have infected with its odor, and was relegated -to a distant spot outside in the open air. - -“Those are not all the jackal’s defects. It is true the animal is -easily tamed, but without acquiring the docility and attachment of the -dog. When pressed by hunger, it is gentle and caressing toward the -master who gives it something to eat; when satiated, it shows its teeth -and tries to bite if any one reaches out to take hold of it. Children, -whom dogs so love to play with, do not gain its confidence any more -than grown people. Whoever should try to pull its tail in play would -certainly get bitten.” - -“Our Medor has a much better disposition,” said Emile; “the more pranks -I play with him, the better he likes it. I’d a good deal rather play -with him than with a stinking jackal.” - -“Medor owes his excellent qualities, particularly his honest, dogged -patience, to the extraordinary pains taken during long centuries to -improve his breed; but certainly the primitive dog must have been a -pretty rough playmate for little boys. He did not allow any one to pull -his mustache, did not give the paw, did not play dead with four legs in -the air, did not wait for the command to jump and snap the crust of -bread placed on the tip of his nose. The jackal, docile only when -hungry, shows you what could be expected from Medor’s surly ancestors.” - -“Then even with much care the tame jackal never acquires the dog’s -gentleness?” queried Louis. - -“Never. Some, more tractable than others, grow a little more gentle, -but without ever becoming entirely submissive. They always retain -something of their primitive wildness and cannot be left wholly free -without committing misdeeds or even running away from home.” - -“If thorough taming is impossible, I don’t see how the dog can come -from the jackal.” - -“Complete domestication does not take place so quickly as you think, my -dear friend. A long succession of individuals is necessary, -transmitting from one to another the desired aptitudes, and increasing -them by turning to account such gain as may be noted in the best -examples of each new generation. Let us assume that in ancient times -man had taken into his keeping the half-tamed jackal, such as we could -to-day possess ourselves of. However surly it may remain, the animal -will be better after several years’ education than it was at the -beginning. With continued care the good qualities acquired, though -weak, will, as we say of the snowball, increase by rolling. In fact it -is a rule, as well with beasts as with us, that the son inherits the -father’s qualities, good or bad. Thus the jackal’s little ones, brought -up with man, will from their birth be half-tamed, as were their -parents. As character is far from being the same in a whole family, -some will be wilder, others more submissive. The first are rejected, -the second kept, as soon as it is possible to recognize this diversity -of disposition. Here, then, the sons, with continued training, become -superior to the fathers. The same care, the same selection, in the -third generation, will insure increased progress in the grandchildren. -The acquired improvement will be transmitted by inheritance to the -great-grandchildren, these will still further add to it, and it will be -inherited by their descendants, or, if not by all, at least by some. -These latter will be raised in preference to the others. However slight -the progress from one generation to the next, it will continually be -added to by the intervention of man who always selects for breeding -purposes the most promising offspring, until, little by little, in -course of time the beast that was intractable in the beginning at last -becomes docile. - -“This onward march, which is kept up by accumulating in the animal, -through inheritance, the qualities desired, by always picking out the -individual possessing these qualities in the highest degree, is called -selection, meaning choice or sorting. The method of selection, which -to-day still renders the greatest service to the perfecting of species, -has doubtless played an important part in the domestication of the dog; -but that alone is not what has made the dog such as we now have him. -The astonishing variety of dogs can only be explained by the multiplex -origin of the animal and the crossing of the various breeds. I have -just told you of one species, the common jackal, which is suspected to -be one of the dog’s ancestors. To finish what I have to say on this -exceedingly obscure question, I will add a few words concerning a -second species. - -“There is found in the mountains of Abyssinia a jackal with very -slender body, an arched abdomen, long and narrow head, long, -upward-curling tail—in short, a veritable greyhound in every respect -except that it has erect instead of drooping ears. Everything induces -belief that this jackal is the progenitor of our greyhound. - -“I will end with this conclusion of one of our most learned masters on -the origin of domestic animals: ‘Existing in great numbers in Asia, -where, history tells us, the dog was first domesticated, jackals -commonly live within reach of human habitations, to which they -sometimes make their way of their own accord. They are eminently -sociable, are easily tamed, and become attached to their masters. They -associate freely with the dog. Finally, and this trait dispels my last -lingering doubt as to their kinship, they resemble in the highest -degree, both in shape and in color, and even in voice where they have -learned to bark, the least modified of the canine species. In several -countries the resemblance between jackals and dogs is so striking that -it has led all travelers who have had an opportunity to compare these -animals on the spot to the same conclusion: the jackal and the dog -represent respectively the parent stock and the scion, and are to be -found reunited again in various parts of Asia and Africa.’” - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XX - -THE CHIEF BREEDS OF DOGS - - -“Let us not dwell further on the dog’s origin—a very obscure question, -concerning which all that one can say is nothing but supposition, -although more or less plausible. Let us turn to the study of the animal -as found in a state of domestication. - -“It would be hard to discover two dogs exactly alike. Were they of the -same breed, the same shape and size, they would differ in coat, at -least in some details. Three colors, red, white, and black, belong to -the dog’s coat; sometimes one alone for the whole body, sometimes all -mixed, sometimes the three distributed in spots or in great splashes. -If the coloring is varied, the spots are hardly ever arranged in order, -but scattered by chance. There is want of symmetry in their -distribution; or, in other words, on the two halves of the body, the -right and left, the spots do not correspond. You might say the same of -most domestic animals: you would nearly always note differences between -two oxen, two horses, two goats, two cats; and would find that in the -same animal both sides of the body are not exactly alike in the -arrangement of the colors. - -“It is just the reverse with wild animals: there is close resemblance -between individuals of the same species, and symmetry of coloring on -the two halves of the body. As one is, so are all, with very slight -exceptions; as is the right side, so is the left. Whoever has seen one -wolf has seen all wolves; whoever has seen from one side an animal with -variegated coat has seen both sides. One of the most constant effects, -therefore, of domestication is the replacing of this primitive -regularity in color by irregularity, this similarity in individuals by -dissimilarity. - -“The dog’s coat goes contrary to every rule except in one most curious -respect: if the animal is spotted with white, one of these white spots -is always on the end of the tail. Examine a black dog, for example: if -you see so much as one white speck on it, no matter where, on the -flank, or on the shoulder, you will be sure to see one where I told -you. Look at the end of the tail and you will find at least a touch of -white there.” - -“So it is enough to see some white on any part of a dog to be sure that -it will have some also on the tip of its tail?” This from Jules. - -“Certainly,” replied his uncle, “unless, of course, the animal has had -its tail cut, in which case I will not answer for it.” - -“That is plain enough: with the tip of the tail missing the white touch -is missing too.” - -“I will add that if the dog has only one white spot, that spot will -always be on the tip of the tail.” - -“That singularity must have a reason?” queried Louis. - -“Doubtless it has a reason, for nothing is left to chance in this -world, not even the tuft of hair at the tip of an animal’s tail. I will -tell you, then, that the various wild species akin to the dog, jackals -in particular, have, most of them, a white spot on the tip of the tail. -It is a sort of family trait which the dog, their ally, perhaps their -descendant, is sure to imitate every time it admits any white into its -coat. Strange development! If the dog comes, as is supposed, from the -jackal, it has lost its primitive savagery, its bad odor, its nocturnal -cries, and has faithfully retained from its ancestry only the plume at -the end of its tail. I will not undertake to explain why, in a -fundamental change of habits, one insignificant detail, a mere nothing, -shows greater tenacity and remains. - -“To the differences in color are added differences in the quantity and -quality of the hair. Most dogs have short, smooth hair; some have fine, -curly hair, and look as if clothed in wool. Such is the barbet, also -called sheep-dog, because its fur reminds one of the curly fleece of a -sheep. Others, like the spaniel, have long and wavy hair, especially on -the ears and tail. Finally, there are some wretched, unsightly dogs -with the body entirely naked. One would think that some skin disease -had bereft them of their last hair. They are called Turkish dogs. - -“The size is not less variable. The Newfoundland dog is a majestic -animal, as large as a calf; and then you will see a curly lap-dog, good -for sleeping on drawing-room cushions, so tiny a creature that it could -go into its master’s pocket. Between these two extremes there are all -degrees. - -“If we enter on the details of shape, what diversity, again, do we -find! Here the ear is small and stands up in a point; there it is large -and covers the whole of the temple, and hangs down low enough to dip -into the porringer out of which the animal eats. One, active in the -chase, carries its slender body on long legs; another, apt at -insinuating itself into the fox’s narrow hole or the rabbit’s burrow, -trots on stubby members and almost touches the ground with its stomach. -In this one the muzzle is gracefully tapered, made for caresses; in -that, it is shortened into a brutal snout, adapted to warfare. Then -there are some whose knotty and twisted legs seem crippled from birth; -and there are others whose nose, black as coal, has the two nostrils -separated by a deep trench.” - -“Those dogs look as if they had a double nose,” Louis remarked. “They -are said to have a keener scent than the others.” - -“I don’t know how far the split nose may indicate keenness of scent. -Let us go on and take a rapid glance at the principal breeds of dogs. - -“Let us first mention the mastiff, vigilant guardian of the farm-house -and courageous protector of the flock. It is a robust, bold animal, -tolerably large, with short hair on the back, longer under the belly -and on the tail. It has a long head, flat forehead, ears erect at the -base and drooping at the tip, strong legs, and vigorous jaws. White, -black, gray, brown are the colors of its coat. The mastiff has rustic -manners, scent far from keen, intelligence little developed. It is -found fault with for not being very docile and not lavishing its -caresses. Is the charge well founded? When one leads a rude life in -mountain pastures, often at close quarters with wolves, can one possess -the pretty, endearing ways of the dog reared in idleness? Is not a -severe manner the necessary condition of the grave duties to be -performed? The mastiff has the qualities of its lot in life, and it has -them to such a degree that it is not always of the same opinion as its -master, knowing better than he what must be done to protect the flock. -Let a wolf appear, and without considering whether it is the stronger -or weaker, the brave dog will throw itself on the beast and seize it by -the nape of the neck, even at the risk of perishing in the battle. The -mastiff does not weigh the danger; it leaps to the call of duty—a noble -quality, and one that has given rise to the likening of an energetic -and resolute person to a good mastiff.” - -“This wolf-strangler,” said Emile, “has my highest esteem, although he -is not clever at offering the paw and playing dead.” - -“You will have no less esteem for the shepherd dog. It is of medium -size, generally black, with long hair all over the body except on the -muzzle. It has short, erect ears, tail horizontal or drooping. You know -with what a swagger most dogs carry their tail over their back, curved -like a trumpet. With them that is a sign of high satisfaction. If they -are anxious, fear some misadventure, they lower it and carry it between -their legs. The shepherd dog disdains this manner of erecting and -curving the tail; he carries his modestly on a line with the body and -keeps it more or less inclined according to the ideas with which he is -preoccupied. That is the behavior of those wild animals most akin to -the dog, such as the wolf and nearly all kinds of jackal: none of them -curves the tail like a plume, but all carry it drooping. How does it -happen that the smallest pug twists its tail into a corkscrew and bears -it aloft with a pride bordering on insolence, while the shepherd dog -holds his in the humble position adopted by the jackal and the wolf? -This too, apparently, is a survival of old customs. Less changed in -primitive characteristics than other species, the shepherd dog has -retained from its wild ancestors the drooping carriage of the tail and -the erect bearing of the ears. - -“The mastiff is the protector of the flock, the shepherd dog its -conductor. The former is endowed with brute strength, vigorous body, -and powerful jaws, but is not distinguished for intellectual gifts. -Notice in passing, my friends, that strength of body and strength of -mind seldom go together. A herculean athlete, exhibiting his talents in -public on fairday, will break a stone with his fist, lift an anvil and -hold it out at arm’s length, but would be incapable of putting two -ideas together in his small brain. It is about the same with the -mastiff: he boldly chases the wolves, but has none of the qualities of -mind necessary for guiding the flock. - -“This delicate function, calling for a high degree of intelligence, -falls to the shepherd dog. While the master rests in the shade or -amuses himself playing on his box-tree flute, the dog, posted on a -neighboring rise, keeps the flock under his eye and watches that none -wander beyond the limits of the pasture. He knows that on this side -grows a field of clover where browsing is expressly forbidden. If some -sheep goes near, he runs up and with harmless snappings turns the -animal back to the allotted place. He knows that the rural guard would -prosecute with all the rigors of the law if the flock should stray to -the other side, newly planted with young oats. They must not attempt -it; if they do, he comes threatening and insists upon a hasty retreat. -Are the scattered sheep to be gathered together? On a sign from his -master he is off. He makes the circuit of the flock, barking here, -worrying there, and drives before him, from the circumference to the -center, the straying throng, which in a few moments becomes a compact -group. His mission ended, he returns to the shepherd for fresh orders—a -word, a gesture, a simple look. - -“I should like above all things to have you see him on duty when the -flock is on the road, going to market or changing pastures. He walks -behind, absorbed in his grave duties. Dogs from the neighboring farms -come to meet him, and they pay him the polite attentions customary at -the meeting of comrades. ‘Go away,’ he seems to say to them; ‘you see -that I have no time to exchange civilities with you.’ And without -glancing at them he continues his watchful following of the flock. It -is wise of him, for already some sheep have stopped to crop the grass -at the side of the road. To make them rejoin the flock takes but a -minute. At this spot the hedge is open, and through the gap a part of -the flock reaches a field of green wheat. To follow these undisciplined -ones by the same breach would betray a lack of skill; the sheep, driven -from behind, would only stray still farther into the forbidden field. -But the wily keeper will not commit this fault; he makes a rapid -detour, jumps over the hedge as best he can, and presents himself -suddenly in front of the flock, which hastily retreats by the way it -came, not without leaving some tufts of wool on the bushes. - -“Now the flock meets another. A mixing up, a confusion of mine and -thine, must be prevented. The dog thoroughly understands the gravity of -the situation. Along the flanks of the two bleating flocks he maneuvers -busily, running from one end to the other, back and forth, to check at -the outset any attempt at desertion from one to the other flock.” - -“Then,” said Emile, “he knows his sheep, every single one of them, to -be able thus to distinguish which belong to him and which do not.” - -“One would almost say so, such discernment does he show. - -“Scarcely is this difficulty overcome when another presents itself. -Here, right and left, the road has no fences; access to the fields is -free on both sides. The temptation to the flock is great, for here and -there most inviting greensward appears. The dog redoubles its activity. -Let us go to the left. Well and good; everything is in proper train. -Now to the right. Ha, you down there! Will you please go on without -stopping to crop the young grass? That is well. Now to the rear. What -is that loiterer doing there? Back to the flock, quick, dawdler! -Perhaps something new has happened on the left; let us go and see. And -without a moment’s relaxation the indefatigable dog goes first to one -side, then to the other, then to the rear of the flock to hurry up the -laggards and keep the intractable ones in the right path. If some, more -headstrong, turn a deaf ear to his advice and scatter, he is after them -in a moment, bringing them back by buffeting their shins with his -muzzle.” - -“And by giving them a taste of his teeth too?” asked Jules. - -“No, my friend; a well-trained shepherd dog does not use his teeth, -which would wound the animal; a threat must suffice to bring his sheep -to order. To teach him this moderation, it is necessary to take him -quite young and exercise a great deal of perseverance, with caresses, -dainties, and, if need be, punishment; above all, he must be brought up -in the company of a comrade already very expert in the business, since -example is the best of teachers. The first time he is sent after the -sheep he is closely watched, and if he shows a disposition to bite he -is severely corrected. The best shepherd dogs come to us from Brie, a -part of old Champagne. From this country is taken the name generally -used for the guardian of the flock. Other dogs are called Medor, -Sultan, Azor; he is called Labrie.” - -“I understand,” Emile nodded. “Labrie; that is to say, the dog of la -Brie.” - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXI - -THE CHIEF BREEDS OF DOGS (Continued) - - -“Let us continue our survey of the principal canine breeds. In size and -strength the Dane approaches the mastiff, but is easily distinguished -from it by its coat, which is generally white, with numerous round -black spots. It is a magnificent dog, not very common, the guardian of -fine houses, the friend of horses, and especially fond of running and -barking before its master’s carriage.” - -“Is that all it knows how to do?” Emile inquired. - -“Pretty nearly.” - -“Then I’d rather have Labrie.” - -“I too. With its modest appearance and ill-kempt coat the shepherd dog -has an intelligence and usefulness incomparably superior to the Dane’s, -lordly creature though the latter is with its royally bespangled coat -like that of the tiger and panther. Never judge either people or dogs -by their appearance. - -“The harrier is endowed with a more tapering head, a longer muzzle, -than any other breed. Its ears are half-drooping and point backward, -its chest narrow, abdomen arched as if emaciated, legs long and -slender, tail also long and slender, and its entire form distinguished -by the same slenderness. It is the fleetest of all dogs. It routs out -the hare in hunting; hence its name.” - -“Hare and harrier are indeed rather similar in spelling,” observed -Jules. - -“Its color, less mixed than in the other breeds, is generally uniform, -sometimes tawny, sometimes black, sometimes gray or even white. Some -harriers have short hair, others long; in fact, there are some that are -quite hairless like the Turkish dog. This dog is not very intelligent -and shows no peculiar attachment to its master, but will fawn upon -anybody. Its scent is imperfect, though its eyesight is excellent, and -that is what guides it in the chase, while other dogs are guided by the -scent. - -“The spaniel owes the name it bears to its Spanish origin. This -beautiful dog is characterized by its slender, moderately long head; by -its long, wavy hair, which is particularly abundant on the ears, which -are drooping and silky, and on the tail, which forms a tuft or plume. -No dog has a more amiable and gentle aspect. Intelligence and -attachment to its master can be read in its eyes. Of all dogs it is the -one your Uncle Paul would choose by preference as a friend. To this -worth in respect to moral qualities add this other virtue, that the -spaniel is an expert hunter. In this breed are found dogs with the -split or double nose; but this peculiarity does not seem to add to -their keenness of scent. - -“The barbet, otherwise water spaniel or sheep dog, is another of your -Uncle Paul’s favorites on account of its exceptional intelligence, its -gentle disposition, and its unequaled faithfulness. Who among you does -not know the barbet with its big round head, full of good will, its -large drooping ears, short legs, squat body, long, fine and curly hair, -almost like wool, which has given it the name of sheep dog? When -half-shorn, as it is in the summer, it is still more comely. The hind -quarters are naked and show the rosy skin; the fore part of the body is -covered with a thick mane as white as cotton wool. A coquettish tuft -finishes off the tail, elegant ruffles adorn the legs, the muzzle bears -a mustache and small beard, which latter perhaps accounts for its name -of barbet. - -“Sheep—let us call it thus, as it is generally called—Sheep is a past -master in accomplishments. He plays dead, offers the paw, jumps over an -extended cane, stands up with a piece of sugar on his nose, and goes -through his drill with a gun and with a paper cap set swaggeringly over -one ear. But those are the least of his talents. Sheep is the clever -one of the family. With careful education it is possible to cram this -dog’s excellent noddle with the most astonishing things. I have known -some, my children, that could tell the time by their master’s watch -without a mistake.” - -“They could tell the time!” cried Jules incredulously. “You are -jesting, Uncle.” - -“No, my friend, I am not jesting. The watch was shown to the dog, who -looked at it attentively, seemed to make a calculation in his mind, -then barked just as many times as the hand marked hours.” - -“That is capital, I declare!” - -“But there is still better coming. I know of a barbet that plays -dominos with its master, and the master does not always win, either. As -such talents are exercised by bread-winning barbets for those who show -them off, I am inclined to believe that the dog’s intelligence is aided -in the game by some signs from the master that pass unperceived by the -spectators. No matter: there is enough to confound our poor reasoning -powers in the calculating faculty of the animal as it counts its -points, makes out those of its adversary, and as a result pushes the -proper domino with the end of its nose. - -“To his intellectual faculties Sheep adds, in a high degree, the -faculties of the heart, which are still more to be desired. Sheep is -the blind man’s dog and guides him patiently, avoiding every obstacle, -through the crowd by means of a string attached to the animal’s collar. -When the master stands on the street-corner, begging pity with his -shrill clarinet, Sheep, seated in a suppliant posture, holds the wooden -bowl in his teeth and offers it to the passers-by. If the master dies, -the dear master who shared the crust of bread with him like a brother, -Sheep follows the coffin, lonely, sad, pitiful to see. He crouches on -the mound that covers his master, pines there for a few days, and -finally falls asleep there in the sleep of death. By what name should -such a devoted creature be called? The blind call him Fido (the -faithful one), and this name is in itself the finest of elegies.” - -“The barbet is a noble dog,” declared Jules. - -“In addition to all this it is a good hunting dog. As it willingly -jumps into the water, is a skilful swimmer, and retrieves with -indomitable zeal, it is much in demand for hunting water-fowl. When the -master’s shot has brought down a wild duck, Sheep goes and fetches it -from the middle of the pond. Sometimes a bitter wind is blowing and the -water is frozen. Sheep does not care for that: he swims bravely through -the broken ice, brings back the game, shakes his wet coat, and waits, -shivering with cold, for the report of another shot before starting off -again.” - -“He will certainly have earned the duck’s bones when the game comes on -to the table,” said Emile. “To jump into the icy water like that! Poor -fellow! Brrr! it makes the shivers run down one’s back only to think of -it.” - -“Because of his exploits in duck-hunting this dog is known also as the -water spaniel. But now let us pass on to another breed. - -“The hound is preëminently the dog of the chase. It has an extremely -keen scent, which enables it to trace the route followed by the game -simply from the odor of the emanations left by the passage of the -animal. Guided by a faint odor that would be imperceptible to any other -nose, it goes as straight to the hare as if it had had it constantly in -sight. There is a wonderful sensitiveness in its nostrils which our -sense of smell only distantly approaches. It is a sense superior in -delicacy to sight, which distance and want of light place at a -disadvantage, whereas distance and obscurity do not in the least impair -the infallibility of the dog’s nose. Let the hare, warmed by the chase, -merely graze with its back a tuft of bushes; that is enough and more -than enough to put the hound on the track. To witness the unerring -assurance of the pursuit, one might imagine that the hunted animal had -traced in the air a trail visible to the dog.” - -“That sort of thing,” Emile interrupted, “may be seen any day without -going into the woods with the hunter. The master, unknown to the dog, -hides his handkerchief in a place hard to find; then he says to the -animal, ‘Seek!’ The dog sniffs the air a moment to get a clue, and then -runs to the handkerchief and brings it back in high glee. If I had such -a nose nobody would play hide-and-seek with me: I should find my -playmates too easily.” - -“Most dogs, some more, some less, have an astonishingly keen scent; but -the hound is the best endowed in this respect, especially in all that -concerns the chase, and so it is the hunter’s favorite. It has rather a -large muzzle, strong head, vigorous and long body, tail uplifted, very -short hair, generally white varied with large black or brown spots, and -ears drooping and remarkably large.” - -“One could use them like a handkerchief to wipe the animal’s nose and -eyes,” Emile interposed. - -“The beagle stands very low on its legs. Moreover, its legs, especially -the fore legs, are contorted, crippled in appearance. One would say -that the dog had undergone some violent strain from which it had not -entirely recovered. Its head, its large and drooping ears, its short -hair, are almost the same as the hound’s. The beagle is also an ardent -hunter, the willing companion of him who, gun on shoulder, tramps over -the rocky hills beloved by rabbits. With its short and twisted legs it -trots rather than runs; but its slowness is more deadly to its victim -than speed, for it allows the game to play and loiter in seeming -security before it. Without suspecting the approach of the insidious -enemy Jack Rabbit gambols and curls his mustache, and already the -beagle is face to face with him, transfixing him with sudden terror. -The shot is fired: all is over with Jack, who leaps into the air and -falls back inert on the wild thyme.” - -“Poor Jack, so treacherously surprised! Now the hound does at least -announce itself and let the rabbit scamper away as quick as it can. It -is a contest of speed between the two. But the dumpy beagle creeps -through the bushes and pops out all of a sudden.” - -“The beagle has not its equal for routing out the fox from its hole. -Its gait, which is almost a crawl, enables it to penetrate the farthest -corners of the fox’s abode. If it finds the malodorous animal there, it -gives voice and holds the place with tooth and nail while allowing the -hunters time to break into the fox-hole and capture the -chicken-stealer. - -“The wolf-dog is the teamster’s favorite. A thousand times you have -seen it, petulant and wrathful, running back and forth on the top of a -loaded wagon and barking from the top of this fortress at the children -teasing it below. It is superb in its anger, with its little leonine -mane, its plumy tail tightly rolled in a corkscrew, and its pretty red -collar with bells and fox-hair fringe. It has erect, pointed ears like -the shepherd dog’s, slender muzzle, hair short on the head and paws, -long and silky on the rest of the body. No dog knows better how to curl -its tail and hold it proudly.” - -“Is that all it knows how to do?” asked Louis. - -“The wolf-dog is too intelligent not to have other merit than its -pretty ways. Loubet (that is commonly its name) knows, if need be, how -to turn the spit by means of a revolving drum in which it jumps -continually, as does the squirrel in its rotary cage. If it has the -companionship of a good shepherd dog, it easily learns the latter’s -calling and becomes a pretty good flock-tender.” - -“That is better than raging on the top of a wagon and barking at the -passers-by,” was Louis’s comment. - -“I do not know,” resumed Uncle Paul, “a more repulsive, brutal -physiognomy than that of the bulldog. Look at its head, massive and -short, with thick muzzle and flat nose, sometimes split; its heavy -upper lip hanging down on each side and dripping with saliva, while the -front teeth are exposed to view; its small eyes, with their hard -expression; its ears torn by bites or made uglier by cropping;—think of -all these marks of a brutal nature and tell me for what sort of -occupation the bulldog is properly fitted.” - -“Its occupation,” answered Jules, “is read in its gross physiognomy: -the bulldog is made for fighting.” - -“Yes, my friend; for fighting and nothing else. Let no one ask it to -watch over a flock, accompany the hunter, retrieve the fallen game, or -even turn the spit; its dull intelligence does not go so far as that. -Its one gift is the gift of the jaw that snaps and does not let go; its -one passion, the frenzy of combat. When its teeth have once fastened -themselves in an adversary’s flesh, do not expect them to loosen their -hold: a vice is not more tenacious in its grip. Calls, threats, blows, -nothing avails to separate two bulldogs fighting each other; it is -necessary to seize them and bite them hard on the end of the tail. The -sharp pain of the bite can alone recall them from the fury of combat.” - -“I wouldn’t undertake the operation; the animal might turn against the -one trying to make it let go.” - -“For the master there is no danger, as the bulldog is strongly attached -to him. Boldness, strength, and indomitable tenacity in battle make -this dog an efficient protector such as it is well to have at one’s -side in a rough encounter. To leave the enemy as little hold as -possible, it is the custom to crop the dog’s tail and ears; -furthermore, the neck is protected with a collar studded with iron -points. - -“This pugnacious breed is especially in favor in England, and it is -from the English word dog that we French take our word dogue, in the -sense of bulldog.” - -“Then dogue means dog?” asked Emile. - -“Nothing else. From the same word comes the diminutive doguin -(pug-dog), by which we designate that little growling, scatter-brained -poltroon, glutton and good-for-nothing, better known to you under the -name of carlin (pug). Like the bulldog, it has a round head, short and -flat-nosed muzzle, and hanging lip; and up to a certain point it has -also the bulldog character, which it shows by a noisy rage, not having -the size or strength necessary for anything further.” - -“That’s the funny little dog that barks at me in the doorway and -immediately runs in if I pretend to go after it.” - -“The Turkish dog is another useless animal. Its size is that of the -pug. It is remarkable for its almost naked skin, oily-looking, black, -or dark flesh-color, and spotted with brown in large splashes. It has -little intelligence and no attachment to its master. Its singular -nakedness, which in our climate makes it shiver with cold a good part -of the year, is its only merit, if it be a merit. I should rather call -it a very disagreeable infirmity. Those who take pleasure in raising -these poor animals clothe them in winter with a cloth coat.” - -“A dog that needed a tailor to furnish it with a winter costume would -never do for me,” declared Emile. “I’d much rather have Medor, the -spaniel, and Sheep, the barbet. They don’t shiver when it snows, and -they are good friends, too.” - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXII - -THE VARIOUS USES OF DOGS - - -“To guard the flock, drive away the wolf, discover game—those are the -dog’s great functions; but an intelligent dog can learn to do a -thousand other things. I have just shown you Sheep leading the blind -and Loubet turning the spit. Traits abound in which the most varied -aptitudes are revealed. For example, who has not seen or at least heard -of the errand dog faithfully performing its appointed tasks? It -receives a basket containing a purse and a slip of paper on which are -written the articles desired. It may be it is to fetch tobacco for the -master or get the day’s provisions from the butcher. The order -understood, the animal sets out, basket between its teeth. It reaches -the butcher’s door quickly, scratches for it to be opened, puts down -the basket, takes out the purse, presents it, and waits until served. -Sometimes the return is attended with difficulties. Comrades are met -with; attracted by the smell, they desire to investigate the basket’s -contents. ‘If you would only consent to it,’ they say, ‘what a splendid -opportunity! We would divide together.’ But, without slowing up, the -errand dog raises its lips a little, shows its teeth, and growls: -‘Don’t bother me, you good-for-nothings! You see plainly enough this is -for my master.’ And it gravely continues on its way, fully prepared to -make things lively for the miscreant that should presume to poke its -nose into the basket. Thanks to its haughty bearing, the provisions -reach home without further adventure.” - -“The dog must be very well drilled in its duty,” commented Louis, “not -only to resist temptation like that, but also to refuse to listen to -the evil counsels of its comrades.” - -“And it never occurs to it to stop and have a feast with its friends -when it is carrying a pound of tender cutlets?” queried Jules. - -“Never, for these delicate commissions are confided only to dogs whose -temperance has been proved.” - -“The fable,” Jules remarked, “says somewhere: - - - “Strange thing, indeed: to dogs is temperance taught, - Which man, the teacher, ever fails to learn.” - - -“Ah, yes, my friend; this beautiful virtue of temperance is hard enough -for men to acquire. I know a little boy, now, that was sent one day to -a friend’s house with a basket of figs or pears, and he couldn’t help -tasting the fruit on the way, under the pretense of seeing whether it -was perfectly ripe.” - -Here Emile lowered his head with a confused air and scratched his nose, -apparently recalling some past misdeed of this sort on his part. But -his uncle appeared not to notice him and continued thus: - -“Now let us talk about the truffle-hunting dog. To any of you that may -not know it already, I will first say that the truffle is a sort of -mushroom always growing beneath the soil, more or less deep, never in -the open air. In shape it is quite different from ordinary mushrooms. -It is round and plump, varying in size from that of a walnut to that of -a man’s fist, has a wrinkled surface, and its flesh is black, marbled -with white. The truffle is the best liked of mushrooms, especially on -account of its perfume. - -“To discover it under the ground, sometimes several feet deep, sight is -no guide, for nothing above reveals the presence of the precious -tubercle. Scent alone will do the work. But however pronounced the -aroma of the truffle may be, it is not strong enough for us to perceive -it through a thick layer of earth; we must have recourse to the scent -of an animal much better endowed in this respect than we. The aid -invoked in these circumstances is frequently the pig, itself very fond -of truffles and quick to discover them, guided merely by their odor. At -the beginning of winter, accordingly, the season of this mushroom’s -maturity, the pig is taken into the woods. Attracted by the odor that -exhales from the ground, the animal digs with its snout wherever the -truffles are concealed. But if allowed to finish its work, it would -reach the tubercle, which would immediately disappear in its gluttonous -maw. So the animal is drawn off at the right moment, while as a -recompense and to encourage it in this good work it has a chestnut or -an acorn thrown to it in place of the mushroom, and then the digging is -finished with a small spade. This truffle-hunting requires, as you see, -constant watchfulness, since the pig might, in an unguarded moment, -unearth the truffle and straightway gobble it up. A grunt of -satisfaction might announce the finding of the edible morsel, but it -would be too late: the gluttonous beast would already have devoured the -tidbit. - -“Hence the dog is preferred to the pig, being more active than the -latter, more docile, of keener scent, and seeking the truffles only for -its master, with no selfish motive of its own. It is marvelous to see -it at work. Nose to the earth, the better to catch the faint emanation -from underground, it systematically explores the places that seem to it -the most promising, such as copses of young oaks and thickets of -brushwood. It scents something. Good! It is a truffle. With much -tail-wagging in evidence of its joy the dog burrows a little with its -paw to indicate the place. Man continues the digging with an iron tool. -But the truffle is not always unearthed at the first attempt; the -search involves uncertainties and the following of false leads. ‘Let me -look into this a little closer,’ says the dog to itself. And it pokes -its muzzle into the very bottom of the hole, with sniffings that powder -its nose with earth. ‘It is this way, master, to the left; dig again.’ -The man follows this advice and resumes operations; but no sign of a -truffle. Fresh sniffings at the bottom of the hole. ‘On the honor of a -dog, the truffle is there, and a fine one. This way, master, a little -more to the left.’ At last the truffle is found, one of the largest of -the gathering, and as a reward the dog gets a crust of bread. - -“The pig hunts for truffles with no previous education, since it is its -nature to burrow in the soil for the tubercles and roots on which it -feeds; but the dog has to be taught the business so foreign to its own -habits. The first step is to familiarize it with the savor of the -truffle, which is done by making it eat a truffle omelet.” - -“A truffle omelet!” exclaimed Emile. “That’s a dish much to be -preferred to a bone.” - -“But not in the dog’s opinion,” rejoined his uncle. “Without showing -any enthusiasm for this food that is so new to it, the dog accepts it -at first partly as an act of obedience, then begins to like it, and -finally would ask nothing better than to continue the diet for a long -time. But the course of education in this dainty is of short duration, -ending as soon as the odor to be remembered becomes familiar to the -dog. Then a truffle is hidden in the ground, at first not very deep, -to-morrow a little deeper, and the dog is trained in finding it. A -caress, a piece of bread, are its recompense each time it does well. -Such lessons, appropriately varied and repeated, at last produce the -trained truffle-hunter, and the animal is then taken, from day to day, -into the woods to perfect itself in its calling by actual practice. Of -course this difficult work is the monopoly of dogs having the highest -degree of intelligence, notably the water-spaniel.” - -“That’s the one sure to be called upon wherever unusual ability is -needed,” Jules observed. - -“We have just seen the dog rival the pig, even surpass it, in the art -of unearthing the truffle. Now I will show him to you taking the -donkey’s place as a draft animal. An enormous dog harnessed to a light -cart is not a rare sight in towns, where butchers especially make use -of this singular equipage for the transport of their meat. But as I -have something much more interesting to tell you I will not linger over -this example. There is a country where the dog is the only draft -animal, a country where it takes the horse’s place for carrying the -master on long journeys. That country is Greenland.” - -“Greenland is where they heat water in a leather bag by throwing in -red-hot stones?” Jules interposed. - -“And where they lick the piece of meat chosen for the distinguished -guest?” added Emile. - -“Yes, Greenland is the country.” - -“It must be a sorry sort of country.” - -“More so than you could imagine. In Greenland, as everywhere else near -the Pole, winter with its snows and ice lasts two thirds of the year, -and the cold is intense. Navigators who have passed the winter in that -bitter climate tell us that wine, beer, and other fermented liquors -turn to solid ice in their casks; that a glass of water thrown into the -air falls in flakes of snow; that the breath from the lungs -crystallizes at the opening of the nostrils into needles of rime; and -that the beard, stuck to the clothing by a coating of ice, cannot be -detached except with scissors. For whole months at a time the sun is -not once seen above the horizon and there is no difference between day -and night; or rather, a permanent night reigns, the same at midday as -at midnight. However, when the weather is clear, the darkness is not -complete: the light of the moon and stars, augmented by the whiteness -of the snow, produces a sort of wan twilight, sufficient for seeing. - -“Squat and under-sized, the inhabitant of these rigorous climes, the -Eskimo, divides his time between hunting and fishing. The first -furnishes him with skins for garments, the second with food. Dried -fish, stored up in a half-rotten condition, and rancid whale-oil, -viands repugnant to us, are the dainties familiar to his famished -stomach. He depends also on his fishing for fuel to feed his lamp, this -fuel being the fat of the seal, and for materials with which to make -his sled, which is fashioned out of large fishbones. Wood, in short, is -unknown there, no tree, however hardy, being able to withstand the -rigors of winter. Willows and birches, dwarfed to the size of mere -shrubs trailing on the ground, alone venture to the northern -extremities of Lapland, where the growing of barley, the hardiest of -cultivated plants, ceases. Nearer the Pole all woody vegetation ceases, -and in summer only a few rare tufts of grass and moss are to be seen -ripening their seeds hastily in the sheltered hollows of rocks. Still -farther north the snow and ice cannot even melt entirely in summer, the -ground is never visible, and no vegetation at all is possible.” - -“And there are people who give the dear name of home to those terrible -countries?” asked Jules. - -“There are people, the Eskimos, who inhabit them the year round, in -winter living in snow-huts, in summer under tents of sealskin.” - -“They build houses of snow!” This from Emile. - -“Not exactly houses like ours, but huts indeed that afford very good -shelter. Regular slabs of snow are cut and piled one on another in a -circular wall capped by a dome of the same material. A very low -entrance, closed with skins, is left facing the south. To get daylight, -they cut a round opening in the top of the dome, and fill it with a -sheet of ice instead of a pane of glass. Finally, inside, all around -the wall, a bench of snow is built, and it is covered with gravel, -heather, and reindeer-skins. This bench is the sleeping-place for the -family, the skins are the mattress, and the snow is the straw. In these -dwellings there is never any fire: wood is wanting and, besides, with -fire the dwelling would melt and come dripping down like rain on the -inmates.” - -“That’s so,” said Emile. “Then where do they make the fire to heat the -stones when they want hot water?” - -“They do this outside, in the open air.” - -“And with what, if there isn’t any wood in the country?” - -“With slices of whale’s fat and fishbones.” - -“They must freeze in those snow huts with no place for lighting a -fire?” - -“No, for a moss wick fed with seal oil burns continually in a little -earthen pot to melt snow and give drinking-water. The small amount of -heat thrown out suffices to maintain an endurable temperature in the -dwelling, thanks to the thickness of the snow walls.” - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII - -THE ESKIMO DOG - - -“What I have just told you will make it plain enough that no domestic -animal dependent on vegetable food can be kept in that country. Where -could one find a supply of forage for the ox, horse, or even donkey, -when the ground is covered with a thick layer of snow the greater part -of the year, and when during the three or four months of summer all the -verdure consists of meager greensward where a sheep would hardly find -enough herbage to browse? Besides, these animals would succumb to the -severity of the winter. There is but one species of this sort that can -live in these desolate regions, and that is the reindeer, which is -about as large as the stag, but more robust and more thick-set. Its -horns, or antlers, are divided each into two branches, the shorter one -pointing forward, the other, the longer, pointing backward, and both -ending in enlargements that spread out somewhat like the palm and -fingers of an open hand.” - -“According to your description,” observed Louis, “the reindeer must be -a superb animal and must need plenty of food. Where does it find -pasturage when everything is covered with snow?” - -“If it needed the forage to which our cattle are accustomed, no doubt -it would starve to death the first winter; but it is content with a -kind of food that none of our animals would touch. It is a lichen, -white in color and divided into a multitude of branches, close together -and presenting the appearance of a little bush a few inches high. It -grows on the ground, which it entirely covers for immense stretches. -During the winter the reindeer scratch the snow with their fore hoofs -and uncover the coarse plant, softened by moisture; and this plant they -browse. Thus it is that interminable fields of snow, the desolate -abodes of famine, supply nevertheless sufficient pasturage for these -animals. This lichen, last vegetable resource of the extreme north, is -called reindeer moss, and is found everywhere, in the most arid lands, -between the poles and the equator. Among the underbrush of our most -barren hills you will find it in abundance, fresh and supple in winter, -dried up and crackling under the feet in summer.” - -“The reindeer ought to live in our country,” Jules remarked, “since -there is lichen for it to feed on.” - -“The climate is much too warm for it. Hardly would it be able to endure -the mildness of our winters; and how about the heat of our summers? It -needs the snows and the harsh climate of the polar regions, away from -which it rapidly dies out. - -“In Lapland the reindeer is a domestic animal. There it fills the place -of our cattle and serves at one and the same time as cow, sheep, and -horse. The Laplander lives on reindeer milk and its products, and on -the animal’s flesh. He clothes himself with its warm fur, and makes a -very soft leather out of its skin. When the ground is covered with -snow, he harnesses the reindeer to his sled and travels as many as -thirty leagues a day, his swift equipage with its broad runners gliding -over the snow and hardly leaving a trace behind. - -“The reindeer is not rare in Greenland, but there it lives in the wild -state, for the Eskimo, much less civilized than the Laplander, has not -yet learned how to win it to his uses and accustom it to domestic life. -It runs at large and merely furnishes the game on which the -Greenlanders count to vary somewhat their diet of fish. For domestic -animals, then, what is there left to the Eskimo, since the only species -able to live in that land of snow huts, the reindeer, is, in that -desolate region, a wild animal approached by the hunter only with ruse -and caution? There remains the dog, the faithful companion which, -thanks to its kind of food, can accompany man everywhere, even on his -most daring expeditions toward one or other of the poles. Where the -reindeer would have to pause, lichen failing or being covered with too -thick a layer of snow, the dog continues to go forward, since for food -it needs only a fishbone, and the neighboring sea furnishes fish in -plenty. The dog is the Eskimo’s all, in the way of domestic animals.” - -“That all is very little,” said Jules. - -“Very little, certainly; but still without the dog the Eskimo could not -live in his gloomy country. With the help of the dog he chases the wild -reindeer, the flesh of which gives him food, and the skin furnishing -for his hut; on the ice he attacks the white bear, whose fur will -become a warm winter cloak; he makes himself master of the seal which -will give him its intestines for ropes and its oily fat for fuel to -feed his ever-burning lamp. In fact, the dog is to him not only a -hunting companion, but also a draft animal able to transport him at a -good rate of speed whithersoever he wishes to go. - -“The Eskimo dog is about the size of our shepherd dog, but more robust -in build. It has upstanding ears, tail coiled in a circle, hair thick -and woolly, as it should be to resist the atrocious cold of the country -it inhabits. No domestic species leads a harder life. At long intervals -a meat-bone or a large fishbone for food, and nothing more; no shelter -except the hole it may dig for itself in the snow; cuffs much oftener -than caresses; after the fatigues of the chase the still more -exhausting labor of drawing the sled—such is its life of hardship. -Harsh treatment and constant hunger are not conducive to gentleness of -disposition. So the Eskimo dogs are quarrelsome among themselves, surly -toward man, always ready to show their teeth, and especially disposed -to attack their victuals with voracity. Nowhere in the world are there -more audacious pillagers: so extreme are the pangs of hunger that no -punishment avails to prevent their snapping up any morsel unguardedly -left within their reach.” - -“Not the most docile sort of companion, I should say,” Jules remarked. - -“The women, who treat them more gently, feed them, and take care of -them when they are little, can easily make them obey. Nearly always, -even when these poor animals suffer most cruelly from hunger, the women -succeed in getting them together to be harnessed to the sled.” - -“I should like, Uncle,” put in Emile, “before hearing the rest, to know -just what an Eskimo sled is. I can’t imagine exactly what it is like.” - -“The sled, as its name indicates, is a kind of light vehicle without -wheels, designed for dragging over the ice or snow where sliding is -easy. The Eskimo sled is rudely built. Imagine two strips of wood -curving upward at each end and placed side by side at a certain -distance from each other. They are the chief pieces, which are to -support all the rest and themselves glide on the snow. Between the two -is constructed a framework of light transverse bars, and on this -framework rises a sort of niche lined with furs, where the traveler -squats. That is the Eskimo sled. - -“The two chief pieces, resembling long skates gliding over the hard -snow, I said were of wood; but I hasten to add that generally they are -made of other material, as wood is one of the rarest things in this -country where there is not enough vegetation to furnish even a -broomstick. All the wood in use is washed ashore by the sea, from far -countries, at the time of heavy storms. So the Eskimo has not always at -his disposal the two narrow strips necessary. He uses instead two long -whalebones, chosen for their shape and curvature. If bones are lacking -there remains one last resort. With the intestines of the seal or -thongs of skin he ties large fish in two bundles, makes them of the -desired shape, and exposes them to the frost, which hardens them like -stone until summer comes again. Those are the two runners, the two -chief pieces of the sled.” - -“What a queer country, where the people use bundles of frozen fish for -runners!” Emile could not but exclaim. - -“But the runner has not yet played out its part. After it has slidden -all winter over the snowy plain, it thaws out with the return of warm -weather and the fish composing it are popped into the bag of boiling -water to cook.” - -“The people eat them?” - -“Why, certainly, my friend; they eat the framework of the demolished -sled.” - -“Once more, I say, if ever those people invite me to dinner I shall -decline. I shouldn’t relish their licking the food to clean it, nor -should I care for fish that had been dragged about for months, nobody -knows where.” - -“Now that you know about the sled, let us speak of the team. The dog’s -harness is composed of two thongs of reindeer skin, one going round the -neck, the other round the breast, and both connected by a third thong -passing between the fore legs. To this harness, near the shoulders, are -attached two long leather straps which are fastened to the sled at the -other end. The dog team numbers from twelve to fifteen. One dog, the -most intelligent and with the keenest scent, goes along at the head of -the pack; the others follow, several abreast, the novices nearest to -the sled. Seated in the niche of his vehicle, one leg out this way, one -the other, feet almost skimming the snow, the Eskimo drives his -equipage with an enormously long whip, for this whip must be able to -reach the farthest dog, seven or eight meters from the sled. But he -refrains as much as possible from using it, since a lash from the whip -is more likely to promote disorder than to increase the speed. The dog -struck, not knowing whence the blow came, lays the blame on its -neighbor and bites it; the latter passes the compliment along to -another, which in turn hastens to worry the next; and in a moment, -spreading through the pack, the rough-and-tumble fight becomes general. -Then it is a task indeed to restore peace and get the broken or tangled -harness straightened out. - -“Hence the whip is but rarely called into service to correct a too -unruly dog, and it is chiefly with the voice that the driver guides his -team. The leading dog is particularly attentive to the master’s word: -he turns to the right, left, or goes straight ahead, increases or -slackens speed, and the others govern themselves accordingly. Every -time an order is given, the leader turns its head without stopping and -looks at the master, as if to say, ‘I understand.’ If the route has -been already traveled the driver has nothing to do: the leader follows -the trail even when it is invisible to man. In black darkness, in the -midst of violent snow-squalls, aided by its sense of smell and its -astonishing sagacity, it continues to guide the rest of the team, and -very seldom goes astray. - -“In a single day 150 kilometers are thus made. If fatigue calls a halt, -the Eskimo builds himself a shelter with snow piled up for walls and a -large slab of ice for roof. Here he disposes himself as best he can for -sleeping, after a frugal lunch of salt fish or flesh, thawed by the -heat of a lamp. On awakening, a signal is given and immediately all -about the hut little mounds of snow move and shake themselves. They are -the dog-team, which has slept outside, covered by the falling snow. The -Eskimo doles out to them a meager pittance, which is instantly -swallowed, and without delay he harnesses the sled to resume his -journey in quest of the white bear or the reindeer on which he has set -his heart.” - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV - -THE DOG OF MONTARGIS - - -“The dog is much attached to its master; if it loses him it remembers -him for a long time. I am going to give you an example so striking that -it has been recorded in history. - -“In the year 1371 there lived at the court of King Charles V a -nobleman, the Chevalier Macaire, who, envious of the favor one of his -companions, Aubry de Montdidier, enjoyed with the king, one day came -upon his rival by surprise, when the latter was accompanied only by his -dog, in a deserted corner of the forest of Montargis. Finding the -occasion opportune for gratifying his odious rancor, he suddenly threw -himself upon Aubry, killed him, and buried his body in the forest. The -ill deed accomplished, he returned to court, where he bore himself as -if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.” - -“Oh, the hateful wretch!” cried Jules. - -“In the meantime the dog couched on its master’s grave, where night and -day it howled with grief. When the pangs of hunger pressed too hard it -returned to Paris, scratched at the door of its master’s friends, -hastily ate what was given it, and immediately went back to the wood to -lie down again on the grave. Seeing it thus come and go alone, always -oppressed with care and manifesting by doleful barks some deep grief, -people followed it into the forest, watched its actions, and saw that -it stopped on a mound of freshly turned earth, where its lamentations -became still more plaintive.” - -“No doubt they dug and the crime was discovered?” - -“Struck with the fresh mound of earth and the dog’s howls at this spot, -they dug and found the dead man, to whom a more honorable burial was -then given; but there was nothing to make them suspect the author of -the murder.” - -“And what became of the dog?” asked Emile. - -“After having thus apprized Aubry’s friends and relatives that its -master had been miserably assassinated, there remained a more difficult -task for it to accomplish; namely, to expose the murderer. A relative -of the dead man had adopted the dog and was in the habit of taking the -animal out with him when he went to walk. One day the dog chanced to -spy the assassin, Macaire, in company with other gentlemen. To leap at -his throat for the purpose of biting and strangling him, was the affair -of an instant.” - -“Bravo! Good dog! Strangle the rascal!” cried Emile in great -excitement. - -“You are going too fast, my friend,” his uncle remonstrated. “No one as -yet suspected that Macaire was the author of the horrible crime. They -draw off the dog, beat it, and drive it away. The animal keeps -returning in a rage, and as it is not allowed to come near it -struggles, barks from a distance, and directs its threats toward the -quarter where Macaire has disappeared. - -“This performance is repeated again and again, and on each occasion the -dog, perfectly gentle toward every other person, is seized with violent -rage at the sight of the murderer and recommences its assaults. It is -against Macaire alone that it nurses a grudge which neither threats nor -blows can appease. Such is the creature’s fury that finally the query -arises whether the dog may not be actuated by a desire to avenge the -death of its first master.” - -“Ha! now we are coming to it. Suspicion is aroused.” - -“They speak to the king about the affair; they tell him that a nobleman -of his court was found buried, victim of an unknown assassin; they -further inform him that the dead man’s dog, with indomitable -persistence, springs at the Chevalier Macaire every time it sees him. -The king has the suspected person brought before him and orders him to -remain hidden in the midst of a throng of other bystanders. Then the -dog is brought in. Its sense of smell immediately warns it of the -presence of the murderer. With its accustomed fury it spots its victim -in the crowd and springs at him. As if reassured by the king’s -presence, it attacks with more boldness than ever, and by its plaintive -barks seems to ask that justice be done it. There is hasty -intervention, without which Macaire would be devoured by the animal.” - -“And it would have served him right.” - -“Wait: punishment will come. The dog’s strange conduct, together with -other suspicious circumstances, had made an impression on the king. -Some days later Charles V had Macaire appear before him and pressed him -by his questions to confess the truth. What foundation was there for -the suspicions current in regard to him? How explain, if he were not -guilty, the dog’s repeated attacks and furious barking at sight of him? -Seized with the fear of a shameful punishment, Macaire obstinately -denied the crime. - -“At this epoch, characterized by manners and customs little above -barbarism, when the accuser affirmed and the accused denied, with no -sufficient proof on either side, it was customary to decide the -question by a mortal combat between the two. The one that succumbed was -held to be in the wrong.” - -“But to be the weaker proves nothing against right,” objected Jules. -“One might be a thousand times right and yet be beaten by one’s -adversary.” - -“That is undeniably true, and I hope you will from day to day become -more firmly convinced of this noble truth. In our lamentable age—you -will learn this later, my friend—in our lamentable age it is a current -maxim, a maxim of savagery, that might makes right! In the days of -Charles V, rude as that period was, no one would have dared to say such -a horrible thing; but nevertheless, under the influence of -superstition, men really believed that the vanquished was in the wrong, -because, they maintained, right can never succumb, upheld as it is by -God. Therefore a judicial combat was called a judgment of God. Alas, -alas, my friend, how far they were from sanity of mind! How far from it -we ourselves are, with our duel, relic of ancient barbarism! What does -a well-directed shot prove in favor of him who pulled the trigger? -Nothing, unless it be that he is more adept in the use of firearms than -his adversary, or that chance has been on his side. Thus it is, -however, that men decide disputes involving our most precious -possession, honor. - -“The king, then, ordered the affair to be brought to an end and the -truth determined by a combat between the man and the dog. A large field -was laid out with seats for the king, all his court, and a numerous -company besides. In the middle of the field were the two champions—the -man with a large and heavy stick, the dog with the weapons that nature -had given it, and with nothing but a leaky cask for a refuge and a -sally-port.” - -“This cask was to serve it as shelter against the blows of the stick?” -asked Emile. - -“It was the citadel where, if the attack became too pressing, it could -take refuge in order to escape the cudgel’s blows. But the brave animal -did not once make use of it. As soon as it was let loose it rushed at -Macaire. But the nobleman’s stick was big enough to fell his adversary -with a single blow; so the dog began to run this way and that around -the man to avoid the crushing descent of the club. Then, seizing its -opportunity, with one bound it jumped at its enemy’s throat and gripped -it so firmly as to throw Macaire over backward. Half strangled, he -cried for pity and begged to be freed from the animal, promising to -confess everything. The guards drew off the dog and, the judges -approaching by royal command, Macaire confessed his crime to them.” - -“And the assassin got off with nothing but a bite from the dog?” - -“Macaire was hanged like the scoundrel that he was.” - -“That time, at least, might decided right,” Jules declared with much -satisfaction. - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXV - -HYDROPHOBIA [5] - - -“Of all the ferocious animals that you know, at least by hearsay, which -one would you most dread to meet?” asked Uncle Paul. Emile was the -first to reply. - -“For my part,” said he, “if I went nutting in the woods I shouldn’t at -all like to meet a wolf, even if I had a stout stick with me.” - -“If I should meet a wolf,” Jules declared, “I would just climb a tree -and make fun of Mr. Wolf, for he doesn’t know how to climb. But I -should be more afraid of a bear, for that can climb trees better than -we, and it hugs a man till it stifles him.” - -“As for me,” said Louis, “the animal I should fear most would be the -tiger; they say it is so ferocious. With a bound it springs on a man as -the cat pounces on a mouse.” - -“The wolf is a coward,” Uncle Paul assured his hearers. “Just threaten -it in a loud voice, throw a stone or two at it, or shake a stick, and -you put it to flight. Nevertheless, if it were pressed with hunger, it -would take courage and one might pass a very bad quarter of an hour in -its company. The bear is more dangerous. With it, retreat up a tree is -of no avail, and precipitous flight has not much chance of success, for -the bear is very nimble. What a terrible fate to find oneself held -tight in a horrible embrace, and to feel the beast’s warm breath on -one’s face! With the tiger it would be worse. Let its claws once get -hold of a man, let its jaws once close on him, and he is torn to -pieces. There is nothing so terrible as its sudden attack and its -bloodthirsty ferocity.” - -“That’s the animal most to be feared, as I said,” Louis declared, “if -it were found in our country. But luckily there are no tigers here.” - -“We have no tigers in our woods,” assented Uncle Paul, “but we have in -our very midst an animal that is still more formidable in certain -circumstances. This terrible enemy that we are liable to encounter at -any moment does not possess by a good deal the strength of the tiger or -bear; most often it is not even so strong as the wolf; sometimes it is -so feeble that a well-directed blow of the fist is enough to knock it -down. Its nature is not sanguinary; its teeth and claws are not strong -enough to frighten us.” - -“Well, then,” Emile demanded, “why is this enemy so much to be feared?” - -“Do not let this lack of strength reassure you. As for me, I shudder at -the mere thought of the danger to which we are exposed. Against those -other animals, however dangerous or strong they may be, defense is -possible. With presence of mind and with weapons one may come out of -the fight victorious; if one is injured by teeth or claws the wound may -heal. But against this other creature presence of mind, skill, courage, -weapons, help—all are useless; let it bite you only once, let the point -of its tooth merely tear the skin so as to draw blood, making no more -than a scratch, and it will suffice to endanger your very life. Better -would it be to find yourself in the wolf’s jaws or the bear’s embrace. -Vainly you get the upper hand and ward off the animal’s assaults, -vainly you kill it: a tiny scratch, insignificant enough from any other -animal, will in the near future cause your death, a horrible death, -more atrocious than any other in the world. As a result of that tiny -wound a day will come, and it will come soon, when, seized all at once -with a furious madness, shaken by horrible convulsions, frothing with -drivel, and not recognizing either relatives or friends, you will -spring upon them like a ferocious beast, to bite them savagely and give -them your disease. No hope of restoring you to health, no way to -alleviate your sufferings; you must be left to die, an object of horror -and pity.” - -“What is that formidable animal?” Jules inquired. “Are we really ever -likely to have a tussle with it?” - -“We are daily exposed to this danger. No one is certain of not being -attacked this very day, this very instant; for the terrible animal -frequents our public places, wanders in our streets, makes our houses -its home, and lives in close intimacy with us. In fact, it is no other -than the dog.” - -“The dog, the most useful and most devoted of our servants!” exclaimed -Jules incredulously. - -“Yes, the dog. In proportion as it merits our attachment under usual -conditions, so does it become the object of our just fear when seized -with a malady called hydrophobia.” - -“They say, and I’ve often heard it, that mad dogs are very dangerous,” -remarked Louis. “How do they get this disease?” - -“Its origin is unknown. Without any discoverable cause, from no motive -that we can discern, the dog goes mad; the malady is spontaneous; that -is to say, it makes its appearance unheralded by symptoms. Any dog may -be attacked, the contented pet in a fine house as well as the poor -homeless waif that hunts for a scrap in the sweepings at the street -corner. I must add, however, that the sufferings of hunger and thirst, -with bad treatment, tend to promote the disease, stray dogs being more -subject than others to spontaneous madness. Here we have a new and very -weighty reason why we should take good care of our dogs. To let them -suffer cruelly is to expose them to the inroads of a horrible ailment -that may perhaps be our own destruction. - -“Spontaneous madness once developed in a dog, the malady, unless -precautions are taken, is propagated in others with frightful rapidity. -Ten dogs, a hundred dogs, can in a short time themselves become mad. An -animal attacked with rabies is, in short, tormented with an -irresistible desire to bite others. Wild-eyed, tail between its legs, -hair erect, lip frothing, it springs with lowered head on the first dog -it meets, bites it, and immediately springs at another, then another, -as many as it comes across. Now, every dog bitten becomes itself mad in -a few days, some sooner, some later, and propagates the evil in the -same way unless energetic measures cut this scourge short. - -“The disease is communicated to man also by the bite. A mad dog bites -animals and human beings without distinction; it springs furiously at -passers-by, and even springs at its master, whom it no longer -recognizes. If the tooth, moistened with saliva, pierces the skin so as -to draw blood, it is all over with the victim: hydrophobia has been -communicated.” - -“It is the same here, then, as with the viper’s venom?” asked Jules. - -“Exactly the same. From the mad dog’s mouth runs a deadly saliva, a -real venom which, mingling with the blood through an open wound, causes -madness at the end of a certain time. On unbroken skin this saliva has -no effect; but on the slightest bleeding scratch it operates in its -peculiarly terrible fashion. In short, like other venoms, the saliva of -rabies, as it is called, must infiltrate into the blood in order to -act. - -“This shows you that the bite is less dangerous if made through -clothing, especially thick clothing. The fabric can wipe the dog’s -teeth on the way and retain the venomous saliva; it can even arrest -somewhat the action of the jaws and prevent the animal’s teeth from -going in so far. If there is but a slight wound that fails to draw -blood, the saliva has not penetrated and there is no danger. - -“The conditions necessary for the development of rabies, namely the -mingling of the dog’s saliva with our blood and its introduction into -our veins, should always be in our minds if we wish to avoid a danger -that threatens us even in the midst of seeming security. It is to be -noted that in the first stage of the disease the dog is more -demonstrative in its affection than usual: the poor beast seems to wish -once more to lavish its tokens of attachment on those it loves, before -abandoning itself to the transports of fury that will soon be beyond -its control. Let us suppose that at this moment you have a slight wound -on your hand, and the dog comes, docile and fawning, and lovingly licks -the little wound. Its tongue mixes the saliva with your blood; the -terrible venom infiltrates into your veins. Fatal caress! Rabies and -all its horrors perhaps will be the consequence. Take this as a -warning: never allow a dog, however reassuring its demeanor may be, to -lick you on a place where the skin is broken. No one can affirm with -certainty that the atrocious malady is not already developing in the -animal, and you might fall a victim to your excess of confidence. - -“Hydrophobia shows itself in man usually in from thirty to forty days -after the bite. It begins with headache, deep depression, continued -uneasiness, troubled sleep, and bad dreams; then come convulsions and -delirium. The face expresses great terror; the lips turn blue and are -covered with foam; the throat contracts so as to render swallowing -impossible. The sight of liquids inspires the patient with -insurmountable aversion, and a drop of water placed in the mouth would -produce frightful strangulation. Then come fits of madness during which -the patient struggles furiously to bite and rend the one who is taking -care of him. The disease has changed him to a wild beast. At last death -comes and puts an end to this horrible agony.” - -“Then there is no remedy for hydrophobia?” asked Jules. - -“Medicine as yet knows absolutely none. All it can do is to let the -sufferer die—banishing forever the execrable notions that formerly -prevailed, and perhaps still do at present. To get rid of the incurable -and dangerous patient it was necessary, they said, to smother him -between two mattresses. Whoever should to-day commit such a barbarous -act would be pursued by justice and punished as a murderer.” - -“Formerly they smothered the patient between two mattresses, now they -let him die—no great advance,” observed Louis. - -“Pardon, my friend; it is no small advance to have banished forever -from the sick-bed the senseless brutalities of ignorance, pending the -day, which will come, I hope, when science shall gain the upper hand of -the terrible disease. - -“Hydrophobia, when it has once set in, cannot, I say, so far as we -know, be cured; but at least, by means of certain precautions, we can -anticipate it and prevent the mad dog’s bite from leading to fatal -results. The saliva of rabies acts in poisoning the blood precisely as -does the venom of dangerous serpents. The precautions to be taken are -then, in both cases, about the same: the saliva must be prevented from -entering the veins; it must be destroyed in the wound. To this end it -is customary to bind the bitten part above the wound, so as to arrest -the circulation; then the torn flesh is made to bleed and is afterward -washed in order to remove as much as possible of the venomous humor; -finally, and as soon as may be, the wound is cauterized with iron -heated white-hot.” - -“Oh, what a frightful remedy!” cried Emile. “Is there no other?” - -“It is the only one, and it must be applied with the least delay -possible, and boldly. Life is at stake. These precautions taken, -especially the cauterization, one can feel some reassurance that the -malady will not make its appearance. Of course the operation would -succeed better in a doctor’s hands, which are more experienced than -ours; but if his help cannot be got at once, let us proceed without -him, for here promptitude offers the best chance of success.” - -“I shudder at the thought of that white-hot iron making the wound -sizzle,” said Jules. “All the same I would submit to being burned in -order to escape the most terrible of fates.” - -“If there’s no other way, I would submit, too,” Emile declared. “But -still I say, plague take dogs for making us have to endure the hot iron -if we wish to escape something worse. Can’t they keep these animals -from going mad?” - -“To prevent all outbreaks of rabies is not in our power, but it rests -with us to make mad dogs scarce enough not to cause us too much -anxiety. When this malady threatens, notably in the heat of midsummer, -police regulations require the muzzling of all dogs permitted to go -from home. Furthermore, little poisoned balls are scattered in the -street to get rid of stray dogs. To these measures of the police we -ought to add our own watchfulness; we ought always to have an eye on -our dogs, if we have any, for, living with us as they do, they will be -the first to expose us to danger. It is most important, then, for us to -know by what signs incipient rabies can be detected. That is what I am -going to teach you according to the masters who have made a thorough -study of this grave subject. - -“First of all, I will refute two erroneous assumptions that are widely -held and that might become fatal by imparting a false security. It is -generally believed that a mad dog is always in a state of fury. That -this frenzied condition shows itself when the disease is at its height, -is very true; but also nothing is more utterly false as to the first -stages of the malady. Far from being seized with attacks of fury, the -dog just beginning to be infected shows, on the contrary, an excess of -affectionate feelings: by multiplied caresses it seems to beg of man -some sort of help against the vague terrors with which it is tormented. -Secondly, it is popularly maintained that a mad dog does not drink and -manifests a great horror of water, and that no dog seen in the act of -drinking can be mad. This notion is so deeply rooted in most minds -that, to designate rabies there has been formed, from two Greek words, -the special term, hydrophobia, signifying horror of water. Well, my -friends, never forget this: no matter what the Greek term says, a mad -dog drinks very well; it drinks greedily every time it has the chance, -without manifesting any aversion whatever toward the water. Later, when -the animal is near its end, the throat contracts and swallowing becomes -impossible. Then, and not till then, the dog shuns drink with horror. -Therefore, far from reassuring us, it is on the contrary an added cause -for alarm when we see a dog becoming more affectionate than usual and -drinking with unaccustomed avidity. - -“It is in restlessness and agitation without apparent cause that the -first signs of the inroads of rabies manifest themselves. The dog -cannot stay in one place, it goes without any object from one spot to -another, and retires to a corner where it turns round without being -able to find a position that suits it. Its look expresses gloom and -sadness. It seems obsessed by a fixed idea from which the call of a -loved voice may draw it for a moment; then it relapses into sadness. - -“Food is not yet refused. On the contrary, the dog pounces gluttonously -on the food set before it; sometimes its depraved appetite is such that -it even devours substances having no nutriment, such as wood, straw, -and anything found in its way, even its own excrement. Water is drunk -with the same avidity. As soon as this unreasonable agitation, this -deep sadness, this excess of affection, and this depraved appetite show -themselves, the dog should be suspected of rabies; prudence demands -that it be chained and closely watched. - -“Suspicion becomes complete certainty if the animal from time to time -utters a peculiar and quite characteristic cry, which is called the -mad-dog howl. In the midst of one of these attacks of lugubrious -sadness, all at once the dog springs with a bound at an imaginary -enemy. Then, muzzle uplifted, it gives an ordinary bark that ends -bruskly and peculiarly in a piercing howl. At this discordant sound one -might be reminded of the manner in which roosters sometimes crow, at -least so far as the extremely hoarse and cracked tone is concerned.” - -“A dog often howls for want of something else to do, when it is shut -up,” remarked Louis. “That would not be a sign of madness?” - -“No, my friend. Ordinary howling denotes a passing feeling of gloom, -ennui, fright; and this cry cannot be confounded with the veritable -howl of rabies, the characteristics of which are very different. This -latter begins with a perfect bark and suddenly passes into a sharp and -prolonged howl comparable to the cock’s crow. - -“As long as the furious madness that will end the progress of the -malady is not declared, the animal is harmless; but it is unnecessary, -it would even be dangerous, to wait so long. If the peculiar howl of -rabies is heard, doubt is no longer possible: the dog is unquestionably -mad. For our safety and also to spare the poor animal the tortures -awaiting it, the dog should be killed at once. In the animal’s interest -as well as our own, it is a kind action.” - -“Poor dog!” murmured Jules. “The master gives it a last look of regret, -and, with tears in his eyes, lodges a ball in its head.” - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI - -THE CAT - - -“The cat entered our household long after the dog; nevertheless its -domestication took place very early. The East, whence we received it, -has possessed it from time immemorial. Ancient Egypt, the old land of -the Pharaohs, has transmitted to us the most curious documents on this -subject. - -“In that country, celebrated for its profound veneration for domestic -animals, honors almost divine were paid to the ox, dog, cat, and many -other creatures. Nearer the primitive ages than we, and still -remembering the miseries from which the domestic animals had freed man, -the Egyptians no doubt showed their gratitude by these honors, which -seem to us to-day the height of superstition. The ox, turning up the -farmer’s soil with the plow, was accorded the highest position. A -magnificent white bull, called the bull Apis, was kept at the expense -of the State in a sumptuous temple of granite and marble, and cared for -by a retinue of attendants who approached it with reverence, wearing -rich costumes of ceremony, swinging the censer, and, in short, -observing all the forms of deep veneration.” - -“Just to change the straw and fill the rack with hay, they went censer -in hand and with bent knees?” Emile asked with incredulity. - -“Yes, my friend.” - -“Then times are greatly changed for the ox. Nowadays the ox-tender lets -the animal go disgracefully dirty with dung and lie on a miserly -allowance of straw; and he isn’t at all sparing of the goad to quicken -the ox’s pace.” - -“On great fête-days, when the bull Apis went out escorted by its -retinue of servants, the crowd prostrated itself to the ground along -the way, with foreheads in the dust. At its death, mourning was general -throughout Egypt. An immense granite coffin, masterpiece of art and -patience, the work of a thousand artisans, received the sacred remains, -which were then placed in a sepulchral chamber hollowed out in the -heart of a mountain and sumptuously adorned with the finest examples of -sculpture and painting.” - -“And did other domestic animals receive like honors?” asked Jules. - -“All were honored, but none so signally as the ox. In regard to the -cat, for instance, it was deemed sufficient to embalm it with aromatics -after its death, swathe it in bands of fine linen, and place the body -thus prepared in a chest of sweet-scented wood adorned with gildings, -paintings, and inscriptions. These chests were then arranged on shelves -in the niches of a sepulchral chamber excavated to a great depth in the -solid rock. - -“In some of these chambers, with decorations as fresh as if made -yesterday, we find to-day, after the lapse of three and four thousand -years, a prodigious number of bodies of cats and other animals, -sufficiently preserved to be recognized, thanks to the aromatic bitumen -with which they were impregnated. Well, the examination of these old -relics conveys information on one point of great interest: it shows us -that the domestic animals of those remote times did not differ from -those of our own day. As were the ox, dog, cat, four thousand years -ago, such they are to-day. - -“The cat—since it is the cat I am going to tell you about to-day—the -cat in particular is like ours in every way. The rat-hunter of forty -centuries ago differs in nothing from our tom-cat. But where did it -come from, so long, long ago, in the houses of the Egyptians? Of what -country was it a native? - -“To the south of Egypt lies Abyssinia, where we have already found the -wild dog, from which probably came our greyhound. There, too, is still -found, sometimes wild in the heart of the forest, sometimes -domesticated, a kind of cat, called the gloved cat, that presents a -striking resemblance to our domestic variety. It is generally agreed -that this is the parent stock of our cats, though perhaps only in part, -since there is reason to believe that a second species, Asiatic -according to all appearance, has a place in the pedigree of our -domestic cat as we now know it. Briefly, the cat came to us from -Eastern Africa. - -“In the old forests of Europe, and notably in those of the east of -France, there is found, in no great numbers, a kind of cat called the -wildcat, but which cannot be regarded as the progenitor of the domestic -cat, in spite of current opinion to the contrary. Fitted by nature for -violent exercise, for fighting and tree-climbing, and for making long -leaps, it has longer and stronger legs than the common cat, a larger -head, and more powerful jaws. The tail, very furry and variegated with -black rings, is more expanded at the end than at the base. The coat is -a warm fur of yellowish gray with large black stripes, transverse and -encircling the body, thus imitating a little the tiger’s coat. A dark -band extends the entire length of the spine from the nape of the neck -to the tail. Finally, the fleshy balls of the soles of the feet, and -also the lips and nose, are black. - -“The domestic cat, on the contrary, generally has red lips as well as -nose and balls of the feet. It also has on the front of the neck and -breast a band of light color sometimes extending under the stomach. -Similar coloring of nose, lips, feet, and front of the neck is found, -in exact detail, in the wild species of Abyssinia or the gloved cat; -and that is one of the reasons for regarding this species as the -source, or at least as one of the sources, of the domestic cat.” - -“But I have often seen domestic cats with black lips,” objected Louis. -“Where do they come from?” - -“They are apparently in some way related to the wildcats of our woods. -The female cats of isolated dwellings near our large forests sometimes -mate with wildcats, it is said. The young of these parents bear -inscribed on the nose and lips their paternal origin, and transmit -these family traits to their descendants. But if this crossing gives -new vigor to our cat, it is far from improving its disposition. The -wildcat of our woods is in fact an intractable animal, unruly despite -all the care we bestow upon it. It is an implacable destroyer of game -and, if chance offers, a more formidable ravager of the hen-roost than -the fox. - -“It is believed that one of our domestic varieties, known as the -tiger-cat, counts this bandit among its ancestors; at any rate, it has -the wildcat’s black lips and zebra coat. It also has its disposition to -a certain degree. The tiger-cat is the least tame of all, the most -distrustful, the most inclined to plunder. No other is so ready with -its claws if you try to take hold of it or merely stroke it on the -back. But these peculiarities of savagery ought not to make us forget -its good qualities: there is no more spirited hunter of mice. It is -true that cheese forgotten on the table and game hung too low in the -kitchen attract its attention a little too readily. - -“I much prefer the Spanish or tortoise-shell cat, which is more -civilized, of gentler disposition, and not less adept at catching mice. -It is in this variety, one of the most widely diffused, that the -original feline characteristics are the best preserved, that is to say -those of the gloved cat of Abyssinia. The Spanish cat has rather short -and brightly colored fur, the balls of the feet, the lips, and the nose -red, the front of the neck light-colored. Its coat is generally spotted -with irregular patches of pure white, black, and bright red. But, -singularly enough, the three colors are never found united except in -the female; the male is limited to two colors at most, generally white -and red.” - -“Then every cat with three colors to its fur is a she-cat?” asked -Jules. - -“So far I have met with no exception to this strange rule.” - -“It is very queer, that unequal division of colors—three for the Tabby -and only two at most for the Tom-cat. Other animals show nothing of the -sort.” - -“The Angora cat forms a third variety. It is a magnificent animal, of -majestic carriage, with silky and very long hair, especially around the -neck, under the stomach, and on the tail. But its qualities do not -equal the fineness of its fur. The Angora is the friend of sweet -idleness, fond of prolonged siestas in drawing-room arm-chairs. Do not -try to make it watch patiently for a mouse in the garret. Pampered by -its mistress, assured of its saucer of milk, it finds the business of -hunting too arduous. Repose and caresses and a soft bed are its lot. -That is all I have to say about this lazy-bones. - -“Let us pass on to the cat’s weapons, its teeth and claws. In telling -you the story of the Auxiliaries I pointed out to you the arrangement -of the cat’s teeth, so admirably adapted for coping with live prey. I -will refresh your memory on this subject by showing you a sketch of -these teeth. How well formed for cutting flesh are those molars, with -their sharp points that play one against another like the blades of a -pair of scissors! And those canine teeth, so long and sharp—aren’t they -veritable daggers for the cat to stab the mouse with? How horribly they -must pierce the poor little victim’s body! A mere glance at this set of -teeth is enough to assure one that it belongs to a fierce hunter. - -“It is by surprise and stealth that the cat seizes its prey. Hence it -must have special foot-gear to render its approach noiseless, to deaden -completely the sound of its footsteps. And that reminds me of -something. When you were younger, you were told the wonderful exploits -of Puss-in-Boots, how Puss caught partridges and offered them to the -king, as a gift from the cat’s master, the future Marquis of Carabas.” - -“Oh, yes,” cried Emile, “I remember. The artful creature, with a grain -of wheat in its paw and the bag open, lay in wait for the partridges in -a furrow. What astounding success we credited it with! The giddy -partridges and innocent quails, and foolish young rabbits ran -helter-skelter into the bag. According to us, the game of the entire -canton was bagged. One day the cat defied the ogre to take the form of -every kind of animal in turn, as he pretended he had the power to do. -The stupid ogre hastened to change himself into a lion first, then into -a mouse. But in a half a jiffy out shoot the cat’s claws, the mouse is -caught, and the ogre is gobbled up. Thenceforth the castle belongs to -the miller’s son, who has become the Marquis of Carabas, as true as can -be. Then the wedding is celebrated with great magnificence. Isn’t that -the way it goes, Uncle?” - -“Precisely; only I must say to you that I object to the boots in that -performance. How, with such foot-gear thumping and creaking on the -gravel in the road, can the cat approach the game without being heard?” - -“That’s so. Let us take off the boots. We will suppose the cat leaves -them at the mill while it is out hunting, and that it only wears them -on great occasions.” - -“How much wiser the real cat is than the one in the story! It would not -wear noisy boots and run the risk of making the garret floor creak -under its footsteps. If the mouse heard the slightest sound of hard -soles, it would never come out of its hole. What the cat really needs -is slippers and not boots or wooden shoes—slippers thick and soft so as -to muffle the footfall completely. - -“Let us examine the underside of the cat’s paw. You will see under each -toe a little ball of flesh, a real cushion softly stuffed. Another -ball, much larger, occupies the center. In addition, tufts of down fill -up the intervening spaces. Thus shod, the cat walks as if on tow or -wadding, and no ear can hear it coming. Have we not there, I ask you, -slippers of silence, marvelously adapted to surprise attacks?” - -“It is a fact,” assented Louis, “that we never hear the cat coming.” - -“The dog, too,” added Jules, “has similar little cushions, only larger, -under its paws. Nevertheless we hear its footsteps, perhaps on account -of the claws scraping the ground a little.” - -“Your ‘perhaps’ is superfluous,” his uncle rejoined. “It is certainly -the claws scraping the ground that make the dog’s walk heard in spite -of the fleshy balls.” - -“How does the cat manage, then?” asked Jules. “It has claws and very -strong ones.” - -“That is the cat’s secret. When walking and sleeping it keeps its claws -drawn back in a sheath at the extremity of the toes; it has then what -we call velvet paws. Thus drawn into their case, the claws do not -project beyond the paw and cannot strike the ground. To this first -advantage of not making any noise in walking is added another not less -useful to the cat. Completely hidden inside their sheaths, the claws do -not get blunt; they preserve their sharpness and fine point for the -attack. They are excellent weapons, and the animal keeps them in a case -until they are needed. Then the claws shoot out of their sheaths as if -pushed by a spring, and the velvet paw of a moment ago becomes a -horrible harpoon that implants itself in the flesh and rends the prey -in most sanguinary fashion.” - -“If I give the cat’s paw a little squeeze with my fingers,” said Emile, -“the claws come out of their sheaths; if I stop squeezing, the claws go -in again.” - -“That is just what the cat can do at will. Let us examine this curious -mechanism more closely. The little terminal bone of the toes, the one -that bears the claw, is fastened to the preceding little bone by an -elastic ligament, the effect of which, in a state of repose, is to -raise the first bone and rest it on top of the second. Suppose that the -tips of your fingers had play enough to fold back: there you have an -exact representation of the process. In this position of the terminal -bone the claw is held upright, half sunk in a fold of the skin and -hidden under the thick fur of the paw.” - -“I understand,” said Jules; “then it is a velvet paw; the claws are in -their sheaths.” - -“Promptly, at the call to arms, the cat has but to will it, and its -claws spring out. Look at this picture of a cat’s paw and notice what -appears to be a network of cords. Those are the tendons which, whenever -the animal so desires, are pulled by the muscles situated higher up. -They are fastened each to the lower side of one of the terminal bones -of the toes. Pulled by its tendon, this terminal bone pivots, as if on -a hinge, on the extremity of the preceding bone, and gets in a straight -line with it. At the same time the pointed end of the claw comes out of -the paw.” - -“Then the cat’s claws are worked by cords and pulleys!” exclaimed -Emile. “It is enough to bewilder one, it is so complicated. But I -understand it in the main. To make velvet paws the cat doesn’t have to -do anything at all; the claws go in of their own accord and stay in -their sheaths; and if they have to be drawn out, the cords or tendons -give a pull, and the thing is done.” - -“To be shod with soft slippers which both admit of a noiseless approach -to the hunted prey and can, on the instant, change into terrible -weapons of attack, is not alone sufficient for the hunter’s success; he -must also have eyes to guide him in the darkness of midnight, the hour -most favorable for an ambuscade. In this respect the cat is admirably -equipped. Its eyes are formed for receiving more or less light as may -be necessary for seeing. - -“Notice a cat in the sun. You will see the pupil of the eyes reduced to -a narrow slit resembling a black line. Not to be dazzled by too great -light, the animal has closed the passage to the rays of light; it has -closed the pupil while leaving the eyes wide open. Take the cat into -the shade: the slit of the eyes will enlarge and become an oval. Put it -in a semi-dark place: the oval opening will dilate to a circle and this -circle will grow larger as the light diminishes. - -“Thanks to these pupils, which open very wide and can thus still manage -to receive a little light where for others it would be pitch-dark, the -cat guides itself in the dark and hunts at night even better than in -broad daylight, since it remains invisible to the mice while it can see -them well enough. Nevertheless, if there were no light, if the darkness -were absolute, the cat could not see anything. In this connection, -recall what we were saying a while ago about nocturnal birds of prey. -Some maintain that a cat sees distinctly in complete darkness; I have -shown you, on the contrary, that for every animal without exception -sight becomes impossible as soon as there ceases to be even the -faintest ray of light.” - -“The cat cannot see without some light, I haven’t the slightest doubt,” -assented Jules. “But all the same I have known it to hunt in places -where not a glimmer of light could get in.” - -“Then its mustaches served to guide it; these are frequently made use -of by the cat when it cannot see.” - -“Mustaches!” Emile exclaimed. “Oh, what a queer guide! And how can -those long hairs that stand out on its lip tell it where it is?” - -“Perhaps you think the cat wears mustaches simply as a bit of swagger. -Undeceive yourself: they are a valuable item of its equipment for -hunting by night. With them it feels the ground, gets its bearings, -explores nooks and corners. Let a mouse so much as graze one of those -long hairs sticking out in all directions, and that is enough to warn -the cat. Immediately the jaw snaps and the claw seizes. Moral: never -cut a cat’s mustaches; you would place it in a sad predicament, -seriously impairing its efficiency as a mouser.” - -“That’s what I’ve heard said,” Louis remarked, “though I didn’t know -the reason for it. Now I see that to deprive a cat of its mustaches, -out of childish mischievousness, is like depriving a blind man of his -cane.” - -“In my humble opinion,” Uncle Paul continued, “the cat has been -slandered. The eloquent historian of animals, Buffon, speaks thus about -the cat: ‘It is an unfaithful servant, kept only out of necessity, as -the enemy of another and still more troublesome inhabitant of our -houses, otherwise not to be got rid of.’” - -“Buffon means the rat and mouse?” was Emile’s query. - -“Evidently. ‘Although cats,’ says he, ‘especially when young, have -pretty ways, they have at the same time an innate malice, a treacherous -disposition, a perverse nature, which age increases and education only -masks. From being determined thieves they become, under domestication, -docile and fawning rogues: they have the same skill, the same -cleverness, the same taste for mischief, the same tendency to petty -pilfering, as have rogues. Like them, they know how to cover their -tracks, dissimulate their purpose, watch for their opportunity, lie in -wait, choose their time, seize the right moment for their stroke, then -steal away and escape punishment, scamper off and keep out of sight -until they are called back. They make a show of attachment, nothing -more, as one can see in their sly movements and shifty eyes. They never -look the loved one in the face; whether from distrust or falsity, they -take a roundabout way of approach and of winning the caresses which -they value only for the momentary pleasure they themselves receive. It -cannot be said that cats, although living in our homes, are thoroughly -domesticated. The best tamed among them are no whit more brought under -control than the rest; one might even say that they are entirely beyond -control. They do only what they choose, and nothing in the world would -avail to keep them for a moment in a place they desired to leave. -Furthermore, most of them are still half wild, do not know their -masters, frequent only garrets and roofs, and sometimes the kitchen and -pantry when they are hungry. They are less attached to persons than to -houses.’” - -“To my mind,” commented Jules, “that accusation amounts to no more than -this, that Buffon did not like cats.” - -“Oh, perhaps,” suggested Louis, “he wrote it when he was vexed at some -misdeed committed by his tom-cats.” - -“I, for my part,” Uncle Paul replied, “will say this to you: treat the -cat well, and it will not be wild; feed it, and it will not turn thief; -show it a little attention, and it will return the compliment. But what -a miserable fate it often has! It is allowed to grow thin with hunger -under the pretense that then it will hunt rats better. If it comes into -the kitchen, mewing for something to eat, it is driven out with a -broom; if it ventures into the dining-room to gather up the crumbs -fallen from the table, the dog, suspecting designs on the bone it holds -between its paws, growls and makes a move to throttle the invader. As a -last resort the poor animal takes to pilfering. Who would go so far as -to call this a crime? Certainly not Uncle Paul.” - -“Nor I either,” chimed in Jules; “for it must eat.” - -“Buffon says the cat does not become attached to its master, that it -shows no signs of affection. I appeal the case to your own memories of -the matter. When Minette, our gentle cat, installs herself with loud -purrings on Emile’s knees in the chimney-corner and rubs her pretty red -nose on his cheeks, then on his forehead, and higher still until it -makes his cap fall off, are not those, I ask you, kisses and caresses -of the most affectionate sort? Emile is transported with delight when -his cap tumbles to the floor under the poking of that delicate nose. He -puts it on again and the friendly rubbing begins afresh.” - -“Certainly,” Emile assented, “the cat gives me caress for caress. Her -look is affectionate, not treacherous and distrustful, as the author -says, that you have just been reading. And then Minette never steals, -and always has velvet paws for me. She hasn’t once given me a scratch -in all the time we have played together.” - -“Emile forgets one very good quality,” put in Jules. “Minette is a -splendid hunter. Let her hear the slightest rustle anywhere, and there -she will sit for hours and hours on the watch, motionless, patient, all -eyes and ears. A mouse heard is for her a mouse caught. But it isn’t -hunger that gives her that love of hunting, for she kills her mouse and -then leaves it lying there, with no desire to eat it.” - -“Minette has other talents too,” Emile hastened to add. “When there is -going to be a change in the weather, she licks her paws and washes her -ears and nose over and over. Then you say, that is a sign of snow, or a -sign of storm. And the cat’s prediction is hardly ever wrong. When the -north wind blows cold and dry, I like to rub my hand over her fur and -make the bright sparks fly. In the evening I like to hear her -rerr-rerr, which makes me sleepy.” - -“Why,” asked Uncle Paul in conclusion, “do not Minette’s good qualities -agree with what Buffon says? Because you love the cat and the cat loves -you in return. Animals, my dear children, are what people make them. -Good master, good servant.” - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII - -SHEEP - - -“Concerning the cat’s origin there are surmises, probabilities; -concerning the sheep’s origin nothing is yet known. But if we are -ignorant from what wild species the sheep descends, we are at least -certain it came to us from Asia, where man has raised flocks of these -useful animals from the earliest recorded times.” - -“The East gave us the dog, cat, and sheep,” Jules here interposed, “and -from what you said in some of our former talks, I got the impression -that the other domestic animals also came from Asia.” - -“The Asiatic origin of our oldest known and most important domestic -animals is a truth that all the records of history affirm without a -shadow of doubt. We owe to the East the ox, horse, donkey, sheep, goat, -pig, dog, cat, hen. Civilization, in fact, had its cradle in the lands -of central Asia, where already there were flourishing peoples versed in -sheep-raising and agriculture when in our western countries man, still -plunged in wretched barbarism, lived only by the chase and hunted the -bear and urus with his stone weapons.” - -“Then those ancient peoples of the East came and settled here and -brought the first domestic animals with them?” asked Jules. - -“That is just how it happened, and hence the Asiatic origin of our -oldest domestic animals.” - -“Doubtless the sheep was with the new-comers?” - -“Very likely; for its habits to-day show the sheep to have been -dependent on man a very long time. No species has undergone so radical -a change from its primitive character; and this indicates a very early -domestication. - -“In the beginning, when it wandered wild on the grassy plateaus of -Asia, the sheep must have had means of defense against its enemies, -since otherwise the species would have become extinct. It was not -enough for it to crop the greensward; it must also have been able to -hold its own when menaced, or at least to escape from danger by flight. -The other domestic species shared the same risks as a necessary -concomitant of freedom; but all knew how to defend themselves, and all, -under man’s protection, have nevertheless kept the use of their own -means of protection. Left to itself, the dog, by its courage and its -murderous jaws, valiantly copes with any assailant; the horse flees at -full gallop or breaks the enemy’s bones with a vigorous kick; the cat -climbs trees and from her lofty fortress braves the foe; bulls group -themselves in a circle, the weak ones in the center, the strong at the -circumference, with horns pointing out, and woe then to any creature -that dares to approach; the goat overthrows the aggressor by butting -with lowered head. What can the sheep do in its turn when in danger? -Nothing. With no thought of defending itself, imbecile and stupid, it -waits for the wolf to come and devour it. - -“Look at a flock of sheep, startled by some unusual noise. They rush -headlong, bewildered with fear; they crowd together, press against one -another, lower their heads to the ground, then await, motionless, the -issue of the event. The wolf, if it be a wolf that has caused the -panic, has only to choose its victim out of this compact mass: there -will be no thought of resistance or flight. What would become of the -poor creatures if shepherds and dogs were not there to protect them? In -a few days they would all perish, sacrificing their last drop of blood -to the wolf. See them again in the open country in bad weather. They -press close to one another and refuse to budge, enduring rain and snow, -shivering with wet and cold, while not one of them so much as thinks of -seeking shelter. Their stupidity is such that they do not even seem to -notice how unfavorable their situation is; they come to a standstill -wherever they may happen to be, and obstinately stay there. To make -them go and to conduct them to a more suitable spot, the shepherd is -obliged to chase them before him and give them a leader taught to walk -in front. - -“Certainly, in its primitive freedom the sheep could not have been the -actual animal of our folds; it must have possessed the qualities -necessary to sustain its existence; it must have found in itself means -of protection and must at least have imitated the goat, which -resolutely faces danger, or, if too weak, scales with unerring foot the -ledges of rock and there takes refuge. The sheep, as we have it to-day, -is absolutely incapable of living without man’s protection; left to -itself, the whole species would soon perish, the victim of carnivorous -animals and inclement weather. To lose thus all its native instincts -and descend to the lowest degree of stupidity, how many centuries of -servitude must it not have undergone? I would not venture to say; but -at least I see that, after the dog, the sheep was one of the first -animals tamed by man. - -“No other species, the dog alone excepted, has undergone so complete a -transformation at our hands. Let me tell you some of the strange -results obtained. In Africa, Madagascar, and India there is found a -breed of sheep in which the tail, loaded with a heavy mass of fat on -each side, right and left, is transformed into a sort of ponderous -battledore, broader at its base than the body itself. The weight of -this inconvenient appendage amounts to and even exceeds thirty pounds.” - -“Inconvenient appendage I should say it would be,” remarked Louis. “The -sheep cannot walk very easily with that heavy battledore knocking -against its hocks. The tallow from that tail would make a good many -candles, but it is a very troublesome sort of treasure when one has to -run away from a wolf.” - -“This breed is called the broad-tailed sheep. Other sheep, particularly -in southern Russia, have tails of moderate size, like the tails of our -sheep, but very long so that they drag on the ground.” - -“Again a hindrance when fleeing from the wolf,” Jules observed. “In its -primitive state the sheep certainly had neither this long trailing tail -catching in the bushes, nor that other one in the shape of a heavy load -of tallow.” - -“Neither had it the singular horns that it sometimes bears to-day. Some -sheep have horns of excessive length and twisted in long spirals that -sometimes stand erect on the top of the forehead, and sometimes point -sidewise. Those weapons are more threatening than serviceable: they -needlessly overburden the head and are a serious source of annoyance to -the animal when it has to pass through a thicket of underbrush. As if -to hamper themselves still more in the brambles, other breeds wear an -addition to this inconvenient ornament. The sheep of the island of -Cyprus have two pairs of horns, one standing straight up on the -forehead, the other curving back behind the ears. Those of the Faroe -Islands have three pairs, all arranged spirally and pointing backward. -Our sheep, as a rule, have only two horns, rather small and making -barely one turn at the sides of the head; apparently that is how the -primitive species wore them. In fact the greater part of our flocks is -composed of entirely hornless sheep. It is best for the animal, which -is thus relieved of a useless load. - -“These horns, double or triple in number, and twisting in curious -fashion, this tail so long that it trails on the ground, or else -swollen with tallow and broad beyond measure, while showing us what -singular modifications the body of the sheep is capable of, are of no -use to us whatever. It is much to be preferred that the animal, -profiting by the care we bestow upon it, should gain in weight and -furnish more abundant food material. The English, who are great -meat-eaters, were the first to ask themselves this question: how to -make the sheep an abundant source of mutton chops and legs of mutton, -or, in other words, how to increase to the utmost the proportion of it -that can be eaten and at the same time diminish or even reduce to -nothing that which cannot? - -“A celebrated breeder, a benefactor to humanity—Bakewell was his -name—solved the problem in England about a century ago. He said to -himself: The sheep that I want as a producer of legs of mutton must -have no horns, for these useless ornaments would mean so much pure loss -in the total weight of the animal; the food required for the growth and -maintenance of the horns would be better employed in producing flesh. -For the same reason it should have only just enough wool to clothe it -and protect it from the cold. The bones I cannot eliminate, the more’s -the pity, as in their place I should prefer something of greater -nutritive value. But as a matter of fact they are necessary to the -animal: they are the indispensable framework for the flesh. If I cannot -eliminate them, the bones shall at least be light, thin, reduced in -weight and size. When the leg of mutton is served at table, the knife -must be able to penetrate it like a ball of butter and find in the -center only a small, hard drum-stick. I will reduce in like manner all -that is not meat and leave the sheep only what is strictly necessary -for the functions of life.” - -“And that came to pass as the breeder wished?” asked Jules. - -“That came to pass just as Bakewell foresaw. In his sheepfolds the -animal was transformed into an opulent source of meat, such as had -never been seen before; it became a pair of enormous legs of mutton and -a pair of enormous shoulders, led to pasture by a small head on four -thin legs.” - -“With large mutton chops mixed in?” Emile inquired. - -“To be sure. A few figures will show you the importance of the result -obtained. The gross weight of our ordinary sheep averages thirty -kilograms, representing about twenty kilograms net of meat. The -Leicester sheep, as the perfected breed developed by Bakewell’s -exertions is called, weighs from sixty to one hundred and sometimes one -hundred and fifty kilograms; and its net yield in meat varies from -fifty to one hundred kilograms; that is, at the very lowest, two and a -half times as much meat as our common sheep produces, and at the -highest, which is exceptional, I admit, five times as much.” - -“Then man can do what he likes with his domestic animals to change them -as he pleases?” asked Louis. - -“He does not do exactly as he likes, for the organization is from its -very nature bounded by definite limits which no effort of ours can set -aside; but by holding one end constantly in view and bending every -exertion toward its attainment he can do much. The great means used by -Bakewell on the breeding of sheep, and utilized since for the -improvement of various other domestic animals, consists above all in -selection, which I have already told you something about in speaking of -the dog. Selection is called into play when the breeder singles out and -sets apart for the propagation of the species those individuals that -show in the highest degree the qualities he desires. These qualities, -however feeble at first, are capable of great development in the course -of several generations; for the offspring inherit the parents’ -qualities, keep them, and add to this inheritance certain qualities of -their own.” - -“You compared that to a snowball increasing in size as it rolls,” said -Jules. - -“Yes, my friend; the succeeding generations, always chosen from among -the best, are the successive layers that bring their complement to the -increase of the ball.” - -“The Leicester sheep must have acted on the snowball wonderfully, to -increase its weight from thirty kilograms to one hundred and fifty.” - -“I admit that such a transformation is not brought about in a single -year, and that Bakewell must have had great confidence in his method to -devote his whole life to the pursuit of the end foreseen by his -genius.” - -“What is this famous Leicester sheep like?” asked Emile. - -“Its trunk is all of a size, almost cylindrical. The head is small, -bald, and without horns. It is supported by a neck so slender and short -that the head appears to spring directly from the trunk.” - -“To judge by the picture you are showing us, one would say that the -head came out of a hole made in the middle of the fleece.” - -“That comes from the smallness of the neck. The wool, long and coarse, -takes the form of pointed locks hanging down and not very close -together, so that the whole fleece weighs much less than one would -suppose from the size of the animal. The four legs are thin and naked. -All the bones in short, are remarkably light, having only enough -solidity to support the animal’s massive bulk of flesh.” - -“Is this breed found in France?” Louis asked. - -“With us it is represented by the Flemish breed, raised in Flanders, -Normandy, and Poitou. It is the most corpulent of the French varieties, -furnishing sheep that weigh as much as sixty kilograms, and more. In -the second class for size comes the Picardy breed, scattered over -Picardy, Brie, and Beauce. The sylvan breed of Touraine, Sologne, -Bourgogne, Anjou, in short a great part of central France, is smaller -still. It is remarkable for the fineness of its wool and the excellence -of its flesh. By its side may be placed the Provence breed, occupying -Roussillon, Provence, and Languedoc. Immense flocks of this variety -graze during the winter in the salt marshes bordering the -Mediterranean, notably in the vast pebbly plain of Crau and in the -island of Camargue which the forks of the Rhone form at the mouth of -that river. After the cold weather is past, these flocks move up to the -high mountains of Dauphiny, where they pass the whole summer out of -doors. I will come back in a few moments to their interesting -migrations. - -“Besides meat, the sheep furnishes us wool, which is still more -important, since it is the best material for our clothing. Other -animals, the ox and pig for example, feed us with their flesh; only the -sheep can clothe us. With wool we make mattresses and weave cloth, -flannel, serge, in fact all the different fabrics best adapted for -protecting us from the cold. It is far and away the most suitable -material for clothing; cotton, despite its importance, takes only -second place; and silk, with all its fine qualities, is very inferior -to wool for actual service. The sheep’s coat, more than anything else, -we use for clothing; we cover ourselves with its fleece after -converting it by spinning and weaving into magnificent cloth.” - -“All the same,” objected Emile, “wool is not in the least beautiful -when it is on the animal’s back; it is dirty, badly combed, often -completely covered with filth. To be changed into the fleece suitable -for cloth it must go through a good many processes.” - -“A good many, indeed. We will speak only of the first, for the others -would lead us too far from our subject. - -“As it is found on the sheep, the wool is soiled by the sweat of the -animal and by dust, which together form a layer of dirt called natural -grease. An energetic washing is necessary to remove these impurities. -The best way is to wash the sheep itself before shearing. The flock is -driven to the edge of a stream, not so cold as to endanger the health -of the animals, and there each sheep is seized in turn by men who -plunge it into the water and rub and squeeze the fleece with their -hands until the grease has disappeared and the water runs clear from -the tufts of wool. That is what is called washing on the back, because -the wool is cleaned on the body itself, on the animal’s back. - -“At other times the sheep is shorn without having been washed first, -just as it comes out of the fold, with all its coating of dust and -sweat. The wool thus obtained is called greasy wool, while the washed -fleece is known as greaseless wool. The greasy wool is too dirty to be -used as it is, even for making mattresses; it is washed in a stream of -running water, and then it is like the wool taken from a washed sheep. - -“To shear a sheep, the animal is tied fast by all four legs to keep it -from moving and perhaps getting cut during the operation; then it is -placed on a table about as high as a man is tall, and with large, -wide-bladed shears the wool is clipped off as close as possible to the -skin without at the same time cutting the poor animal. As the locks of -wool are naturally curly and entangled, the fleece comes off all in one -piece. - -“Sheep are white, brown, and black. White wool can be dyed any shade, -from the lightest to the darkest, whereas black or brown will only take -dark colors. White wool, therefore, is always preferred to any other; -but however beautiful it may be after all impurities have been removed -by washing, it is still far from possessing the degree of whiteness -that it should have if it is to be used without dyeing. Accordingly it -is bleached by being exposed in a closed room to the suffocating vapor -that comes from burning sulphur. - -“Wool varies in value according to the sheep that produced it; there -are different degrees of coarseness and fineness and length. The best -wool, that which is reserved for the finest stuffs, comes from a breed -of sheep raised principally in Spain and known by the name of merino. -This breed has a squat, short, thick body, legs strong and short, large -head furnished with stout horns that fall in a spiral behind the ear, -woolly forehead, and a very snub nose. The skin, fine and pink, forms -at different parts of the body, chiefly around the neck, ample folds -which give room for additional fleece. Wool covers the whole body, -except the muzzle, from the edge of the hoofs to a rim around the eyes. -It is fine, curly, elastic, and short. The grease with which it is -impregnated is very abundant, so that the dust sticking to it forms on -the surface of the fleece a grayish crust, a sort of plate-armor, which -splits open here and there with a slight crackling sound when the -animal moves, and closes of itself when the animal is at rest. By -washing, these impurities all disappear and merino wool then shows the -whiteness of snow and has a softness that rivals silk. - -“In Spain the merino flocks pass the winter in the fertile plains of -the South, in a climate remarkable for its mildness. At the beginning -of April they start for the high mountains of the North, which they -reach after a journey of a month or six weeks. All through the summer -they remain in the highland pastures, rich in savory greensward which -the summer sun never dries up, and at the end of September they descend -again to the plains of the South. These traveling flocks, changing from -plain to mountain and from mountain to plain, according to the season, -are called migratory flocks. Some of them number as many as ten -thousand animals, tended by fifty shepherds and as many dogs.” - -“It must be very interesting,” said Jules, “to see those immense flocks -in motion along the highways when they go to or from their mountain -pasture.” - -“What takes place in the south of France can give us some idea of this. -I told you that the vast plains of the Mediterranean coast, the plains -of Crau and Camargue, support flocks of considerable size, which -emigrate to the mountains of Dauphiny when warm weather comes, and -return home on the approach of cold.” - -“Are those sheep merinos?” Jules asked. - -“No, my friend: they are ordinary sheep; but, like the merinos, they -travel alternately from the plain to the mountains and from the -mountains to the plain; in a word, they are migratory flocks. Let us -look at them on their return journey. - -“At the head are the donkeys laden with clothing and provisions. Large -and heavy bells hang from their collars, each collar being made of a -big sheet of bent deal. If they spy a thistle beside the road, they -turn out and with a grimace crop the savory mouthful with a movement of -their lips, after which they at once return to their posts of -file-leaders. In large panniers of plaited grass one of them carries -the lambs born on the journey, too weak to follow the flock. The poor -little things bleat, their heads nodding to the movements of their -nags, and the mothers answer from the midst of the throng. Next come -the ill-smelling, high-horned, flat-nosed, cross-eyed he-goats; the -bells attached to the wooden collars ring under their thick beards. -After them come the she-goats, their heavy udders, swollen with milk, -striking against their hams. By their side caper the giddy band of -young kids and goats, already beginning to butt with their foreheads. -Such is the vanguard. - -“Who is this with holly stick cut from an alpine hedge and large -drugget cloak draped over his shoulder? It is the head shepherd, the -one responsible for the flock. At his heels come the rams, leaders of -the stupid common sheep. Their horns, twisted into a pointed spiral, -make three and four turns. They have deal collars like those of the -he-goats and asses; but their large bells, sign of honor, have a wolf’s -tooth for tongue. Tufts of red wool, another sign of distinction, are -fastened to their fleece on the sides and back. In the midst of a cloud -of dust comes now the main flock, its members crowded close together -and bleating, their countless little hoofs striking the ground with a -noise like that of a storm. In the rear straggle the loiterers, the -lame, the crippled, the ewes accompanied by their lambs. These last, at -the briefest stop, bend their knees, take the teat in their mouth, and, -while their tail trembles and wriggles, butt the udder with their -forehead to start the flow of milk. The shepherds bring up the rear, -urging on the slow ones with their cries and giving orders to the dogs, -their lieutenants that go and come on the flanks of the army and watch -that none go astray. If all is in good order, the dogs walk beside -their masters, pensive, fully appreciating the seriousness of their -functions, and perhaps thinking of the woods they came from, the dark -woods where there are bears.” - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII - -THE GOAT - - -“In the hilly regions of Persia there are found herds of wild goats of -a kind that is universally regarded as the parent stock of the domestic -variety. This goat closely resembles our own in size and form. It has a -grayish fawn-colored coat with a black line on the backbone. The tail -and forehead are black, the cheeks red, the beard and throat brown. The -horns have sharp edges on the front side and are short in the female, -very long in the male, always erect on the forehead, and not rolling -back behind the ears like those of the ram. - -“In domestication the goat has preserved its primitive instincts, no -doubt because, being of less value than the sheep, it has not been so -carefully and completely tamed by man. It has remained with us much as -it was on the bare rocks of its native country, lively, wandering, -adventurous, fond of lonely and steep places, delighting in rocky -summits, sleeping on the edge of precipices, and always ready to use -its horns at the slightest appearance of hostility. - -“Willingly it accompanies the sheep to pasture, but without mixing with -the flock, the stupid society of which is not to its taste. It walks at -the head, staying its impatience on the way by browsing an occasional -twig in the hedgerow.” - -“That’s the way the he-goats of the emigrating flock go, the captains -of the company,” put in Jules. “The she-goats follow pell-mell with the -kids. Left to themselves, they would walk at the head and occupy the -post of honor held by the donkeys and he-goats.” - -“Arrived at the pasture, the sheep begin peacefully cropping the grass -without straying too far from the spot chosen by the shepherd. Besides, -the dog is there to call to order any that might tend to wander away.” - -“But the goats don’t listen to the dog’s warning: their wish is to go -and flock apart, is it not?” asked Emile. - -“Precisely. The turf is green, smooth as a carpet; the grass thick and -tender. What more could be desired? But no, the goats will have none of -it. The rich grass and the company of the timid sheep are not what they -are after. Away up yonder, on the top of the hill, are some great -rocks, cleft and overturned in disorder. In the clefts, where a handful -of earth has lodged, there are thin tufts of grass half dried up by the -sun; between the fragments of stone a few pitiful shrubs with scanty -foliage manage to find room for their roots. Those are the goat’s -haunts of delight. Nothing can keep it from them; away it goes. - -“Soon you will see it on the steep slope of the rocks, moving about -with ease where any other animal would break its neck, and sometimes -having no more secure support than a narrow ledge that offers barely -room enough for its four hoofs. From this perilous position it -stretches its neck in an effort to reach the neighboring bush, a bush -no better than countless others that are in places easy of access; but -the difficulty gives it an added charm, and to get it the goat risks -its life on slopes that would be its destruction if it should chance to -slip. But don’t worry about that: the goat will not fall; its sinewy -leg is of unequalled surety, and its head, giddy though it seems, is -never seized with vertigo on the brink of a precipice. The coveted bit -of foliage is reached, the bush twisted out of shape in its attainment, -and the ascent continues from one projection to another. The goat is at -the top of the rock. It proclaims its prowess to the surrounding world -with bleatings. The sheep are down there, beneath its feet. Proudly it -surveys them, saying perhaps to itself: Poor, timid creatures, they -will never climb up here! - -“I must tell you, my friends, that the goat is very hard to keep in -flocks. Its wandering propensity always impels it to stray, and its -predilection for precipices leads it to places where it would be -dangerous for the shepherd to follow. It has a still worse caprice. I -have pictured the goat to you as abandoning at the first opportunity -the rich grass in which the sheep delights, to scale the rocky summit -and crop the sparse shrubbery growing on some perilous ledge. It is an -undoubted fact that to the tender grass of the best pasture it prefers -hard turf, yellowed in the sun, dried and trodden, and especially the -young woody sprouts of the shrub and bush. Thus far all is for the -best, since such tastes enable us to gain profit from the most sterile -soil and even from the bare rock. Where the sheep would die of want, -the goat finds the wherewithal to fill its udder with milk. -Unfortunately its passion for the bitter bark of the shrub has evil -consequences. Cultivated grounds, gardens, orchards, quickset hedges, -copses, and woods have no more terrible enemy than the goat. The young -shoots are eagerly browsed, the bark is gnawed, and all shrubbery -within reach is destroyed. Accordingly, to prevent these ravages, -severe laws forbid flocks of goats access to all wooded tracts.” - -“I shouldn’t like such gnawers of branches and bark among the pear -trees in the garden,” remarked Jules. “If any goats got in there, it -would be good-by forever to those delicious juicy pears.” - -“I have told you the goat’s bad qualities; now let us look at its good -ones. The goat is much more intelligent than the sheep. It comes to us -of its own accord, makes friends with us readily, is responsive to -caresses and capable of attachment. In households where it furnishes -the milk supply it is the companion of the children, who know how to -win its friendship by a few handfuls of choice grass. It takes part in -their games and amuses them with its frolicsome gambols.” - -“It also runs with lowered head at its playmates as if it meant to -knock them over with a butt of its horns,” added Emile; “but it is only -in fun. They hold out an open hand, and the goat strikes the palm very -softly without hurting it, provided they are good friends. If not, I -shouldn’t like to find myself facing the goat’s horns.” - -“The goat is always friendly if well treated. Its butting is then -harmless, and play does not degenerate into a fight. - -“To appreciate fully the kindness of the goat, one must have witnessed -the following illustration of it. When a nursing baby has had the -misfortune to lose its mother, it sometimes happens that the she-goat -is substituted as a nurse. In this function the excellent animal is -truly admirable; the tenderest mother is not more vigilant or more -assiduous. To the wailing of the beloved baby it responds with a gentle -bleating and runs to it in all haste, lying on its side the better to -present its udder to the nursling. If there is any delay in putting the -baby within reach, the goat by its restless movements, trembling voice, -I might almost say by its gestures, begs that the infant be allowed to -suck. How shall I express it, my friends? The animal in this action is -sublime in its devotion. - -“Should you like now to see the goat giving proof of its tame, trustful -nature? I will tell you how the milk-peddlers of our southern towns are -in the habit of leading their flocks of goats through the streets, to -sell from door to door the milk freshly drawn under the buyer’s very -eyes. What would the timid sheep do if led thus through the turmoil and -confusion of a populous town? It would take fright and run away, and in -its foolish terror it would get crushed under the wheels of passing -vehicles. The goat is not alarmed at anything. Throngs of people, the -noise of traffic, the barking of quarrelsome dogs, to all this it is -quite indifferent. The horned company, its approach heralded by the -tinkling of little bells, moves with a confident and familiar air in -the midst of all this hustle and bustle, as if in the perfect solitude -of the mountains. With graceful coquetry it looks at its reflection in -the large shop-windows and strikes the flag-stones of the pavement with -ringing hoof. At the customers’ doors, which the flock never fails to -remember, it comes to a halt. Each goat in its turn is taken in hand by -the milkmaid, and the warm milk spurts foaming from the udder into the -tin measure. They go on through the crowd to another customer, and so -it continues, a measure of milk at a time, until the flock has -exhausted its day’s supply.” - -“Is there anything gained by leading the goats from door to door?” -asked Jules. - -“Unquestionably: the buyer cannot doubt the freshness and purity of the -milk when he sees it drawn under his eyes; and the milkmaid finds in -the confidence of her customers remuneration for her extra trouble.” - -“That’s so. No one can say the milk is watered if it comes fresh from -the udder.” - -“Goat’s milk is light and very nourishing; it agrees with weak stomachs -better than the heavier milk of the sheep or cow. It is remarkably -abundant, too, considering the smallness of the animal. Two liters of -milk a day, from six to nine months in the year, make but a moderate -yield. There are goats that, when well-fed, give three and four liters -a day. - -“Thus the goat, so easily maintained, is a valuable resource in -mountainous and arid countries; it takes the place of the milch cow in -the poor man’s hut, as the donkey serves instead of the horse. - -“This abundant milk supply is about the only merit of the goat, for its -stringy flesh is tasteless and of no value. Only the kid is prized for -eating, especially in the South, where the aromatic vegetation of the -hills takes away its natural tastelessness. The goat’s fleece, though -used for certain coarse fabrics, is not of much importance, either, and -cannot in any way take the place of sheep’s wool. But a breed native in -the hilly regions of Central Asia, the Cashmere goat, furnishes a down -of incomparable fineness, from which precious stuffs are made. This -goat, under a thick fur of long hair, bears an abundant down that -protects it from the rigors of cold and is shed naturally every spring. -When that season comes the animal is combed with a long toothed comb -that gathers from the rest of the fleece the fine down detached from -the skin. - -“Another breed, the Angora goat, almost rivals the Cashmere in fineness -of down. It takes its name from the town of Angora in Turkey in Asia. -Nothing could be more seductive in form, nothing more graceful, than -these little goats with their long silky fleece, always pure white. -From the same country come the Angora cat and the Angora rabbit, both -furnished, like the goat, their compatriot, with long, silky, white -fur.” - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX - -THE OX - - -“The taming of the ox took place in Asia a very long time ago when our -western countries were covered with wild forests in which a few -miserable tattooed tribes wandered, living by the chase. Bringing the -ox under subjection must have been one of the most memorable of events -for the native of the Orient, since thereby the animal’s powerful -shoulders lent themselves to the labors of agriculture, and the tiller -of the soil profited accordingly. It must also have been a very -dangerous undertaking, no doubt impossible without the help of the dog. -The friendly goat perhaps came to man of its own accord; the peaceful -sheep let itself be folded without resistance; but the ox, terrible in -power and anger, throwing the disemboweled enemy heavenward with a toss -of its horns, certainly did not let itself be led from its native -forest to the stable without a fight. No account has come down to us of -the brave men who first dared to attack the formidable beast with the -hope of subjugating it; nor does any record remain of the difficult -training which, perhaps prolonged through centuries, finally reduced -the wild creature to a state of docility. The very first historical -reference to the ox in the earliest annals of our race shows him to us -as a patient, docile beast, submissive to the yoke, and in short no -other than he is to-day. - -“But if these bull-tamers of ancient times remain unknown, all the East -preserves the memory of their invaluable achievement. The man was -forgotten, but the animal was fêted, here in one way, there in another, -according to the fancy of a simple, imaginative people striving in -every possible manner to evince gratitude for services rendered. I have -told you of ancient Egypt and its raising of marble temples to the -bull, and I have also described its practice of bowing the forehead to -the dust when the majestic beast passed with its retinue of attendants. -Elsewhere it was enjoined on every one as a religious duty of the most -sacred kind to raise at least one ox; and, again, in still another -country, where horned cattle were not yet plentiful enough to make it -permissible to use them for food, the laws punished with death anybody -who killed or even maltreated one of these animals. In our day, in -India, the cow is a thrice-sacred animal. Its tail, symbol of honor, is -carried as a standard before the great; and to win favors from Heaven -the people believe there is no surer way than to smear the body with -cow’s dung and then go and wash in the waters of the Ganges. These -anointings with the holy dung make you smile, children; in me they -arouse serious reflections. From what depths of misery must not the -domestic animals have raised us if the Hindoo of our time still -preserves in these strange rites some vestiges of the ancient -veneration of the entire Orient for one of these animals, and that one -the most important, the ox?” - -“I should say it was a strange rite,” declared Jules, “to daub oneself -with dung in honor of the cow. They might have hit on a better way.” - -“In every age and in every land popular imagination has easily lent -itself and still lends itself to extravagant notions. In the most -important city of the South I have seen, I, Uncle Paul, the people -leading through the streets, in triumphal procession, the fattened ox -that was to be sacrificed on Easter Eve. A laurel branch on its -forehead, many-colored ribbons on its horns, the peaceful beast bore on -its shoulders a pretty little child, rosy, plump, clothed in a lamb’s -skin. A retinue accompanied it in bright-colored costumes. Is not that -a vague reminder of the procession of the bull Apis, with this -difference that the Egyptian bull returned after the ceremony to its -perfumed manger, while ours meets its end in the heavy blow awaiting it -at the slaughter-house? It is the custom for the be-ribboned ox to be -led from door to door, where its escort never fails to present the -basin for offerings, great and small; for it is to be noted that at the -bottom of every superstition is found the quest of the piece of coin. -Thus takes place throughout all France, with more or less pomp, the -procession of the fattened ox. - -“But here is a peculiarity worthy of note. If the house has a wide -enough entrance door, the ox is led into the vestibule, where its -presence is supposed to confer honor; and if by good luck at that -moment the animal deposits on the floor some of the material used by -the Hindoo for smearing himself, it is the greatest possible blessing -for the visited. A prosperous future is presaged by a few spans’ -breadth of this dung, according to the hope and belief of the simple -folk. You see, my friends, without leaving home we find, under a little -different form, the Indian customs that make you smile so. I cannot but -see therein the survivals of the ancient honors paid to the bull. -Without explaining these customs to themselves, without knowing their -origin, without understanding their significance, the people perpetuate -them among us.” - -“The survivals from those old customs,” remarked Jules, “prove clearly -that the acquisition of the ox left an ineffaceable trace on man’s -mind; but, once more, why didn’t they hit on some better way to honor -the ox?” - -“Well, if you want something better as a mark of honor, perhaps this -will satisfy you: the invaluable animal has its name written forever -among the stars, those jewels of the sky. I will explain myself. -History tells us that we owe the invention of astronomy to the -shepherds of the East, who spent their leisure night-hours, under the -mildest of skies, in deciphering the secrets of the stars while their -flocks rested in the open air. To get their bearings in the midst of -the infinite multitude of stars, these shepherds gave to the principal -groups or constellations names that have been perpetuated and that -science still uses. Man’s most precious possession received at that -time a celestial consecration by having its name given to such and such -a part of the sky. One of the constellations was called Taurus (the -bull); and that is what it still is and always will be called. In this -group are seen stars that form an angle, the two branches of which -represent the animal’s horns; there is also a superb star that darts -red fire and suggests the sparkling eye of an infuriated bull. What -greater honor could the bull receive than to be thus placed among the -splendors of the sky?” - -“The shepherds’ idea fully satisfies me; nothing better could be -imagined for the glorification of the ox. Other domestic animals -doubtless have had places assigned them in the firmament?” - -“Of course. Another constellation is called Aries (the ram), another -Capricornus (goat-horned).” - -“And how about the dog?” Emile asked. - -“The dog was not to be forgotten: is it not man’s earliest ally, the -courageous servant that made possible the taming of the herd? Its name -has been given to a magnificent constellation in which shines the -brightest star in the sky.” - -“And the others, the cat, horse, pig, and donkey?” - -“None of them received from the ancient shepherds the honor of a place -in the firmament, their acquisition being undoubtedly more recent and -of less importance. Briefly, my friends, the most esteemed and the most -ancient of our domestic animals have been glorified by honors never -bestowed upon prince, emperor, or monarch. Man’s gratitude has placed -them among the splendors of the firmament. - -“In Asia, where it originated, the ox is no longer found wild; but in -the pampas of South America the species has resumed its primitive -freedom and, mingled with horses that have become equally wild, lives -in vast herds beyond the supervision of man. Pampas is the name given -to the immense plains extending from Buenos Aires to the foot of the -Cordilleras of the Andes. During the rainy season they furnish rich -pasturage of tall grass, but in the dry season verdure disappears and -the soil becomes a powdery plain where thistles wave. Nothing, not even -a tree, breaks the uniformity of these plains, the limits of which -cannot be seen in any direction. There lives the wild ox, descendant of -the domesticated ox that the Spaniards brought to this part of the New -World, for the species did not exist anywhere in America before the -arrival of Europeans. - -“The few pairs that escaped from their stables or were left to -themselves in the pastures of the pampas three or four centuries ago, -have multiplied so rapidly that to-day the number of cattle there is -incalculable. More than two hundred thousand are slaughtered every -year, and still the herds show no sign of diminution. The carnage has -long been and still continues to be carried on for the sake of the -hides, or at least this is in great part the purpose.” - -“They kill the cattle just for the hides?” asked Jules incredulously. -“Then the meat isn’t good for anything?” - -“It is excellent, but they do not know what to do with it, there is so -much. The population of the country not being sufficient to consume -this enormous quantity of food, the cattle are slaughtered, the hides -removed and cured, after which they can be kept indefinitely, and the -flesh is left behind as a useless encumbrance. This is a waste much to -be regretted, for with us meat is becoming scarcer every day, and our -food problem would find a ready solution in the pampas cattle that now -feed only carnivorous animals. - -“It is true that attempts are made to save a part of this copious -supply of provision. The meat is cut into strips which are dried in the -sun or salted or smoked, as a means of preservation; and in this state -commerce carries them to all parts of the world. Unfortunately, I must -acknowledge, this meat preserved by salting, smoking, or drying is not -very palatable eating. Let us hope that improved methods of preserving -will be introduced, and that some day South America will furnish Europe -a rich supply of butcher’s meat. - -“In the present state of things the pampas cattle are hunted -principally for their hides. I say hunted, for the cattle of the grassy -plains of Buenos Aires may be called veritable game, since these -animals do not fall, as do our cattle, under the blow of the butcher’s -hammer, but are pursued in the open pasture and killed on the spot. The -hunter is on horseback. For weapon he has the lasso; that is to say, a -very long and tough leather thong, fastened at one end to the -saddle-bow, armed at the other with balls of lead. When the hunted -animal is within reach, the hunter throws the perfidious leather thong, -which, whistling and following the course of the lead, encircles the -animal’s horns and neck. At the touch of the spur the horse gallops -off, putting forth all its strength, and drags the half-strangled ox -after it. A plunge of the dagger in the heart finishes the beast. After -removing the skin and rolling it up on the crupper of his horse, the -cattle-hunter resumes his quest, leaving to the birds of prey the dead -bodies whose bones, whitened by rain and sun, will serve him on future -expeditions as material for building himself a hut.” - -“A hut of bones!” exclaimed Emile. - -“Yes, my friend. On those vast plains wood is lacking as well as -stones. Therefore bones, piled one on top of another, serve the hunter -of the pampas for building him a shelter, where he rests under a grass -roof. The skull of an ox with long horns serves him as a seat by day -and a pillow at night.” - -“It seems to me I shouldn’t sleep very well with my head between the -two horns of an ox’s skull.” - -“The hardened hunter of the pampas sleeps on it as on feathers.” - -“And what do they do with all those hides that they get by hunting the -ox?” asked Jules. - -“There is an extensive commerce in those hides. Ships bring them to us, -well salted, so that they will keep. In our tanneries the salt is -washed out, and then with oak-bark they are made into leather for boots -and shoes.” - -“Then the leather of our shoes may come from some ox strangled by the -lasso on the pampas?” Louis queried. - -“There is nothing impossible in that. I would not say positively that -we are not wearing shoes made from the hide of a wild ox, for Buenos -Aires supplies a considerable part of our deficiency in leather. It may -be, on the other hand, that our shoes come simply from the domestic ox, -whose hide is put to the same use as that of the South American -bullock. You are at liberty to ascribe your footwear to either source.” - -“For my part,” Emile declared, “I choose the wild ox, and perhaps its -body is now being used by some hunter for his hut.” - -“To finish the subject of tame cattle that have run wild, I will say a -few words about the herds of Camargue. A little below Arles, about -seven leagues from the sea, the Rhone forks and encloses between its -two branches and the Mediterranean a large triangular plain. That is -Camargue, a shifting tract subject to the action of both fresh and salt -water, receiving the alluvial deposits of the river and the sands of -the sea. There are three different regions to be distinguished in going -from the riverbanks to the interior of the island, where there is a -large pond known as the Vaccarès Pond. These regions comprise the -cultivated territory, the pasture land, and the group of ponds. The -first, running the length of the two outlets of the Rhone, is -wonderfully fertile, being made so by the annual deposits of silt. Rich -harvests gild these strips of land along the river, the current of -which prevents the infiltration of salt from the sea. Going further, -one comes to the salt marshes, and finally, from the center of the -island to the sea, stretches the region of ponds. This last is merely -dry land in the making, a plain in the process of formation, with the -river constantly adding its accretions of soil and the sea forever -washing them away. - -“In the portion devoted to pasturage roam thousands of bullocks that -have reverted to the wild state, unprovided with shelter of any sort -and free from all surveillance except such as is exercised by mounted -keepers who, at long intervals, come and round up the unruly herds with -the aid of a trident. Black, small, and stocky, with fierce eyes and -menacing horns, they have resumed the primitive characteristics of the -race. Bad luck to whoever should come and disturb them at their sport -among the reeds. Only the herdsman, mounted on a fast horse and -equipped with a trident for pricking the nostrils of the beasts, can -control the wild herd. In one particular alone are we reminded that -they are still man’s servants, victims destined for his -slaughter-houses and sometimes also, alas, set apart for his -entertainment in the barbaric bull-fight: on their shoulders the mark -of the proprietor is branded with red-hot iron. - -“Over the same prairies gallop, heedless of bad weather and proud of -their freedom, horses descended from those that the Arabs, once masters -of the south of France, left in these regions. They are white in color, -small, active, and skittish. Their mouth knows not the bit, nor their -hoof the shoe. At harvest time they are led up from their -pasture-ground to tread the threshing-floor and thresh the wheat. The -work finished, they are set free again. - -“Of all our domestic animals the ox is certainly the most useful. -During its lifetime it draws the cart in mountainous regions and works -at the plow in the tillage of the fields; furthermore, the cow -furnishes milk in abundance. Given over to the butcher, the animal -becomes a source of manifold products, each part of its body having a -value of its own. The flesh is highly nutritious; the skin is made into -leather for harness and shoes; the hair furnishes stuffing for saddles; -the tallow serves for making candles and soap; the bones, half -calcined, give a kind of charcoal or bone-black used especially for -refining sugar and making it perfectly white; this charcoal, after -being thus used, is a very rich agricultural fertilizer; heated in -water to a high temperature, the same bones yield the glue used by -carpenters; the largest and thickest bones go to the turner’s shop, -where they are manufactured into buttons and other small objects; the -horns are fashioned by the maker of small-wares into snuff-boxes and -powder-boxes; the blood is used concurrently with the bone-black in -refining sugar; the intestines, cured, twisted, and dried, are made -into strings for musical instruments; finally, the gall is frequently -turned to account by dyers and cleaners in cleaning fabrics and -partially restoring their original luster. - -“But this does not exhaust the list of the animal’s merits. Under man’s -care, under the influence of climate, soil, and manner of living, the -ox has become modified and has given us many different breeds that have -adapted themselves to the most varied conditions of existence; one -breed furnishing more work, another more meat, and still another more -dairy food, according to our choice. Among the breeds scattered over -France I will limit myself to the following. - -“A stocky body, large and strong head, short, thick horns, short and -massive neck, powerful legs, bold appearance, quick walk, medium-sized -and well-shaped body—these natural endowments make the Gascon breed one -of the best for work. Its coat, generally brown or tawny, is always -lighter along the back. The chief source of this breed is the -department of Gers. - -“The Salers breed is originally from the department of Cantal. Its coat -is bright red, often with white splashes on the rump and belly. The -horns are large, smooth, black at the tips, of symmetrical shape, and -pointing a little backward. Very rustic, sober, intelligent, vigorous, -inured to toil, the Salers ox is an excellent worker. When fattened at -the end of its toilsome service, it gives abundant, firm, and savory -meat. The cow, if well fed, can furnish as much as twenty liters of -milk a day. - -“The Breton breed stocks the five departments of ancient Brittany. It -is characterized by smallness of body, readiness for work, and -remarkable excellence of milk, which is rich in butter-fat. The cow’s -coat is spotted with white and black in large splashes, and she has a -black muzzle, slender horns, bright eyes, and determined gait. The ox, -similarly spotted with black and white, has powerful and very pointed -horns; but the peaceful beast never dreams of using its formidable -weapons. - -“The Normandy breed furnishes animals of enormous size, little adapted -to work, and hence reserved for the butcher. Some of these gigantic -animals raised in the rich pastures of Normandy are said to have -attained the weight of 1970 kilograms. In the Normandy ox the head is -long and heavy, muzzle broad, the mouth deeply cut, the skin thick and -hard, the hair close, sometimes red, sometimes brown, sometimes black -and white. The horns are rather short and are borne well forward on the -forehead. On an average the cow gives 3000 liters of milk a year. - -“The Garonne breed, occupying the basin of the Garonne River from -Toulouse to Bordeaux, is likewise tall, corpulent, and almost as highly -esteemed for butchering as the Normandy breed. Its coat is uniform in -shade, resembling in color the yellow of wheat. The horns, which turn -forward, are white all over; the edge of the eyelids and the nose are -pale pink. In fact, the whole physiognomy of the animal has something -remarkably peaceful about it.” - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXX - -MILK - - -Mother Ambroisine had just milked the goat for breakfast. While Emile -and Jules were crumbling their bread each in a cup of milk, foamy and -still warm, Uncle Paul, who takes advantage of every occasion for -enriching the intelligence of his young nephews with new ideas, thus -began the conversation: - -“What a priceless resource we have in milk; what delicious breakfasts -with this food so nourishing, so light, so appetizing! To judge by the -reception you are giving it at this moment, you know well how to -appreciate its value.” - -“For my part,” Emile declared, “I like milk better than anything else -Mother Ambroisine can give us, especially when the bread is toasted a -little over the coals.” - -“I don’t need anything of that sort,” said Jules, “to make the milk -first-rate.” - -“Since you like milk so much, you shall learn something about it; then -your breakfast will give you a double benefit, food for the body and -food for the mind. - -“Let us speak first of a property the effects of which you have -doubtless seen more than once without paying attention to them. At -times the milk turns, as they say; in other words, it curdles. Why is -that? You do not know. I will tell you. - -“Here is a glass of milk just as it came from the goat. It is of -irreproachable fluidity without the slightest trace of curdling. I -squeeze into it a drop of lemon juice, one only, and stir the liquid. -Immediately a great change is effected: one part of the milk clots and -rises to the surface in thick white flakes; another part remains -liquid, but loses its whiteness and becomes like slightly turbid water. -If I let the glass stand for some time, the curd collects at the -surface and floats on a clear liquid. With a drop of lemon juice I have -just made the milk turn quickly.” - -Emile examined with lively interest the contents of the glass thus -speedily transformed. His uncle, whom nothing escapes, perceived it. -“What is it you are looking at so attentively?” he asked. - -“Your experiment,” Emile answered, “reminds me of what happened to my -milk one day at breakfast. To my toasted bread, which Jules turns up -his nose at, I wanted to add something still better. I had an orange -and I took it into my head to squeeze the juice into my cup of milk, -thinking to make a delicious drink of the mixture. Who was the fool -that time? It was giddy Emile. The milk instantly curdled, just like -this when you squeezed the lemon juice into it. Trying to improve my -cup of milk, I only made it so that I had to throw it all away, it had -gone so bad.” - -“I wish I could have seen the face Emile made,” said Jules, “when he -saw the result of his improvement.” - -“I was much surprised, I admit,” Emile rejoined, “to find how two -things, orange juice and milk, each excellent by itself, could make -such a nasty drink when mixed.” - -“In future, my friends, you will know that anything sour makes milk -turn. What I brought about with lemon juice you effected with orange, -which contains, though in small quantity and masked by the sweet flavor -of the fruit, exactly the same ingredient that gives the lemon its sour -taste. - -“The juice of sorrel leaves, that of green grapes, and of unripe fruits -in general, vinegar, and in fact everything with a similar taste, make -milk turn at once. These sour-tasting substances are called acids. -Vinegar is an acid; that which gives its sourness to the lemon is -another; green grapes contain a third; sorrel leaves furnish a fourth. -The number of acids is very considerable. All those that we need to -know anything about have this same sharp flavor, sometimes stronger, -sometimes weaker; all, in short, make milk curdle just as I showed you -with the acid of the lemon. - -“From theory let us turn to practice. Cleanliness in everything is of -the first importance, but in the care of milk especially must one be -scrupulous in this particular. The vessels for holding it and keeping -it any length of time must be carefully and thoroughly cleaned as often -as they are used, if one would avoid the risk of its turning. Suppose a -few drops of old milk or some remnants of any kind of food are left in -a pot, tucked away where they are hard to get at: these impurities soon -turn sour, especially in warm weather, and the milk, finding an acid -substance in the vessel, quickly spoils and curdles. How often the milk -itself is blamed for this accident when want of cleanliness is the sole -cause! - -“Milk contains three principal substances, namely: cream, or fatty -matter from which butter is made; casein, or curds, used for making -cheese; and, finally, a substance with a slightly sweet taste called -sugar of milk. These three ingredients taken away, hardly anything is -left but water. To separate these three, one proceeds as follows: - -“Left standing in a cool place and exposed to the air, milk becomes -covered, sooner or later, according to the season, with a thick oily -layer that takes the name of cream. This is the material from which -butter is made. It rises to the surface unaided and separates when -simply exposed to the air. It is removed with a skimmer. - -“What is left is skimmed milk, of the same whiteness, the same -appearance, as the original milk, but deprived of its fatty matter. -Into this skimmed milk let us pour a few drops of some acid, lemon -juice for example. The milk turns and thick white flakes are formed. -Those flakes are the curd, the casein, in short the material of which -cheese is composed. - -“After the casein has been removed there remains nothing but a -transparent liquid that might be taken for water slightly tinted with -yellow. This liquid is called whey. It contains little besides water -with a small quantity of sugar of milk which gives it a slightly sweet -taste. It is especially in Switzerland that sugar of milk is obtained -on a large scale by the evaporation of the liquid that remains after -removing the cream and curds from the milk. In spite of its name this -substance has nothing in common with ordinary sugar, the white -loaf-sugar we use; it is a dull-white substance, rather hard, crunching -under the teeth, and of a slightly sugary taste. It is used only in -pharmacy. - -“Cream and casein constitute the nutritive ingredients of milk, and -determine its food value. The milk that is richest in these -constituents is sheep’s milk, next comes goats’ milk, and last of all -cows’ milk. Although of little value to us, sugar of milk claims our -attention for a moment on account of the change it undergoes to the -great detriment of the milk itself. Little by little, especially when -exposed to the heat of summer, this sugary matter sours and becomes an -acid. That is what makes milk sour if kept too long. Of course when -this sourness shows itself the milk soon curdles. Coagulation takes -place as if an acid had been added to the milk. Hence, to keep milk for -some time and prevent its turning sour of its own accord, this -acidulation of the sugar of milk must be delayed. This is done by -taking care to boil the milk a little every day.” - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXXI - -BUTTER - - -“From milk,” continued Uncle Paul, “we make butter and cheese. I have -just explained to you in a few words how the ingredients composing -them—that is, cream and casein—are obtained in their separate forms; -but further details are now called for, and I will give them to you, -beginning with butter. - -“The material necessary for making butter is cream, a fatty substance -disseminated through the milk in excessively fine and almost invisible -particles. When milk is left undisturbed in a cool place and exposed to -the air, these particles of fat rise to the surface little by little -and collect there in a layer of cream. An example taken from things -familiar to you will explain the cause of this spontaneous separation. - -“Oil, you know, cannot in any way be made to dissolve in water. If a -mixture of the two liquids is well shaken, the oil divides into an -infinity of tiny globules uniformly distributed, and the whole takes on -a whitish tint that looks something like milk. But this condition is -only temporary. If you stop heating or shaking the mixture, the oil, -the lighter part, comes to the surface, globule by globule, and soon -the two liquids are completely separated, the oil on top, the water at -the bottom. If a little gum were added to the water to make it sticky, -the separation of the oil would be less easily effected and the mixture -would retain its milky appearance for a longer time; nevertheless the -two liquids would always end by separating. - -“The fatty matter composing butter behaves in the same way as the oil -of our experiment. It is not dissolved by the milk; it is simply -divided into very minute particles that are held in place by a liquid -thickened with casein, just as water thickened with gum holds for a -long time the tiny drops of oil. Left undisturbed long enough, these -oily particles free themselves and rise to the surface.” - -“Cream rises to the top of milk,” observed Jules, “just as oil that has -been shaken up with water rises to the surface; only the separation is -slower on account of the casein that thickens the liquid.” - -“That is the secret of this curious separation. Milk is placed in large -earthen nappies, smaller at the bottom than at the top, and thus a -large surface is exposed to the cooling action of the air, which -hastens the separation of the cream. The full nappy is put in a cool -and very quiet place. In summer half a day is long enough for the -rising of the cream; in winter it takes at least twenty-four hours. -When the separation is finished, the cream is removed with a skimmer or -a large almost flat spoon. - -“Cream is yellowish white, oily to the touch on account of its greasy -matter, and sweet and very pleasant to the taste, having the flavor of -both fresh butter and cheese. It is most delicious eating.” - -“We know that,” Emile assented, “from those capital sandwiches Mother -Ambroisine makes for us with cream on feast days.” - -“That delicacy,” remarked his uncle, “cannot be allowed every day, for -the cream is needed for butter for the family.” - -“Once I helped Mother Ambroisine work the little butter machine, a kind -of small cask called a churn. Why do we have to thump so long to get -the butter?” - -“That is what I am going to explain to you. In cream the particles of -butter are simply grouped side by side, without forming a united body. -Besides, a layer of moisture, coming from the whey, isolates them and -prevents their uniting. To combine all these particles into a compact -mass of butter, it is necessary to squeeze out the milk and knead them -together. This is accomplished by prolonged beating. - -“The implement used is called a churn. The simplest consists of a kind -of small cask larger at the bottom than at the top. The cover is -pierced with an opening through which runs a rod carrying a perforated -wooden disc on the end inside the churn. After the cream has been -poured into the churn, the operator takes the rod in both hands and -vigorously raises it and plunges it down in alternate strokes, thus -causing the terminal disc to rise and fall in the creamy mass. By this -prolonged beating the fatty particles unite and become butter. -Sometimes the churn is made of a small cask in which turns by means of -a crank an axle bearing perforated wings or blades which beat the cream -in their rotation. - -“Some precautions must be taken to carry this delicate operation -through successfully. During the heat of summer churning should be done -only in the morning and in a cool place. It is even well to set the -churn in a tub of cold water. If this is neglected the butter may turn -sour in the process of churning. In winter, on the contrary, the churn -should be kept a little warm by wrapping it in warmed cloths and -working it near the fire. Cold hardens the fatty particles and prevents -their uniting. If nothing is done to raise the temperature enough to -soften them they will be slow in turning to butter and the operation -will be long. - -“As soon as all the fatty particles are well stuck together the butter -is made. It is taken out of the churn and put into cold water, in which -it is kneaded over and over again with a large wooden spoon to press -out the whey with which it is impregnated. - -“If the butter is to be eaten soon, it suffices to keep it in water -that is changed every day for the sake of freshness and to prevent the -butter’s souring. But if it is to be kept for a long time, more -thorough-going means of preservation are necessary. The most simple -method consists in kneading it with kitchen salt, well dried in the -oven and reduced to fine powder. After salting, the butter is put in -earthen jars and the surface covered with a layer of salt. - -“Another way to keep butter is to melt it. I must tell you, to begin -with, that butter, however carefully prepared it may be, always -contains a certain quantity of whey and casein. These are the -substances that, changing later by contact with the air, make butter -sour and finally rancid. If the fatty matter were all by itself, if it -could be completely rid of the casein and whey that go with it, we -could keep it much longer. This result is attained by melting. - -“The butter is placed in a kettle over a bright fire that is even and -moderate. Melting soon begins. The moisture of the whey is evaporated, -this process being hastened by stirring the melted mass. A part of the -casein rises to the surface and forms a scum which is removed; another -part collects at the bottom of the kettle. When the melted butter looks -like oil and when a drop of it thrown on the coals takes fire without -crackling, thus proving that it is quite free from moisture, the -operation is finished. The kettle is taken off the fire, the liquid is -left standing a few minutes to give the casein time to settle at the -bottom, and finally the butter is poured by spoonfuls into earthen jars -carefully dried in the oven. These jars should be of small capacity and -narrow opening, so as to prevent as much as possible the access of air, -the cause of change in all our food substances. It is advisable to put -on top of the butter, as soon as it hardens, a layer of salt, as is -done with salted butter. Finally the jars are closed with parchment, -which is tied on with string.” - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXXII - -RENNET - - -“In the making of cheese the first step is to cause the milk to curdle. -Lemon juice, vinegar, or any other acid would bring about this result, -as we have already seen; but it is customary to make use of another and -much more efficacious liquid called rennet. Let us learn first what -this liquid consists of. That calls for certain explanations apparently -foreign to our subject, but nevertheless leading directly to it. - -“Among our domestic animals three, the ox, goat and sheep, are -remarkable for their horns and split hoofs. All three have a way of -eating very different from that of other kinds of animals. The dog, for -example, after masticating its food sufficiently, swallows it once for -all and passes it into a single digestive cavity called the stomach, -where it becomes a fluid mass suitable for nutrition. On the contrary, -the goat, sheep, and ox chew and swallow the same food twice; at two -different times, with a rather long interval between, the same fodder -is subjected to mastication and passed down the throat. - -“Animals are characterized as ‘ruminant’ that, after chewing their food -once and letting it pass into the digestive cavity, bring it back into -the mouth for a more complete trituration. The ox, goat, and sheep are -ruminants. Instead of only one stomach they have four, that is to say -four membranous pouches where the alimentary matter passes from one to -another before being converted into a sort of nutritive soup. - -“The first of these pouches is called the paunch. It is a spacious -cavity in which the animal accumulates the fodder that has been hastily -browsed and not thoroughly chewed. Its inside surface is thickly -covered with short flat filaments that give it the appearance of coarse -velvet. - -“Watch the ox and sheep in the pasture. They crop the grass without -stopping, without a moment’s rest; they chew very slightly, very -hastily, and then swallow; one mouthful does not wait on another. It is -the time for filling the paunch without losing a bite by prolonged -chewing. Later, in the hours of repose, there will be leisure for -bringing up again the food swallowed and for grinding it to the proper -fineness. - -“This receptacle known as the paunch having received its due supply of -fodder, the animal retires to a quiet spot, lies down in a comfortable -position, and takes up at its ease, for hours at a time, the work of -chewing. This second stage in the preparation of the food under the -millstone of the teeth is called rumination. The ox is then seen -patiently chewing, with an air of gentle satisfaction, without taking -anything from outside. What is it eating thus, when there is apparently -no fodder within reach? It is re-eating what has been stored up in the -paunch, and which now comes up from the bottom of the stomach in little -mouthfuls. Then the motion of the jaws ceases, the mouthful is -swallowed, and immediately after something round and bulging is seen -making its way upward under the skin of the neck. It is a fresh -alimentary ball coming up from the paunch to the mouth to be chewed. -Ball by ball, the mass of fodder accumulated in the paunch comes back -thus to be ground by the teeth to the right degree of fineness and then -swallowed for good.” - -“That’s a clever way to eat,” was Emile’s comment. “In order not to -lose a moment of their time in the pasture, the sheep, goat, and ox do -not stop to do their chewing there: they browse without stopping and -store up a good supply. Then, lying down comfortably in the shade, they -bring up again the contents of the paunch and grind it at their ease, -little by little.” - -“The second stomachic cavity is called the reticulum, its inner surface -presenting a reticulated appearance, with an arrangement of dentate and -laminate folds forming, all together, an elaborate network of meshes. -This curious formation cannot fail to strike you if you look for a -moment at a piece of tripe, one of our countless articles of food; for -what is called tripe is nothing but the collective stomach of the ox.” - -“I remember having seen that beautiful honeycomb network,” said Jules, -“and the coarse velvet lining of the paunch. They were very -interesting.” - -“The office of the honeycomb is to receive, in small portions, the food -already somewhat softened in the paunch, and to mold it into balls, -which rise one at a time to the ruminant’s mouth. That in fact is where -the alimentary balls are made that we see gliding from below upward, -under the skin of the neck of the ruminating ox. - -“After being re-chewed to the proper fineness the food does not return -to the paunch, where it would mix with material not yet similarly -prepared; it goes to the third stomach, or manyplies, so named on -account of its numerous and wide parallel folds, having some -resemblance in arrangement to the leaves of a book. - -“From the manyplies the food passes finally to a fourth and last -stomach called the rennet-bag. After this come the intestines. Now -guess whence we get that significant name of rennet, knowing as you do -what I have especially in mind in this connection?” - -“You have in mind,” answered Jules, “a certain liquid, rennet, that -makes milk curdle quickly. The word rennet, or runnet, as it is also -written, must be connected with the verb run, in the sense of dropping, -coagulating. Can it be, then, that from this fourth stomach or -rennet-bag of ruminants we get the liquid rennet that is used for -curdling milk?” - -“You have said it yourself,” declared Uncle Paul, much pleased at his -nephew’s clear explanation of the matter. “It is from the fourth -stomach of ruminant animals that we obtain rennet, the most efficacious -substance known for curdling milk. - -“Preferably it is the rennet-bag of a young calf that is selected; then -it is cleaned carefully, salted, and dried. Thus treated, it keeps a -long time. When it is required for use, a piece as large as your two -fingers is cut off and put to soak in a glass of water or whey. The -next morning two or three spoonfuls of this liquid, called rennet, is -added to each liter of milk. In a very short time, if kept moderately -warm, the milk turns to a mass of fresh cheese.” - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIII - -CHEESE - - -“The chief constituent of cheese is casein coagulated by the action of -rennet. But, prepared from casein alone, cheese would be coarse and -almost tasteless, and when dry would become as hard as stone. To give -tenderness and flavor to the paste-like mass, the cream is commonly -retained in milk used for making cheese. The casein furnishes the main -substance of the product, while the cream contributes what might be -called the seasoning. - -“Hence we have two principal varieties of cheese: one, prepared with -milk from which the cream has been taken, contains only casein; the -second, made from unskimmed milk, contains both casein and cream. The -first kind, known as cottage cheese, white cheese, or, more -expressively, skim-milk cheese, has little food value and is not made -for its own sake, but in order to put to some use the milk that has -already served to make butter. The second kind, called cream cheese, is -what commonly appears on our tables in different varieties and varying -appearance, according to the quality of the milk and the mode of -preparation. - -“To make cheese still more unctuous and to give it a finer flavor, we -do not always content ourselves with using milk in its natural state; -to the cream that it naturally contains we often add some more from -milk skimmed expressly for the purpose. The cheeses thus enriched with -fatty matter are the most delicate of all. Again, we occasionally adopt -a middle course, using neither natural milk nor entirely creamless -milk, but of two equal parts of milk we keep one just as it is and skim -the other, mixing them together afterward. - -“By adding or withdrawing, in varying quantities, this fatty -constituent of the milk, we obtain as many different varieties of -cheese. If also we bear in mind that sheep’s milk has not exactly the -same properties as goats’ milk, nor goats’ milk the same properties as -cows’ milk; if we remember, further, that the same animal’s milk varies -according to the nature of its feed and the care given to the herd; and -if, finally, we take into account the different methods of manufacture, -of one sort in one place, of another sort somewhere else, we shall -understand how numerous may be and in fact are the various kinds of -cheese.” - -“For my part,” Jules interposed, “I know at least half a dozen kinds. -There is Roquefort, a pasty cheese streaked with blue and of a sharp -flavor; Gruyère, riddled with large round holes and yellowish in color, -and clear like quartz; Auvergne, as large as a big millstone and not -very delicate in flavor; Brie, in thin, wide cakes that sweat a kind of -ill-smelling cream; Mont d’Or, packed with a little straw in a round -deal box; and a lot of others that I can’t remember now.” - -“Jules has just told us the best known kinds of cheese; I will add a -few words on the way they are made. - -“Fresh cheeses are those that are eaten soon after being made. They are -white and soft. They are made of either skimmed or unskimmed milk, and -in the latter case they are incomparably better. When the rennet has -brought about coagulation, the curdled milk is poured into round molds -of tin or glazed earthenware, with holes in the bottom for the escape -of the whey contained in the curdled mass. As soon as this has drained -enough and is sufficiently firm, the cheese is done, and it is taken -from the mold ready for the table without any other preparation.” - -“That’s the cheese I like best,” Emile declared. “It’s the kind we -spread on slices of bread to make those delicious sandwiches.” - -“That is very true, but it has the fault of not keeping long. In a few -days it turns sour and uneatable. All the other cheeses would do the -same, all would spoil and become sour if certain measures were not -taken to prevent this. These measures consist in the use of salt, which -is rubbed and sprinkled on the outside of the cheese, and sometimes -even mixed with the curd itself. All cheeses, then, that are to be kept -a long time receive more or less salt, while fresh cheese is not salted -at all. - -“Of these salted cheeses some are soft, some hard. That of Brie, named -from the district where the best is made, in the department of -Seine-et-Marne, is a large and thin soft cake, made of sheep’s milk. It -is salted on both sides with finely powdered salt, and is left to soak -for two or three days in the salted liquid that drips from it. The -salting finished, the cheeses are packed in a cask with alternate -layers of straw, and are left alone for several months. Then there -starts a kind of fermentation, which is the beginning of putrefaction, -and which develops new qualities. The curd loses its odor and insipid -taste of milk-food, to acquire the heightened flavor and strong smell -of cheese; its mass becomes more oily, even partially fluid, and -changes under the rind to a liquid pap of creamy appearance. This work -of modification is called refining. It has gone just far enough when -the liquid part under the rind is of a pleasant taste. The cheeses are -then taken out of the cask and are ready for eating. - -“This first example shows us that cheese acquires its peculiar -qualities through an incipient deterioration. Before this putrefaction -sets in the cheese is simply curd, sweetish, insipid, without -pronounced odor; after this process it has the odor, the taste, in fact -all that is required to make it really cheese. But the putrefaction, -once started artificially, does not stop where we should like it to -stop. It goes on all the time, slowly indeed if we take some -precautions, and the cheese, smelling more and more, and tasting -stronger and stronger, ends by becoming a mass of rottenness. All -cheese, therefore, when it gets too old, is sure at last to go bad; it -spoils by continuing to excess the kind of deterioration that in the -beginning gave it precisely the qualities desired. - -“From its appetizing flavor and fine texture Roquefort is the king of -cheeses, the prominent feature in any well-appointed dessert. Its -renown extends all over the world.” - -“That’s the cheese that is so strong and takes so much bread to go with -it?” asked Emile. - -“Yes, that is it. Its pronounced flavor and its blue streaks make it -easy to recognize. It is made in a village of Aveyron called Roquefort, -and is obtained from sheep’s milk only, the best of all milk on account -of its richness in casein and butter.” - -“Brie cheese also,” observed Louis, “is made of sheep’s milk; yet it -doesn’t compare in quality with Roquefort.” - -“That marked difference shows us how much the method of making it -determines the quality of cheese. You have just seen what pains are -taken with Brie cheese; now see how much care is given to Roquefort. - -“The cakes of curd are not thin in this case, but as thick as they are -wide. They are stored for months in grottoes hollowed in the heart of a -rock, either by nature or by man, in the environs of the village of -Roquefort. These grottoes are remarkable for the strong currents of air -that circulate through them, and for the coolness of their temperature. -During the summer, while the thermometer outside marks thirty degrees, -[6] it shows but five inside the cheese caves. The difference is that -between the heat of an oppressive summer and the cold of a severe -winter. It is in the depths of these cold caves that the cheeses -acquire their peculiar qualities. The only care given them is an -occasional rubbing with salt and a scraping of their surface to remove -whatever moldiness may have developed. This moldiness even gets into -the inside by degrees, where it forms blue veins. But that is in no way -detrimental; on the contrary, the flavor of the cheese gains by the -formation of this mold, which is merely another kind of rotting that -adds its energies to those of the usual change undergone by cheese. -Hence the makers are not content with letting nature produce these -signs of moldiness: they hasten the process by mixing with the fresh -curd a little powdered moldy bread. The cheese would be better if left -to its own working, but this addition accelerates the result, and -to-day, alas, in the making of Roquefort, as in so many other branches -of industry, there is greater eagerness for quick results than for -excellence. - -“The cheese called Auvergne is made in the mountains of Cantal. Cows’ -milk is used. When the curd has formed, the dairyman, legs and arms -bare, mounts a table and tramples and compresses with feet and hands -the mass of fresh cheese to squeeze out the whey. The curd is then -separated, mixed with pounded salt, and pressed in large round molds -containing up to fifty kilograms. These enormous cheeses are finally -left in cellars to the action of fermentation, which perfects them. - -“Gruyère cheese owes its name to a little village in the canton of -Fribourg in Switzerland. In the Vosges, Jura, and Ain a great quantity -of this cheese is made. This too is made of cows’ milk. The milk, after -a third of its cream has been skimmed off, is slightly warmed in large -kettles over a brisk fire. Then the rennet is poured in. When the curd -has formed, it is separated as much as possible by being stirred in the -kettle with a wide paddle, after which it is warmed still further. -Finally the curd is collected, placed in a mold, and subjected to -strong pressure. The cheese thus produced is next rubbed several times -with salt, and then stored in a cellar and left undisturbed for two or -three months. It is during its stay in the cellar that the holes or -eyes characteristic of Gruyère cheese make their appearance; they are -due to bubbles of gas released from the fermenting substance of the -cheese. You will notice in the making of this kind of cheese the -application of heat. The milk is warmed over the fire just before the -rennet is added, which is not done in the other kinds. Hence Gruyère -cheese is called cooked cheese. - -“If kept too long, all cheeses are sooner or later invaded, first on -the outside and then within, by mold, yellowish white at first, then -blue or greenish, and finally brick red. At the same time the cheese -decays and acquires a repulsive odor and a taste so acrid as to make -the lips sore. The cheese is then a mere mass of putrefaction to be -thrown on the dung-hill. The rate of decay is proportioned to the -softness of the cheese and its permeability by the air. Therefore, in -order that it may keep well, it must be carefully dried and also -reduced to a compact mass by strong pressure. That is why so much force -is exerted in pressing the large cheeses of Gruyère and Auvergne in -their molds. But it is nothing in comparison with certain cheeses, -called Dutch cheeses, which are noted for their extraordinary lasting -qualities. They become so hard and dry that before they can be eaten -they sometimes have to be broken up with a hammer and put to soften -again in a cloth wet with white wine.” - -“Those very hard cheeses, as solid as a rock, can’t be of much use,” -commented Emile. - -“That is where you are mistaken. Cooks use this hard cheese to season -certain dishes, after grating it to a powder. It is also in favor on -shipboard as a valuable article of food on long voyages. The Dutch -cheese is round like a ball, and has a reddish rind. It takes its name -from the country where it is made.” - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIV - -THE PIG - - -“There is every reason to believe that the domestic pig is descended -from one or another of the numerous kinds of wild boar scattered over -Asia—perhaps even from several of them. But the Asiatic wild boar bears -so close a resemblance in shape and habits to the European that it will -suffice for me to acquaint you with the latter in order to give you a -correct idea of the former, and thus show you what the pig must have -been in its primitive state. - -“Though very numerous in early times throughout the forests of France, -wild boars are from day to day diminishing in number with us, and are -destined sooner or later to disappear altogether, as they have already -disappeared from England, where they have now been exterminated to the -last one, as is the case also with wolves. This complete extermination -is explained by the situation of the country. England is entirely -surrounded by the sea. If then the wolf and boar, hunted down as two -undesirable neighbors, are at last entirely destroyed, the two species -are forever annihilated in the island, since the sea interposes an -impassable barrier against new arrivals.” - -“That is perfectly clear,” assented Emile. “As soon as the last wolf -and boar have been killed, the English, protected by the sea that -surrounds them, are rid of these animals once for all.” - -“If we could only rid ourselves of wolves like that!” Louis exclaimed. -“Gladly would I see the skin of the last one stuffed with straw and -paraded from farm to farm. I will say nothing of the boar, as I don’t -know its manner of living.” - -“The wild boar is also a formidable foe, not to flocks, but to -cultivated fields, where it does great damage; besides, it is a brutal -beast, rather dangerous to meet in the depths of a forest. In size and -shape it closely resembles the common pig, the chief difference being -in the boar’s coarse, blackish-red coat; its dorsal bristles, stiff and -strong and standing up in anger in a horrible looking mane; its head, -longer and more curved; its ears, smaller, more erect, and very mobile; -its thick and shorter legs; and, finally, the great stockiness of the -body as a whole. The eyes are small but not without expression, -becoming quite fiery and ferocious in anger. The eye-teeth of each jaw -project in a threatening manner beyond the lips, the lower ones being -very long, with a backward curve, sharp edges, and pointed ends, the -upper ones shorter and rubbing against the first in such a manner as to -serve them as whetstones. From this peculiar function the upper tusks -are in fact sometimes likened to grindstones and hence go by the name -of grinders, while the lower tusks, terrible in combat, are called -defenders. With its powerful muzzle or snout the boar strikes and -overthrows an opponent; with its sharp tusks it rips open and -disembowels. The female, or sow, has no tusks, but her bite is most -formidable; she accompanies it with a ferocious gnashing of the teeth -and an infuriated stamping of the hoofs that would alone prove fatal to -the trampled adversary. The cry of both consists in an obstreperous -snort, a signal of alarm and surprise; but except in case of danger the -brute is usually silent. - -“The wild boar is fond of vast forests, in which it seeks the darkest -and most retired spots where it will not be disturbed by man’s -presence. In the daytime it lies in its retreat or lair amid the -thickest of brushwood and bushes. In the neighborhood there is -generally some sort of muddy pool where it wallows with delight. Toward -nightfall it leaves its retreat in search of food. With its snout it -plows the ground, always in a straight line, to unearth fleshy roots; -it gathers the fruit fallen to the ground, the kernels of cereals, also -chestnuts, beech-nuts, hazel-nuts, and acorns, especially the last, its -favorite food. But a vegetable diet fails to satisfy its voracity. If -it knows of a fish-pond, it plows up the banks to get the eels lurking -in the mud; if it knows of a rabbit-burrow, it ransacks it by hollowing -out a deep ditch and upturning stones with its powerful snout. It -surprises the partridge on its nest and devours mother and brood; it -crunches young rabbits in their snug retreat; it lays hold of young -fawns in their sleep. Finally, if live prey is wanting, it gorges -itself with carrion. The whole night is passed in predatory raids of -this sort, after which the beast regains its lair at the dawn of day. - -“A wild sow’s litter numbers from three to eight little ones, sometimes -called grice. They are white, with tawny or brown stripes running -lengthwise. At the age of six months their hair becomes darker, a sort -of dirty gray, and they outgrow the name of grice. When two years old -their tusks begin to be dangerous, and at an age ranging from three to -five years the animal attains its maximum size and strength and is -entitled to the name of wild boar. After this, until twenty-five or -thirty, the ordinary limit of its life, it is called an old boar or an -old hermit, on account of the isolation in which it lives. Then the -tusks become blunted and turn in toward the eyes. - -“Boar-hunting is not without its dangers. If the boar finds itself hard -pressed by the pack of hounds pursuing it, the animal takes refuge in -some dense thicket of brambles and holly, and forces a passage through -the thorny rampart where no other would dare to penetrate. Through the -opening thus made rush the dogs, vying with one another in ardor and in -barking. There are eight, twelve, fifteen of them; no matter, the boar -awaits with firmness its numerous assailants. Backing up against a -gnarled stump which protects it in the rear, it sharpens its tusks and -works its drivelling jaws. Its mane stands erect on head and back; its -little eyes, inflamed with fury, resemble two glowing coals. The -boldest dogs rush to seize it by the ears; it disperses them with a few -vigorous blows from its snout, dealt with startling promptness. Some -fall back with belly split open, from which the entrails protrude and -catch on the bushes; others have a leg broken, a shoulder dislocated, -or at least one or two flesh wounds. The dying stretch their legs in -the last convulsions of agony, the wounded howl with pain, the least -crippled beat a hasty retreat. But reinforcements arrive, bringing back -the fugitives to the charge. Then, from the midst of the thicket, an -indescribable uproar is heard. To the cries of the pack, howling, -barking, and growling in various keys, and to the wild boar’s grunts of -rage, are added the crashing sound of underbrush broken in the fierce -scrimmage and the shrill notes of the magpies that have flown in all -haste to the scene of tumult and from the surrounding tree-tops noisily -discuss the event. Finally the boar emerges from the thicket and, drunk -with carnage, takes its turn as pursuer. Woe then to the inexperienced -hunter who loses his presence of mind or whose shot misses its mark: he -might forfeit his life for his unwariness and lack of skill. But let us -hope that a bullet, cleverly aimed between the beast’s eyes, will put -an end to a battle that has already cost the lives of the best dogs in -the pack.” - -“I see that this is no tame rabbit-hunt,” said Jules. “If any one -should come within reach of the fierce brute that the dogs are -worrying, he would not, as they say, have much of a picnic.” - -“Nevertheless there are men of dauntless courage who go straight for -the furious beast and plunge their hunting knife into its heart. But -usually the thing is attended with less peril and with no such -atrocious ripping-up of the dogs, a sport for the grand seigneurs. -Ambushed in a safe place, the hunter awaits the boar and gives it a -couple of bullets as it passes; and that is the end of it. If the -attack is less spectacular, at least it spares the life of the dog and -does not endanger man’s.” - -“Then I give it preference,” Jules declared, “to that in which a whole -pack might be killed. I don’t like that slaughter of dogs, with the -boar’s tusks ripping them open there in the underbrush.” - -“And what do they do with the beast after they have killed him?” asked -Louis. - -“It is a piece of game,” replied Uncle Paul, “that surpasses anything -else to be found in our woods. Such a boar, old hermit-boar, as we call -him, may weigh as much as two hundred kilograms. That is enough for a -feast, I should hope, and all the more so as the flesh is excellent. -The piece of honor is the head, the famous boar’s head. - -“The Asiatic wild boar, from which the domestic pig descends, does not -differ from ours in its habits; it is, like ours, a ferocious, coarse, -vigorous, bold, voracious animal, a formidable creature to encounter in -the dark woods. How has this intractable beast become the pig that we -raise? By what care, what gentle treatment, has it been made to lose -its ancient savagery? To these questions there is no further answer -than in the case of the dog and the ox. After centuries and centuries -of domestication, the first steps in this process of redemption from -the wild state have become lost in oblivion. - -“Despite all its improvement the pig still remains a coarse animal, -resembling the wild boar in more than one trait. Like the latter, it -feeds on anything and everything; and even more than the latter is it -addicted to gluttony. The perils attending its wild state no longer -existing, it devotes itself unreservedly to the gratification of its -voracious appetite. The pig is a fat-factory: it lives only to eat, -digest, and fatten. Its gluttony extends even to the devouring of -kitchen refuse, greasy dishwater, nasty leavings, garbage; in fact -everything even to excrementitious matter. Ill effects can result from -its nosing about in filth to satisfy its gluttony, since it is thus -liable to a horrible disease of which we will speak later. Not -satisfied with acorns and other viands that go to fill its trough, it -turns up the earth with its snout in quest of roots, worms, and fat -larvæ. It is always either sleeping, stretched out on its side in the -full enjoyment of digestion, or rooting in the ground in the hope of -some chance additional tidbit, however small. In the cultivated fields, -in prairies and grass-lands, devastation makes rapid progress with such -a miner tearing up the ground. To check this mania for excavating, the -end of the snout is pierced with two holes through each of which is -passed a piece of iron wire, which is then bent into a ring.” - -“Oh, I know,” cried Jules. “I have often seen little rings of iron wire -at the end of a pig’s snout. I didn’t know what they were for, but now -I see. If the pig wants to dig, the iron wire is pressed against the -earth and bruises the raw flesh through which it passes; and the pain -forces the animal to stop.” - -“Yes, that is the part played by the rings fixed in the end of the -snout.” - -“And we see pigs, too, with a kind of large wooden triangle around the -neck,” Emile put in. - -“As the pig is not very tractable and pays little heed to the drover’s -voice, it is customary, when a number of these animals are taken to the -fields, to put around their neck a large triangular wooden collar, -which prevents their getting through hedges and overrunning the -neighboring cultivated fields. - -“The pig’s gluttony is proverbial. But let us beware of reproaching it -for this. Its voracious appetite transmutes into savory meat and fat -quantities of refuse that none of the other domestic animals would eat, -and that would be wasted but for its intervention; out of otherwise -worthless scraps its strong stomach, which turns at nothing, makes -those delectable articles of food so much enjoyed by all of you when -they appear in the form of sausages and sausage-cakes. Let us not -reproach it, either, for its passionate love of mud, in which it -wallows to reduce its temperature. In that it simply inherits the -habits of its ancestor, the wild boar, which also delights in the -luxury of a mud-bath. Besides, it is more our fault than the pig’s -taste. The pig likes a cold bath; it submits with every indication of -satisfaction to being washed and brushed by its keeper. So fond is it -of cleanliness that it alone of all the domestic animals hesitates to -soil its bed with its excrement. Why then does the word pig suggest the -idea of dirtiness? Here we are to blame, more often than not. Let the -pig be given clean water for its bath, and it will turn its back on the -foul mud that it contents itself with for want of something better; let -its premises be kept clean, and the poor animal will be highly -delighted, much preferring a sanitary straw bed to a filthy hole. By -these attentions to cleanliness the animal will be the gainer, and we -shall profit likewise. - -“In lifetime the pig is of no use to us, unless it be in hunting for -truffles, an exercise in which it excels by reason of the extraordinary -development of its nose and the keenness of its scent. Yet even for -this service the dog is preferred, as being better fitted for exploring -uneven ground, more active, and more intelligent. It is after its death -that the pig pays us for the care bestowed upon it. Let us be present -at this event, a festive occasion for the family. - -“Fattened for a long time on potatoes, excellent for making flesh, and -on acorns, which give firmness and savor to the meat, the porker can -hardly stand on its short legs. It sleeps and digests in a reclining -posture, lying lazily on its side. From its neck hang three and four -great cushions of fat; under its belly are seen ponderous masses of -lard; the rump is well rounded, the back padded with fat. The animal is -ripe for the knife. At the break of day it is aroused from its sweet -repose and sacrificed in the midst of piercing cries of protest against -so cruel a fate. With torches of burning straw the bristles are burnt -off, after which the body is well scraped and washed, then opened and -cut up. Now the housewife proceeds to the work of salting and curing -this rich store of provision. Every member of the family comes to her -aid. Here, over a big fire, in a resplendent copper kettle, the lard is -tried out and poured into pots, where it hardens and turns as white as -snow. Yonder the black puddings are hardening in boiling water. Over -there some one is busily plying a big chopping-knife, mincing the meat -that is to go into sausages, which will be wound in a long garland -about two laths and hung from the ceiling opposite the fireplace to get -a good drying. In still another place the ham is being made ready for -wrapping in linen and hanging in a corner under the chimney mantel to -assure its preservation. On a screen are spread the most important -parts of the animal, the chine and flanks, covered with a layer of -salt. And the housewife’s heart is filled with content as she views her -cupboards and larders stored with provisions for a year to come. - -“Now, these provisions, on which the housekeeper’s hopes are based, -would speedily decay and become unfit for food without the use of salt. -A piece of meat left to itself soon gives out a bad smell and undergoes -putrefaction. The higher the temperature and the damper the air, the -more rapid the rate of decay. That is why the approach of winter and as -far as possible a dry time are chosen for the annual pig-killing. Salt -in liberal quantities is used for preserving the meat, lard, and fat. -Salted meat dries without becoming tainted, and keeps for a long time, -though not indefinitely, since sooner or later it turns rancid. -Nevertheless salting is the best way to preserve meat. - -“Another process, discovered long ago and very efficacious, consists in -exposing the meat to the action of smoke from burning wood. That is why -salted hams are hung in the chimney-corner. But on the farm it usually -happens that too little attention is paid to this method of curing: it -is deemed sufficient to place the hams within reach of the smoke from -the fireplace without any covering to protect them. Hence the meat -becomes covered with soot, black juices permeate it, and putrefaction -sets in. To avoid this mishap it is enough to wrap the hams in two -layers of linen, which sifts the smoke, keeps out the soot, and admits -only the vapors really adapted to the preservation of the meat without -blackening it and giving it a disagreeable taste. - -“In various countries, Germany and England for example, smoking is -practised on a large scale for curing beef as well as pork. Three or -four rooms with low ceilings and communicating with one another by -means of openings are connected with a fireplace at some distance, in -which oak shavings and aromatic plants are burnt. The largest pieces -are hung in the first room on poles or iron hooks, the medium-sized -pieces are hung in the second, and the smallest are relegated to the -last room. The smoke, on account of the comparative remoteness of the -fireplace, is cold when it reaches the first compartment, where it acts -with full force on the large pieces of meat, the hardest to penetrate. -Thence it passes to the second compartment, and finally to the third, -thus in proportion to its loss of strength encountering pieces less -resistant to its action. As food, smoked meat is preferable to salted: -it tastes better and is easier to digest. - -“Smoking is also applied to fish. You have a well-known example in the -herring. This fish, as it comes from the grocer, is sometimes silvery -white, sometimes golden red. In the first state he calls it white -herring; in the second, red herring. The difference is in the way it is -cured. Directly after being caught, the herrings are opened, cleaned, -washed, and put to soak in brine, that is to say in a strong solution -of salt. About fifteen hours later they are taken out, put to drip, and -finally packed in casks in regular layers. The product of this process -is the white herring, so named because the fish, simply salted and put -up in casks, keeps its beautiful silvery color. Smoking produces the -so-called red herring, recognizable from its golden-yellow tint and -smoky smell. The fresh fish are first of all strongly salted by being -left thirty hours in the brine; then they are attached to small twigs -or branches passed through the gills, after which they are hung in a -sort of fireplace where green wood is burnt, which gives out little -flame and torrents of smoke. It is here that the herring takes on its -red color and its slightly smoky smell.” - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXXV - -PIG’S MEASLES - - -Jean had come to market to sell his pig; Mathieu, on his part, had gone -thither to buy one. Jean’s animal pleased him. After some talk in which -all sorts of finesse were employed on the part of the seller to -heighten the value of his merchandise, on the part of the buyer to -lower it, they came to an agreement on the price and shook hands to -bind the bargain. - -But before taking out his purse and counting out the crowns Mathieu -wished, as was his right, to make sure that the pig was sound. A man -was called whose business it was to decide such questions. He took the -animal by the legs and threw it over on its side. Whereas Jean and -Mathieu stood in some awe of the animal, he made no ceremony about -forcing a stick, as a sort of lever, between the pig’s teeth and prying -the jaws apart. Then he plunged his hand in between those terrible jaws -and felt about with his fingers to the right, to the left, and -especially under the tongue. Meanwhile the pig was giving forth -heartbreaking cries, and with raucous grunts all its companions in the -market voiced their sympathy in its distress. The whole square was in -an uproar. The ordeal over, the animal was let loose and immediately -everything became quiet again. The pig was found to be in good -condition. - -Emile was passing at the time of this performance. What are they doing -to that poor animal with the big stick thrust between its jaws? Why are -they feeling in its mouth? Couldn’t they leave the creature in peace -instead of making it squeal worse than if they were slaughtering it? -Such were the questions that passed through Emile’s mind as he found -himself almost seized with terror at the piercing cries of the animal -and the chorus of alarmed grunts from its companions. In the evening -the conversation turned upon this event. - -“The man who felt with his hand in the pig’s mouth,” Uncle Paul -explained, “while the stick kept the formidable jaws apart, had a -definite purpose, which was to assure himself that the animal was free -from measles. For the pig is subject to a strange disease thus named, -which makes its flesh unwholesome and even dangerous. When the animal -is afflicted with this malady, its flesh is filled with a multitude of -round white granules from the size of a pinhead to that of a pea, or -larger; these granules are called hydatids. Their number is sometimes -so great that in a piece of fat no larger than the five fingers of my -hand they can be counted by hundreds. To determine whether a pig is -thus affected, it is of course out of the question to explore the flesh -of the living body. What do they do then? They feel the soft parts -accessible to the hand—the walls of the mouth and especially the under -side of the tongue, a favorite haunt of the hydatids. If hard granules -are felt by the fingers, the pig is affected and its market value -greatly lowered; if no such granules are found, the animal is healthy -and will bring its full price. That is the reason of the operation that -so puzzled Emile this morning in the market. The man that was feeling -of the animal’s tongue was an inspector. His office is to examine all -pigs offered for sale and to determine from the feeling of the tongue -whether the animal has the measles. Hence he is commonly called a -tongue-tester, a word that will now explain itself to you.” - -“I see very well,” Jules interposed, “how the word came to be used in -connection with the examination of the pig’s tongue, but I don’t yet in -the least understand how those hard white granules that the -tongue-tester looks for, those hydatids as you call them, can make the -meat unwholesome and dangerous.” - -“You will soon see. Each of those granules is a lodge, a cell, a little -chamber if you like, in which lives a sort of worm, richly fed by the -pig’s animal substance. You are familiar with the worm that inhabits -the juicy pulp of cherries, with the one that gnaws the kernel of nuts, -with the one that makes its home in the heart of the pear and apple, -and with countless others in fact that I told you about when we were on -the subject of harmful insects. Well, fruit is not the only thing to -harbor such troublesome guests; every animal has its parasites to -devour it while it is still alive. The pig in its turn has a great -many, especially when its gluttonous habits lead it to feed on -excrement. One of these parasites is the worm I have mentioned. - -“It is the most curious creature one could possibly imagine. Picture to -yourselves a little bladder full of liquid as clear as water; on this -bladder a very short and wrinkled neck; finally, at the extremity of -this neck a round head bearing on the sides four suckers and at the end -thirty-two hooks arranged in the shape of a crown in a double ring. -That is the worm, the hydatid. Each one is enclosed in a sort of little -pouch, a firm and semi-transparent cell which derives its substance -from the flesh of the pig itself. Commonly the tiny creature is -entirely hidden in its snug retreat; at other times, through an opening -in the pouch, it stretches its neck and pushes its head out a little, -doubtless to feed on the adjacent fluid matter by means of its four -suckers. As to the little bladder forming the other part of the worm, -it never leaves its cell, the cavity of which it fills exactly. Hence -the animal never changes its place.” - -“That must be a very dull sort of life,” was Emile’s comment. “No -exercise for the little worm except occasionally sticking its head out -of the bag that holds it, and then drawing it in again and shutting the -door. Is this bag very large?” - -“There are different-sized ones, according to the worm’s degree of -development, for as it grows its dwelling also becomes larger. The -usual shape of these cells is that of a small egg, the greatest -dimension of which might be as much as two centimeters, and the -smallest five or six millimeters. - -“Hydatids live in the flesh of a live pig; they live there by thousands -and thousands, in such multitudes that sometimes not a piece of fat the -size of a nut could be found free from these little parasites. Each -one, snugly ensconced in its retreat, its strongly-walled cell, grows -in peace, sheltered from all attack, and makes predatory raids in the -immediate vicinity with its crown of hooked claws and its four -suckers.” - -“What a miserable fate is the pig’s,” Emile exclaimed, “to be eaten up -alive like that, all full of the ravenous vermin and unable to get rid -of them! The poor animal must soon succumb.” - -“Not exactly. It wastes away, it is true, but it resists for a long -time, being very tenacious of life.” - -“I can’t think without horror,” said Jules, “of the terrible itching -such an army of vermin must cause, biting and boring into the -creature’s flesh all over its body.” - -“Your horror would redouble if you knew that this vermin only awaits a -favorable opportunity to emigrate to our bodies even, and to ravage us -in our turn.” - -“What! Those horrid pig worms have designs on us?” - -“And designs, alas, too often accomplished, if we are not careful. That -is what we are now about to consider.” - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVI - -A PERSISTENT PARASITE - - -“Many members of the animal kingdom change their form in the course of -their existence, and with the new structure adopt also a new way of -living. Thus the caterpillar and the butterfly, for example, are in -reality the same creature, but very different in shape and habits. The -caterpillar drags itself heavily over the plant, gnawing the foliage; -the butterfly, furnished with light and graceful wings, flies from -flower to flower, imbibing a sugary liquor from each with its long -proboscis. The cherry worm grows in the midst of the juice that feeds -it; after attaining full size it falls from the tree with the damaged -fruit and hastens to bury itself in the ground, there to undergo its -transformation. Next spring it comes forth in the form of an elegant -fly that lives on honey from the flowers and never again touches a -cherry except to deposit its eggs therein, one by one. In the same way, -again, the nut worm, after finishing its growth, bores a hole in the -firm shell, emerges from its fortress, and buries itself for a time in -the soil. There it becomes a beetle with a long proboscis, the -so-called nut weevil, which leaves its subterranean retreat in the -spring and takes up its quarters on the foliage of a nut tree, where it -lays its eggs in the growing nuts. - -“All species of animal life that change their shape act in this way. In -the first half of their existence, under their initial form, they have -certain habits and certain dwelling-places; in the second half, under -their final form, they have habits and abodes that are quite different. - -“Well, the worm that makes its home in the white cells or granules of -the diseased pig’s flesh is also subject to transformation. It has to -change its form, but before doing so it must first change its abode. -The cherry worm would never turn into a fly so long as it remained in -the cherry; the nut weevil would never become a beetle if it continued -to abide in the nut. Both must emigrate and hollow out a home for -themselves in the earth if they would cease to be worms and become a -fly in one case, a beetle in the other. In like manner, the parasites -of the diseased pig would never attain their final form in the flesh -that they inhabit; it is absolutely necessary for them to change their -abode in order that the transformation may take place. But as they -cannot leave their cells of their own accord and transport themselves -to their new abode, which is difficult of access, as you will see, they -wait patiently, whole years if necessary, for a favorable opportunity -to emigrate.” - -“Where then is this new abode?” asked Jules. - -“In us, my poor child, in us exclusively. The cherry worm and the nut -weevil are content, for the purposes of their metamorphosis, with a -hole in the sand; but the odious worm of the diseased pig must have the -human body for its new home—nothing else.” - -“It can’t be that the abominable creature really gets into us.” - -“It gets there very easily, and it is we ourselves who unconsciously -open the door to the perfidious enemy. Some day or other the pig is -killed for our nourishment. Its four legs become hams, other parts are -made into sausages, its fat is tried out and stored away. All these -various pork products are well salted, carefully dried, or sometimes -smoked; nothing is neglected that will assure long keeping. Now in all -this thorough treatment, this salting and trying and smoking, what do -you think becomes of the little worms inhabiting the diseased flesh?” - -“They must die, surely.” - -“That is where you are mistaken. They are very tenacious of life, the -accursed things! The strongest saline solution leaves them unaffected; -but if some or even a great many should perish, there would always be -plenty of survivors, for they are numerous beyond counting. Behold, -then, our food infected with the vermin that at the first opportunity -will invade our bodies. You eat a sausage the size of your finger, or a -slice of ham, and the thing is done: with the appetizing mouthful you -have just swallowed the horrible creature. Henceforth the enemy is with -you, at home; it will grow, develop, be transformed, and cause no end -of mischief.” - -“But the stomach will digest it, I hope, as it would digest anything -else; and the hateful intruder will perish.” - -“Not at all. The digestive energies of the stomach make no impression -on it. It passes through quite untouched, protected perhaps by its -resistant shell, and goes farther on to establish itself definitively -in the intestines. - -“And now all the conditions are the best possible for the worm. The -situation is quiet, disturbance from without is not to be apprehended, -and the best food in our power to furnish is supplied in abundance. -With its double ring of hooks, each one shaped like the fluke of an -anchor, the organism fastens itself to the wall of its abode and -straightway begins to develop. On its arrival it was a very short and -wrinkled little worm, terminating at one end in a small round head, at -the other in a spacious bladder. In a short time it will turn into a -sort of ribbon that may attain the enormous length of four or five -meters.” - -“Oh, how horrible!” cried Louis. “Can it be that we serve as a dwelling -for such a guest?” - -“Say rather for a number of such guests, since as a rule they are not -found singly. They are commonly called solitary worms, an improper -term, as you see, since there are generally several of them together. -Their real name is tænia, or tape-worm, from their ribbon-like form. - -“Imagine a narrow tape or band of a dull white color, a sort of ribbon -of variable length that may measure as much as five meters; imagine -this ribbon almost as small as a hair near the creature’s head, then -broadening little by little and attaining the width of a centimeter; -picture to yourself the entire length of the creature divided into -sections or joints, some square, others oblong, placed end to end like -the beads of a chaplet, or, better, like pumpkin seeds strung one after -another, and you will have a sufficiently good idea of the tænia or -tape-worm. - -“The number of these joints is sometimes as many as a thousand, and, -what is more, new ones are always forming, for the tænia has the -singular faculty of producing them indefinitely in a row, each one -growing out of the preceding. All are full of eggs, detestable seed of -the original malady in the pig, and then of the tape-worm in man. The -terminal sections or joints, the oldest and ripest, become detached -from time to time in chaplets and are expelled. Any pig nosing about in -the excrement containing them is pretty sure to become infected from -the eggs contained in these joints, for each one is the germ of a -hydatid. These eggs will hatch in the animal’s intestines; and, as soon -as hatched, the young worms, opening a passage for themselves here and -there with their crown of hooks, will go and lodge wherever they -please, some in the lean flesh, some in the fat, there to encase -themselves in a resistant shell, a cell built out of the pig’s -substance, and there they will await the moment favorable for their -emigration to the human body. - -“These frequent losses in chaplets of discarded sections do not in the -least impair the tape-worm’s vigor; new sections grow, and the -frightful length of the creature is maintained. Were it to lose almost -its entire length, that would in no wise trouble it; let only the head -remain, firmly held in place by its hooks, and new joints will form -until the worm is as long as ever. Until the head is got rid of there -is no hope of deliverance. I could not describe to you, my children, -the atrocious sufferings of a person afflicted with this formidable -parasite so difficult to dislodge.” - -“You give us goose-flesh,” said Emile, “with that five-meters-long worm -that keeps growing again, each time stronger than before, provided its -head is left.” - -“It must need very serious precaution,” Louis remarked, “not to be -attacked by the creature.” - -“The precaution is very simple. Since the tape-worm has its origin in -the diseased pig, let us beware of all pork thus infected. This -infection, as I told you, is recognizable in the white granules -abounding in the flesh, each granule being the abode of a little worm, -the first form of the tænia. Raw meats, such as ham and sausage, are -the only ones to fear, because salting and drying leave, if not all, at -least some of these worms alive. But meat perfectly cooked, either -boiled or baked, is absolutely without any danger even if infested with -a multitude of these little granules, because heat of a sufficient -intensity kills whatever worms they contain. - -“The rule to follow, therefore, is plain: if a pig is diseased, it need -not be summarily thrown away; its flesh, although of inferior quality, -its lard and bacon, can very well be utilized, but care must be taken -never to use any of this food without first thoroughly cooking it at a -heat intense enough to destroy every dangerous germ. As for the pig -itself, it can be kept from the measles by cleanliness, and especially -by seeing that it eats no excrement. Every pig that wanders about and -feeds on filth deposited along walls may find under its snout some -pieces of tænia, swallow them with the dirty food, and thus become -infected with hydatids. - -“To finish this subject, I will tell you of another tænia which in its -tape-worm form inhabits the dog’s intestines, and in its bladder-like -or hydatid stage has its home in the sheep’s brain. Grass defiled by -the excrement of dogs affected with this tænia receives the eggs of the -expelled ripened sections. A sheep comes to browse this grass, and in a -few weeks a terrible disease shows itself in the poor animal. With wild -eye, driveling mouth, and heavy head, the animal turns round and round, -always the same way, and falls gasping on its side. Food no longer -tempts it, the blade of grass stops on its bleeding lips. All its -efforts to stand up are powerless; it keeps looking for a support, -especially for its head, and if this support is lacking it falls after -a few turns. This strange disease is called the staggers, from the -animal’s tendency to turn and turn with staggering motions. - -“Now if we open the brain of a sheep that has died of the staggers, we -invariably find in the cerebral substance one or more limpid bladders -from the size of a pea to that of a hen’s egg.” - -“And these horrid worms in the bladder,” queried Jules, “no doubt -destroy the brain matter, little by little.” - -“They grow at the expense of the brain.” - -“I can well believe then, that the sheep is unable to stand.” - -“Each of these little bladders is a tænia in its first stage of -development, and comes from the germ sown by the severed link or joint -that the dog ejects with its excrement. As indisputable proof of this, -if lambs are made to swallow some of the tænia links ejected by the -dog, these lambs soon show themselves to be seized with the staggers, -and in their brains are found the bladder-like organisms that cause the -disease. The germs contained in the severed pieces of the tænia must -therefore hatch in the lamb’s intestines, and the worms thus brought -into being must make their way, through a thousand obstacles, to the -animal’s brain, the only part of its body adapted to the development of -the parasite.” - -“Then it is in the brain that the little worms grow and become bladders -as large as hens’ eggs?” - -“It is only there that they can flourish. But these bladder-shaped -worms are only incomplete beings, comparable to the larvæ of insects; -and as long as they remain in the sheep’s brain their final development -will not be attained. To acquire their final form, to become tænias, -tape-worms, these larvæ must pass into the dog’s intestines. A -conclusive experiment shows it. If a dog is made to take with its food -some vesicular worms from a sheep’s brain, the animal soon gives -unequivocal signs of the presence of the tænia: its excrement contains -chaplets more or less long of ripe joints. Furthermore, by sacrificing -the dog so as to be able to decide the question more conclusively, one -finds in the intestines the vesicular worms converted into veritable -tænias or tape-worms. So the dog gives the sheep the germs that develop -in the brain into vesicular worms; and the sheep gives the dog back -these vesicular worms, which change into tape-worms in the intestines.” - -“But how,” asked Louis, “can the dog become infected with vesicular -worms when they are not expressly given to it with its food, as an -experiment?” - -“Nothing easier. The sheep affected with the staggers is slaughtered, -and its head, the seat of the disease, is thrown away. The dog that -finds it feasts on it.” - -“And there we have shepherd dogs attacked by tænia,” said Louis. “Their -excrement will spread the staggers among the flock.” - -“We must, then,” concluded Uncle Paul, “as is recommended by those who -have studied this subject experimentally in veterinary schools, -exercise careful supervision over shepherd dogs and exclude from the -flock those that are attacked with the tænia; finally, if the infection -shows itself in the sheep, we must bury beyond the reach of any dog the -heads of the slaughtered animals.” - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVII - -THE HORSE - - -“Would you like to hear some eloquent words written about the horse -several thousand years ago? I take them from the book of Job, the just -man, whose admirable history is related in the Bible.” - -“It was Job wasn’t it,” asked Jules, “who was tried by the hand of God, -lost his health, family, all his goods, and was reduced to such misery -that, lying on a dung-hill, he scraped his boils and vermin with a -potsherd? His faith in God gave him back his former prosperity.” - -“Yes, my friend. The just man whose faith in God even the direst -misfortunes could not shake has left us these beautiful words on the -horse: - -“‘Hast Thou given the horse strength? hast Thou clothed his neck with -thunder? Canst Thou make him afraid as a grasshopper? The glory of his -nostrils is terrible. He paweth in the valley, and rejoiceth in his -strength: he goeth on to meet the armed men. He mocketh at fear, and is -not affrighted; neither turneth he back from the sword. The quiver -rattleth against him, the glittering spear and the shield. He -swalloweth the ground with fierceness and rage: neither believeth he -that it is the sound of the trumpet. He saith among the trumpets, Ha, -ha; and he smelleth the battle afar off, the thunder of the captains, -and the shouting.’ - -“Thus spake Job in the ancient days while around his camel’s-skin tent -bounded mares and colts under the shade of the palm trees. Now let us -listen to our great historian of animals, Buffon, who, in his turn, -draws in a few splendid phrases the portrait of the horse. - -“‘The noblest conquest man has ever made is that of this proud and -spirited animal that shares with him the fatigues of war and the glory -of battle. As intrepid as its master, the horse sees danger and shrinks -not; it becomes accustomed to the clash of arms, loves it, seeks it, -and is fired with the same ardor. It also shares his pleasure in the -chase, in the tournament, and in racing. But, no less docile than -courageous, it does not let its ardor run away with it; it knows how to -control its impulses. Not only does it obey the hand that guides it, -but it seems to consult that hand’s wishes; always responding to its -touch, it quickens or slackens its pace, or stops altogether, compliant -in its every act. It is a creature which renounces itself to exist only -by the will of another; which by the promptness and precision of its -movements expresses and executes that will; which feels as much as it -is desired to and only renders what is asked; which surrenders itself -unreservedly, refuses nothing, serves with all its strength, wears -itself out, and even dies to obey the better.’ Thus Buffon expresses -himself in regard to the horse.” - -“I like Job’s way of saying it a good deal better,” Jules declared. - -“I too,” his uncle assented. “To my mind, no one has said it better -than the old author who lived in the land of palms. In a few sublimely -energetic words he paints for us the character of the horse.” - -“I’m too young,” said Emile, “to have an opinion on such a lofty -subject; at the same time I will confess, Uncle, that I get lost very -easily in Buffon’s long sentences.” - -“In the form in which I have quoted them to you, do not call them long, -for on your account I took the liberty to cut them up into separate -clauses. In the author’s exact words the whole makes but one sentence. -From beginning to end, the sonorous period does not give one a chance -to take breath.” - -“All the same, in spite of the cutting, I still lose my way.” - -“Let us return then to your uncle’s simple manner of talking. The -appearance of the horse denotes agility combined with strength. The -body is powerful, the chest broad, the rump well rounded, the head -somewhat heavy but sustained by strong neck and shoulders; the thighs -and shoulders are muscular, legs slender, hocks vigorous and supple. A -graceful mane falling on one side runs along the neck; the tail bears a -thick growth of long hair which the animal uses to drive troublesome -flies from its flanks. The eyes are large, set near the surface, and -very expressive; the ears, remarkable for their mobility, point and -open in any desired direction in order the better to catch the sound in -their trumpet-shaped exterior. The nostrils are full and also very -mobile; the upper lip projects and folds over to seize the food, -arrange it in a convenient mouthful, and carry it to the teeth, just as -a hand would. The whole surface of the skin, which is extremely -sensitive, quivers and shakes at the slightest touch. Let us not forget -a characteristic peculiar to the horse and other animals that most -nearly resemble it, such as the zebra and donkey: on the forelegs, and -sometimes the hind ones as well, there is a bare spot, hard as horn, -and known as a callus. - -“The horse’s neigh or whinny, as it is called, varies according to the -feelings expressed. The whinny of delight is rather long, rising little -by little, and ending in a shrill note. At the same time the animal -kicks out, but not violently or with any desire to do harm—merely as a -sign of joy. To express desire the whinny is longer, ends on a lower -key, and is not accompanied with any kicking movement. On these -occasions the horse sometimes shows its teeth and seems to laugh. The -neigh of anger is short and sharp. Vigorous kicks accompany it, the -lips are distorted in a grimace, showing the teeth, and the ears lie -close to the head and point backward. This last sign shows an intention -to bite. The neigh of fear is pitched low and is hoarse and short. It -seems to be produced chiefly by blowing through the nostrils, and -slightly resembles the lion’s roar. The animal’s chief mode of defense, -kicking, is sure to accompany it. Finally, the note of pain is a deep -groan, becoming weaker and weaker, subsiding and then coming again with -the alternate inspiration and expiration.” - -“So when the horse shows its big teeth and seems to laugh, it wants -something,” Emile broke in. - -“Yes, my friend. It is hungry and tired, and it thinks of the repose of -the stable, of the crib filled with hay, of the manger with its savory -peck of oats. Perhaps it has heard the joyful neighing of its mates and -wishes to join them. Horses that are most given to neighing with -eagerness or desire are the best horses, the most spirited.” - -“And if they lay their ears back they want to bite?” - -“Yes, that is their way of giving notice that they are going to have -revenge for some ill-treatment, by biting. - -“In our talk on the Auxiliaries, I have already told you of the -remarkable structure of their teeth; in particular I showed you how the -horse’s molars, or grinders, are arranged so as to grind the tough -fodder like mill-stones. A very hard substance called enamel, capable -of striking fire like flint, covers the teeth and extends into the -underlying and less resistant mass of ivory, forming on the crown of -each molar a number of sinuous folds. These hard folds constitute a -kind of strong file which tears in pieces the blades of forage when the -opposite molar is brought into play. Need I go over all this again?” - -“No, Uncle,” replied Jules; “we all remember how ivory wears away by -degrees, but the folds of enamel cap this softer substance and keep the -molars in a proper condition for crushing the food.” - -“Then I will continue by showing you how by examining a horse’s -incisors we may learn the animal’s age. These incisors are six in -number in each jaw. They are accompanied in the upper and often also in -the lower jaw by two small canine teeth having the shape of pointed -nipples. Beyond these, and until the row of molars begins, the jaw is -toothless, and this part is called the bar.” - -“I know,” broke in Louis; “it is in the bar that the bit is placed with -which the horse is guided.” - -“Let us return to the incisors. The two in the middle of the jaw are -called the first or central incisors; the next two, one on the right -and the other on the left of the first ones, are called the second -incisors; finally, the two last, one on each side, are called the third -incisors. Remember these names; they will save us the trouble of -roundabout expressions. - -“A few days after birth the central incisors show themselves in each of -the foal’s jaws. In one or two months the second incisors appear, and -in six or eight months the third incisors pierce the gum. These are the -first or milk teeth, as they are called. When the animal is between two -and a half and three years old they fall out and are replaced by the -second teeth, which make their appearance in the same order as the -preceding ones: first the central incisors, then the second incisors, -and lastly the third incisors. The three pairs succeed one another at -intervals of about a year. I will add that the milk teeth are whiter -and narrower than the others. You already see that by examining the -incisors and noting whether they are first or second teeth we can tell -the age of a young horse; but there are other distinctive marks which -we must now learn. - -“Here is a picture of the longitudinal section of a horse’s incisor. In -the lower part, or root, of the tooth is a cavity occupied by the nerve -which gives sensitiveness to the tooth and which carries to it, in the -blood, the materials for its growth and maintenance. The upper part, or -crown, likewise contains a depression, which is called the pit or -cavity of the crown, and is filled with blackish matter. A layer of -enamel covers the outside of the tooth, folds over the crown, and -extends into the cavity, the walls of which it lines. The rest of the -tooth is composed of ivory. - -“From this structure you will see that the enamel, continuing -uninterruptedly from the outside to the inside, forms a sharp ridge on -the edges of the coronal cavity. But this condition does not last long -and is found only in incisors of recent formation. In fact, by the -grinding of the teeth one against another when the animal chews its -forage, the edge of the enamel first crumbles, then wears off little by -little, and finally disappears altogether, leaving the ivory exposed on -the top of the crown. This friction always going on, the coronal cavity -or pit becomes less and less deep until at last there is nothing of it -left. The upper face of the crown is then flat instead of hollowed-out -as it was at first. This gradual obliteration of the hollow or pit in -the crown of the incisor, whether in the first or in the second set of -teeth, furnishes a means of determining the horse’s age. I have just -told you when the milk teeth make their appearance; I will now add what -is to be said about their wearing down. The central incisors of the -first set of teeth are worn down so that their crowns are flat in ten -months, the second incisors in one year, and the third incisors in from -fifteen months to two years. Let us next consider how the horse’s age -may be determined at a later period. - -“I here show you a picture of the incisors of the lower jaw. What do -you see that will help you to estimate the horse’s age?” - -“I see in the first place,” answered Jules, “that the teeth are not all -of the same age. The two in the middle, the central incisors as you -call them, are newer, since the cavities in their crowns are in good -condition, with their sharp edges of enamel. The others are older; -their crowns are blunted by friction; in fact, they are a good deal -worn down.” - -“Are all six of the same cutting?” - -“Evidently not, for if they were, the middle incisors would show the -most wear, as they come first; but exactly the opposite is the case. -Since they are quite new and those on each side are already worn, they -must belong to the second cutting.” - -“That is quite right. Now find the animal’s age.” - -“Let me think a moment. I have it. When the horse is between two and a -half and three years old the shedding of the milk teeth begins. The -first to be replaced are the central incisors. The jaw you show me has -these teeth of the second set quite new. Consequently the horse is -about three years old.” - -“The answer leaves nothing to be desired: the horse is in fact three -years old. Now, Louis, what have you to say about this jaw that I next -show you?” - -“Here, too, the teeth are of different sets, since the central incisors -and those next to them are less worn than the others. Moreover, the -second incisors are newer than the middle ones, as can be seen from -their sharper edges. These second incisors are second teeth; so are the -central incisors, which are a little worn because they appeared the -preceding year. The third incisors, which show the most wear of all, -are milk teeth.” - -“All that is correct. And the animal’s age?” - -“It must be four years old. At three the second set of central incisors -has grown, and now at four come the incisors next to them.” - -“Your opinion is mine too: the horse is four years old. Now it is -Emile’s turn. I will ask him to examine this third picture of a horse’s -jaw, and I hope he will show his usual perspicacity.” - -“These teeth,” said Emile after some study, “are too large to be milk -teeth. All six belong to the second set, and as the newest are the -outside incisors the animal must be a year older than the preceding -one; that is to say, five years.” - -“Very good, Emile,” applauded his uncle. “You have handled the case -like a master. At five years the entire second set of incisors has -pushed through and it is too late to learn anything by comparing teeth -of first and second sets; henceforth the degree of wear in the -different incisors is our sole guide. Thus at six years the coronal pit -in the central incisors has entirely disappeared, while it is still -plainly seen in the third incisors. Finally, at eight years these -latter are worn down so that their crowns are smooth. It is then said -that the horse no longer shows its age by its teeth. Nevertheless an -expert can still detect, on the surface of the incisors as they become -more and more worn, certain marks that enable him to estimate, at least -pretty nearly, the age of the horse up to the twentieth year and -beyond.” - -“That must be a difficult undertaking,” commented Jules. - -“Very difficult; therefore I will not dwell on it any longer.” - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVIII - -THE HORSE (Continued) - - -“Now let us say a few words about the horse’s coat, the growth of hair -that covers its body. This may be of uniform color or of two or more -different colors. Coats of uniform color are the white, the black, and -the chestnut. The two first do not need any explanation. A horse is -chestnut when its coat is of a reddish or yellowish tint. - -“Among the composite coats, the following are distinguished. The horse -is piebald if the coloring is in large splashes, some white, others -black or red. It is flee-bitten gray if the coat is a mixture of white, -black, and red, over the whole body, legs and all; but if the legs are -black while the body presents a combination of the three tints, the -horse is roan. Bay horses have a chestnut-colored coat, that is to say -reddish or yellowish, with the legs, the mane, and the tail brown or -black. The coat is dappled when it is thickly sprinkled with light -spots on a darker background of uniform color. Dappled gray is common. -It is dun when the color is yellowish with a brown stripe on the back, -a peculiarity rather common in the donkey and mule. A number of other -terms are used in describing a horse’s coat in detail. Thus the term -white-foot is applied to the white marking sometimes found just above -the hoof. A white spot in the middle of the forehead is called a blaze -if it is round, a star if angular. - -“The horse’s mode of progress is called its gait, and may be either -natural or artificial, depending on whether the animal is untrained or -trained. The natural gaits are the walk, the trot, and the gallop. In -the walk the legs move in what may be termed a diagonal sequence, as -follows: the right fore leg, the left hind leg, the left fore leg, the -right hind leg. If the horse is well formed the hind foot steps exactly -into the track left by the fore foot on the same side. - -“In the trot the feet are lifted and put down two by two in diagonal -pairs, the right fore foot with the left hind foot, and the left fore -foot with the right hind foot. This gait is more rapid than the -preceding, but is also harder for the rider as well as for the horse, -because of the shock sustained when two feet strike the ground at the -same time. - -“The gallop is of several kinds, the simplest and swiftest consisting -of a succession of forward bounds. The two fore feet are lifted at the -same time, then the two hind feet, which push the animal with a sudden -spring. That is the racer’s gait. - -“Among the artificial gaits I will mention the amble, in which the legs -move in pairs on the same side, the two left at the same time, then the -two right, alternately. The horse thus maintains a sort of oscillation, -furnishing a gentle and easy motion for the rider. The amble is, -however, rapid, for as there is no support on the side of the two -uplifted legs the animal keeps from falling only by the rapidity of its -motion. - -“In galloping a horse covers ten meters a second, or at most fifteen -when going at top speed. In trotting it covers from three to four -meters, and in walking, from one to two.” - -“Let me reckon up what that would be in an hour,” Emile interposed. “I -will take the highest figures.” With his pencil he wrote some figures -on a piece of paper, and then said: “That would make, by the hour, -thirteen leagues of four kilometers each for the horse at its fastest -gallop; only three leagues for the horse when trotting; and a league -and a half when walking.” - -“I must inform you, my friend,” rejoined his uncle, “that though a -horse can keep up a trot for whole hours at a time, it is impossible -for it to gallop even one hour without stopping. The speed that would -give the enormous distance of thirteen leagues an hour lasts fifteen -minutes at the most in racing, after which the animal is exhausted. -Note in passing the superiority of the railway engine, the locomotive, -in regard to rapidity. This speed of thirteen leagues an hour, which -blows a horse in a quarter of an hour’s race, the locomotive keeps up -and even exceeds as long as may be desired. No comparison, you see, is -possible between the iron steed and the steed of flesh and blood. - -“Let us turn to the subject of the horse’s strength. A riding horse -carries on an average from 100 to 175 kilograms at a slow gait. If the -load is a rider of 80 kilograms, the horse can travel seven hours and -cover ten leagues of four kilometers each. But its strength is much -better employed if instead of carrying the weight on its back the -animal draws it in a vehicle. Then an expenditure of energy represented -by the weight of five kilograms is sufficient to move a load of 1000 -kilograms if the wheels of the vehicle run on a railway track. For the -same load on a smooth, level road an expenditure of energy represented -by 33 kilograms is needed; finally, if the road is paved with stone the -required energy will be 70 kilograms. On an excellent road, stagecoach -horses draw each a load of 800 kilograms and cover six leagues in two -hours, after which they are replaced by others. - -“Let us compare these figures once more with those relating to the -steam engine. A passenger locomotive draws with a speed of a dozen -leagues an hour a train having a total weight of as much as 150,000 -kilograms. A freight locomotive draws at the rate of seven leagues an -hour a total weight of 650,000 kilograms. More than 1300 horses would -be needed to take the place of the first locomotive, and more than 2000 -for the second, if they were used to transport similar loads the same -distance at the same rate of speed, using cars running on rails. How -many more would be needed with wagons on ordinary roads, where the -surface inequalities cause such waste of energy! - -“The domestication of the horse goes back to the first communities of -the East. After the herd they must soon have had, first, the ass to -carry the baggage of the nomadic tribe, then the horse, man’s valiant -comrade in the chase and in war. What is still to be observed to-day -shows us how easily this valuable animal submitted to man’s domination. -The grassy plains of Tartary abound in wild horses, and probably the -species originated in these Asiatic regions. The pampas of South -America feed innumerable herds of them, mingled with the wild cattle -that I have told you about. Both descend from domestic animals brought -to the New World by Europeans. Each herd follows a leader of tried -strength and courage. If danger arises, if there is menace from some -ferocious wild beast, such as a wolf, panther, or jaguar, the horses -crowd together and press against one another for their common defense. -Their haughty look and their kicking are generally sufficient to put -the aggressor to flight. But if the enemy charges them, counting on an -easy prey, the leader of the herd rears and falls on the beast with all -its weight, crushing the assailant with its fore hoofs; then with its -powerful jaws seizes the shattered body and throws it to the colts, -which finish it and caracole on its body.” - -“An animal that defends itself like that,” remarked Jules, “must be -rather hard to tame into a docile servant.” - -“No, the difficulty is not, after all, very great. What happens to-day -on the pampas when it is desired to master a wild horse is of a nature -to show us how the ancient horse-tamers accomplished the same object. A -herd of horses, skilfully turned aside from its feeding ground and -surrounded little by little on all sides, is driven without suspecting -the ruse into a large enclosure called a corral. There those of finest -appearance are selected. Immediately a dexterous hand throws the lasso, -the long leather thong weighted with balls of lead, which catches them -round the neck and legs and prevents their moving. A halter is quickly -put on the captive. A practised horseman wearing sharp spurs mounts the -animal, the fettering lasso is removed by helpers, and there stands the -animal, free, but trembling after its misadventure.” - -“Now the horseman had better look out,” said Jules. - -“Certainly, the first moment is not without danger. The indignant -animal rears, kicks, bounds, and tries to roll on the ground to get rid -of its burden; but the horseman masters this rage with the bleeding -prick of the spur; he keeps his seat as if he were one with his mount. -Then the gate of the enclosure is opened, and the horse darts out and -gallops away at breakneck speed until utterly winded. This unbridled -run suffices to tame the animal, after which the horseman rides it -back, unresisting and already obedient to bit and spur, to the corral. -Henceforth it can be left with the domesticated horses without fear of -its trying to escape. - -“Horses are classed, according to the rearing and training they have -received, in two chief groups—saddle horses and draft horses. The first -serve as mounts for riders, the second draw loads in vehicles. Among -saddle horses the most celebrated are the Arabian, remarkable for their -mettle, intelligence, docility, fleetness of foot, and ability to -endure long abstinence from food and drink. The Arab steed is -medium-sized and has a delicate skin, small head, slender frame, a -spirited bearing, finely modeled legs, stomach little developed, and -small, polished, very hard hoofs. - -“Draft horses, whose function it is to draw heavy loads in wheeled -vehicles at a walking pace, have quite opposite characteristics. They -lack lightness and mettle, but patiently exert their strength, which is -considerable, as might be inferred from their more massive build and -from the great quantity of feed that their maintenance demands. They -have a stout body, heavy walk, thick skin, large head, wide chest, -broad rump, capacious stomach, strong legs, and hoofs of no delicate -proportions. France possesses in the Boulogne breed the most highly -prized of draft horses. This vigorous animal, usually dapple-gray, -plays the laborious part of shaft-horse. Having its position next to -the cart or wagon, it is placed between the two shafts. It is the one -to pull the hardest on up-grades, the one that eases with its enormous -weight the jolts on street pavements and checks the dangerous momentum -of the vehicle on down-grades. Compare these two pictures that I show -you here, and you can easily see in the first the horse made for speed; -in the second, the horse intended for hard work.” - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIX - -THE ASS - - -“Your uncle’s partiality, you have already been able to see, my -friends, is for the weak, the ill-treated, the unfortunate. I did not -try to eulogize the horse, the valiant animal commending itself -sufficiently to our esteem without that; but very gladly will I -enumerate the good qualities of the ass, sad victim of our brutality -despite the service it renders us. To give my words more authority I -will add Buffon’s testimony to my own. - -“‘The ass,’ says the illustrious historian of animals, ‘is not a -degenerate horse, as many imagine; it is neither a foreigner nor an -intruder nor a bastard; like all animals it has its family, its -species, and its rank. Although its nobility is less illustrious, it is -quite as good, quite as ancient, as that of the horse. Briefly, the ass -is an ass, nothing more, nothing less. - -“‘This initial fact is of no slight importance. In considering the ass -as a degenerate horse we are led to compare it with its assumed origin, -and the comparison is not favorable to it: the long-eared donkey makes -but a pitiful showing beside the brisk and noble courser. But as it is -in reality a separate animal let us expect of it only the qualities of -its species, the qualities of the ass, without depreciating the animal -by comparisons with others that are stronger and better endowed. Do we -despise rye because it is not so good as wheat? We thank Heaven for -both, the first as the valued crop of the mountains, the second as that -of the plains. Let us not, then, despise the ass because it is inferior -to the horse. It possesses the good qualities of its species, and -cannot possess others. We fail to recognize that the ass would be our -foremost, our finest, our best made, our most distinguished domestic -animal if there were no horse in the world. It is second instead of -first, and for that reason seems as nothing to us. It is comparison -that degrades it. We look at it and judge it, not on its own merits, -but relatively to the horse. We forget that it has all the good -qualities of its nature, all the gifts belonging to its species, and -remember only the beauty and merits of the horse, which it would be -impossible for the ass to possess.’ - -“Buffon asserts that the nobility of the ass is as ancient as that of -the horse. I will venture even further than the master and maintain -that it is certainly more ancient in the sense that the ass was -domesticated before the horse. It was the first to serve the Asiatic -shepherds in their migration in quest of better pasturage. It carried -the folded tent, the dairy utensils, the new-born lambs, the women and -children. What animal did the ancient patriarchs ride? What did Abraham -ride on his journey into Egypt? The ass, my friends, the peaceful ass. -On nearly every page of Genesis the ass is mentioned; the horse does -not appear there until Joseph’s time.” - -“The ancient origin of the ass could not have nobler credentials,” said -Jules. - -“Why then, asks Buffon, such scorn for the ass, so good, patient, -sober, useful? Should men scorn, even among animals, those that serve -them well and at so little expense? We educate the horse, take care of -it, teach it, train it; while the ass, left to the rough handling of -the lowest servants or to the mischievous pranks of children, far from -improving in quality, can only deteriorate. If it were not -fundamentally of excellent character, it would lose all its virtues -from the way in which it is treated. It is the laughing-stock and the -drudge of boors who beat it, overload it, and wear it out without -consideration.” - -“Oh, how many of these poor donkeys I have seen,” Jules exclaimed, -“overwhelmed with their loads and beaten unmercifully because they -hadn’t strength enough to go on!” - -“What can become of the poor animal thus degraded by bad treatment? An -intractable, brutalized, bald-headed, mangy, weakened creature, object -of pity for any one who has not a heart harder than stone. But let us -consider the ass as the Orientals know how to raise it in all the -comfort and content of careful home treatment. We shall find an animal -of fine appearance, gentle looks, glossy coat, distinguished and -spirited bearing, trotting briskly along the streets of the large -towns, where it is habitually used as mount for going from one quarter -to another. Its gait, without fatigue for the rider, makes it preferred -to the horse; the greatest ladies, in making their calls, do not -disdain its richly ornamented pack-saddle. The city of Cairo alone, in -Egypt, uses some forty thousand of these graceful trotters. In such -society would our shameful donkey dare to show itself? Ah! let us pity -the poor creature: its wretched lot has made it what it is.” - -“I should willingly agree with the people of Cairo,” said Emile. “I -should prefer the donkey for a mount. At any rate, if one gets a fall -the danger is not so great.” - -“The donkey is just the mount for invalids, children, women, and old -people; it is naturally gentle, as quiet as the horse is spirited, -mettlesome, and impetuous. Since, by endowing it with a patience that -is proof against everything and with a small size which makes a fall -from its back not at all dangerous, Heaven has created the donkey -expressly for you, show the good beast by your care that you are not -forgetful of your servant. - -“The ass is patient; it suffers punishment and blows with constancy and -perhaps with courage. This fine virtue is, as it were, written on its -coat. You will often see on the donkey’s back a long black stripe and -another shorter one crossing the first on the shoulders. The two dark -bands form the image of the cross, divine symbol of resignation to -suffering. I know very well that this peculiarity in the animal’s coat -has not the least significance in itself; but still it is worthy of -remark that the donkey, the innocent victim of our brutality, bears the -cross on its back. - -“The ass is temperate in both the quantity and quality of its food. It -is contented with the toughest and least palatable pasturage, which -horses and other animals disdain to touch. Along the roadside it -browses the prickly tops of thistles, branches of willows, shoots of -hawthorn. If afterward it can roll on the grass a moment, it counts -this as the very summit of earthly happiness. But it is very dainty -about water: it will drink only the very clearest and from streams that -it knows. It drinks as temperately as it eats, and does not plunge its -nose into the water, from fear, as they say, of the reflection of its -ears.” - -“That’s a funny sort of fear,” said Jules. - -“Therefore I don’t believe the saying is well founded. The ass is not -so silly as to be frightened by the reflection of its ears. If it -drinks merely with its lips, without plunging its nose into the water, -it is because, like the cat, it fears getting wet. It does not, like -the horse, wallow in mire and water; it shrinks from even wetting its -feet, and will make a detour to avoid mud. Hence its legs are always -dry and cleaner than a horse’s. Its aversion to wet explains -sufficiently its manner of drinking, without attributing it to any -silly fear of the reflection of the animal’s ears.” - -“Why do people speak of that fear, then?” - -“Simply for the malicious pleasure of adding one more example of -stupidity to the donkey’s account. Is it not agreed that the -unfortunate beast has every possible whimsicality? Has not its very -name become the favorite term to denote stupidity? All this is pure -calumny; far from being the idiot it is called, the ass is a cunning -beast, prudent, full of circumspection, as is proved by the care it -takes in not drinking except from known springs already tested by use.” - -“Why make such a fuss about drinking?” was Emile’s query. - -“Why? Alas, my friend, evil sometimes befalls us for not exercising the -donkey’s prudence in the choice of our drinking-water. The unknown -spring whence we draw water may be too cold, unwholesome, full of -injurious substances. Better advised than we, the ass will put its lips -only to water known by experience to be wholesome.” - -“And the ass is a hundred times right,” Jules declared. - -“If I dared to, I should blame the ass for the passion it has for -rolling on the ground, sometimes, alas, without any thought of the load -it carries. But is it really the animal’s fault? Since nobody takes the -trouble to curry the ass, to relieve the itching of its skin, it rolls -on the grass and seems thus to reproach its master for neglect. Let the -curry-comb and the brush keep its back clean, and the donkey will cease -trying to rub itself, all four legs in the air, against the prickly -foliage of the thistles. It is the accumulation of dust and dirt that -torments it, not parasites, for of all hairy animals the ass is the -least subject to vermin. It never has lice, apparently on account of -the hardness and dryness of its skin, which is in fact harder than that -of most other quadrupeds. For the same reason it is much less sensitive -than the horse to the whip and to the sting of flies. - -“When overloaded, it lies on its stomach and refuses to move, -determined to let itself be beaten to death rather than get up. ‘Oh, -the stubborn brute! Oh, the stupid ass!’ cries the master; and down -comes the stick. Is it stubbornness on the animal’s part to refuse to -work? Listen first to a short story. In the old days of the Roman -Empire a man of profound wisdom, Epictetus, was a slave in the house of -a brutal master. One day the latter beat him unmercifully with his -cane. ‘Master,’ said Epictetus to him, ‘I warn you that if you keep -that up you will break my leg and your slave will lose in value.’ The -brute struck all the harder, and a bone broke. With sublime resignation -the slave uttered no reproach except to say: ‘I told you you would -break my leg.’ - -“To return to the ass laden beyond its strength, if it could speak it -would certainly express itself thus in imitation of the sage: ‘Master, -I assure you very humbly the load you are putting on me overtaxes my -strength and I cannot carry it.’ But the man inconsiderately continues -augmenting the burden until at last the animal’s back bends under the -weight. The donkey first inclines its head, lowers its ears, and then -lies down. That is its way of saying, ‘I told you I couldn’t carry such -a heavy load.’ Any one but a boor would hasten to lighten the load, -instead of unmercifully beating the animal, and the donkey would get up -as soon as the weight became suited to its strength.” - -“They won’t make the donkey any stronger by beating it,” was Jules’s -comment. - -“And, what is more, they will turn a docile animal into an obstinate, -ill-tempered one. In its early youth, before it knows the hardness of -life, the donkey is gay, playful, full of pretty tricks; but with the -sad experience of age, with crushing fatigue and ill-treatment, it -becomes indocile, slow, obstinate, vindictive. Is not that, however, -our fault? How many injuries has not the unfortunate beast to avenge, -and what a host of good qualities must it not have to remain in the end -as we find it? If the donkey harbored ill-will for blows received, its -master would become an object of hatred and it would be constantly -biting and kicking him. On the contrary, the animal becomes attached to -him, scents him from a distance, distinguishes him from all other men, -and can if necessary find him amid all the confusion of a fair or -market. - -“With passable food and, above all, with good usage, the ass becomes -the most submissive, faithful, and affectionate of companions. Let it -be saddled or harnessed, loaded with pack-saddle, panniers, farm tools, -or what not, it shirks no labor. If there is any fodder for it, it -eats; if not, it crops the thistles by the side of the road; and if -there are no thistles it goes hungry without letting its fast diminish -in the least its good will. It is a philosophical beast, neither -humiliated by bearing the poor man’s pack-saddle nor puffed up by the -rich man’s elegant housings, and anxious only to do its duty everywhere -and always. - -“The ass has good eyes, keen scent, and excellent ears. From the -quickness of its hearing and the length of its ears the inference is -drawn that the animal is timid. I am willing to assent to this, the ass -never having earned a reputation for prowess or daring. Moreover, its -quickness of hearing and length of ears are shared by many other -animals that do not surpass it in courage, as, for example, the hare -and the rabbit, which are even more richly endowed than the ass in -respect to length of ears. Their weakness and defenselessness expose -them to a thousand dangers and make their life a continual state of -alarm. To be warned in time of peril and save themselves by speedy -flight, their surest dependence is the excellence of their hearing, -which is partly due to the enormous size of the external ear, movable -in every direction so as to receive sounds from all sides. - -“Merely because the ass has the long ears indicative of timidity shall -we charge the animal with poltroonery? That would be unfair, for if it -does not court danger it at least knows how to face it when peaceful -means of safety are out of the question. The horse is warlike, the ass -prefers the gentle ways of peace and consents to the arbitrament of -force only when no other course is possible; but then its courage rises -to meet the danger. If in its wild state it is surprised by an -assailant, it hastens to rejoin its companions of the pasture; and, all -grouping together as do wild horses in their war tactics, they begin to -kick and bite with such fury that the enemy decamps as quickly as -possible, with jaw-bone fractured by a flying hoof.” - -“After such an exploit,” said Jules, “let no one tell me the donkey is -a coward.” - -“I fancy,” put in Emile, “that after routing the enemy the donkeys do -not fail to chorus a song of victory.” - -“It is not to be doubted that, to congratulate one another and to -celebrate their triumph, the donkeys sound a few clarion notes, such as -they so well know how to give. The horse neighs and the donkey brays, -the latter cry being very loud, very prolonged, very disagreeable, and -composed of a succession of discords ranging from sharp to grave and -from grave to sharp.” - -“And the last notes,” added Emile, “are hoarser and gradually die -away.” - -“I see Emile is well acquainted with the donkey’s voice. Let us go on -to some of its other peculiarities. From time immemorial the ass has -had the reputation of being stupid: its very name is synonymous with -stupidity. There is a whole vocabulary of abusive epithets that we -bestow on the ass, and these epithets nearly always allude to its -stupidity. We call it a numbskull, a ninny, a jackass, a wooden-head, -and I don’t know what all; and, as a crowning slander to the animal, -the dunce of his class at school is made to wear a cap with donkey’s -ears. Never has calumny been more flagrant. The donkey a dunce? By no -means! Is it not the donkey that, with a prudence worthy of imitation, -refuses to drink from unknown springs? Does it not, when lost in the -crowd at market, know how to find its master almost as easily as the -dog, and does it not begin to bray with joy at sight of him? But there -is something better than this to prove its intelligence. Recall to mind -the wagoner’s long team of horses on the highway. There are four, six, -eight of them, sturdily tugging at the enormous load. Between the two -shafts, the most arduous position of all, is the massive shaft-horse, -while at the head of the team proudly marches a donkey, harnessed very -lightly. What is this little creature doing at the head of those robust -companions? First, it pulls with vigor, so far as its strength will -admit; and, secondly, it has a still more important function to fill. -Its part is to guide the equipage and keep it in the middle of the -road, to avoid ruts, get around difficult places, and, in general, pick -the way. While the heavy horses work only with their shoulders to draw -the load, the donkey, to lead the way, works at the same time with its -head. This post of honor, this position as leader of the file—would it -be assigned to the ass if the animal were not recognized as the most -intelligent of the team? - -“I should like to show you also the donkey traveling in mountainous -countries in company with horses and mules. It is the one to direct the -band, showing the others the turnouts to take to avoid a dangerous -place. If the path gets too bad, the donkey foresees the peril with an -astonishing sagacity; it turns aside a moment from the beaten track, -finds a way around the difficult spot by a cleverly calculated bend, -and takes the regular road again farther on. Any mule or horse that -disdains to follow the donkey’s intelligent leadership runs the risk of -getting into trouble whence it will be very hard to get it out.” - -“As far as I can see,” said Jules, “the donkey is more intelligent than -the horse, since it acts as the horse’s guide.” - -“That is my opinion, too, in spite of the reputation for stupidity that -it has acquired, I don’t know why. The donkey walks, trots, and gallops -like the horse, but all its movements are within a smaller compass and -much slower. Although it can start out at a brisk enough pace, it -cannot cover great distances or continue on the road for a long time. -Whatever gait it takes, if the animal is urged to go faster it is soon -exhausted. It is especially suited to mountainous countries. Its small, -hard hoofs enable it to follow stony paths with the greatest ease; its -prudent gait and firm and circumspect step give it access to rough -places and the steepest slopes. - -“The donkey is very robust. In proportion to its size it is perhaps of -all animals the one that can carry the heaviest load, but as its body -is small the burden placed on it ought not to exceed moderate limits. -What a useful servant would one not have in an animal having the -qualities of the donkey and the vigorous development of the horse! Such -a creature does not exist in the natural order, but man has obtained it -by the intervention of his art. - -“The species of the horse and that of the ass are unmistakably distinct -from each other and never cross in the wild state. Nevertheless, since -they are very nearly related, as their close resemblance in form -proves, cross-breeding between them is possible with careful -management. From this unnatural union comes the mule, of which the -father is the ass and the mother the mare. The mule then is not a -separate species of animal having its own independent existence; it is -not an ass nor a horse, but a bastard creature intermediate between the -two. To its father, the ass, it owes its large head, long ears, narrow -and hard hoofs, thick skin, rough coat, generally dark in color and -sometimes ornamented with the two black stripes in the form of a cross -on the back. To the ass it also owes its temperate habits, its tenacity -in work, its robust constitution, and the sureness of foot so necessary -in mountainous countries. From its mother, the mare, it gets its -powerful equine frame, its quick gait, its freedom of limb. Its rude -strength, moderation in supplying its animal wants, power of enduring -the utmost fatigue, indifference to extreme heat, make it one of the -most useful animals, especially in hot climates where there are long -spells of drought.” - - - - - - - - -NOTES - - -[1] Uncle Paul and his nephews are here allowed to defy the purist, as -they probably would in real life.—Translator. - -[2] The poulard (French poularde) bears the same relation to the pullet -as the capon does to the young rooster.—Translator. - -[3] The quoted passages are from Audubon’s “Ornithological Biography,” -vol. I, pp. 2–9, and are here reproduced verbatim, though very freely -treated by the French author.—Translator. - -[4] Audubon’s narrative (“Ornithological Biography,” vol. I, pp. -319–324) is here reproduced with greater accuracy than the French -writer chose to observe. The omissions indicated occur in the French, -but are not there indicated.—Translator. - -[5] This was written before the days of inoculation as a preventive of -hydrophobia.—Translator. - -[6] Centigrade, not Fahrenheit.—Translator. - - - - - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUR HUMBLE HELPERS *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. 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