an exit or an entrance through the windows, but always made use of the
hole in the casing. This little creature undoubtedly gave unmistakable
evidences of ratiocination; she found that a transparent barrier had
been placed in her way--a barrier so translucent and transparent that
she could not see it until she actually felt it. She therefore concluded
that she would never again risk injury by flying through the windows.
What is most remarkable about this instance is that this insect derived
her knowledge from a single experience, and at once profited thereby.
The wasp remembered the event--her experience with the window glass--and
avoided a like occurrence by going through the hole in the casing. Her
experience was a bit of education.

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

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

CHAPTER IV

THE EMOTIONS

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

  [41] Romanes, _Animal Intelligence_.

  [42] Darwin, _Descent of Man_.

  [43] Semper, _Animal Life_.

  [44] Hartmann, _Anthropoid Apes_.

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

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

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

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

  [45] Compare Darwin, _Expression of the Emotions_, p. 120.

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

  [46] Martin, _Natural History of Mammalia_, Vol. I. pp. 383, 410;
  quoted also by Darwin, _loc. cit. ante_.

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

  [47] Darwin, _loc. cit. ante_, p. 133.

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

I think it hardly necessary to give more data on this point; suffice it
to say that it is a fact beyond dispute that certain monkeys and dogs
are "laughing animals," and that man is _not_ the only animal that
expresses emotion through the agency of the smile and laughter!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  [49] Romanes, _Animal Intelligence_, p. 475.

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

  [50] Romanes, _op. cit._, p. 476.

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

  [51] Darwin, _Descent of Man_, p. 70.

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

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

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

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

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

  [52] Lubbock, _Ants, Bees, and Wasps_, p. 107.

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

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

  [53] Belt, _The Naturalist in Nicaragua_, p. 26; quoted also by
  Romanes, _Animal Intelligence_, p. 48.

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

  [54] White, _Leisure Hour_, p. 390, 1880.

  [55] Lubbock, _loc. cit. ante_, p. 107 _et seq._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  [57] Bonnet, _OEuvres_; quoted also by Romanes, _Animal Intelligence_,
  p. 205.

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

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

  [58] Romanes, _loc. cit. ante_, p. 229; quoted also by Bingley, _loc.
  cit._, Vol. III. pp. 150, 151.

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

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

CHAPTER V

ÆSTHETICISM

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

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

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

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

  [59] Reclain, _Body and Mind_, p. 275; quoted by Romanes, _Animal
  Intelligence_, pp. 205, 206; compare Rabigot, Simonius, and Von
  Hartmann.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That the dog is conscious (self-conscious) that his voice is in accord
with the bell, I will not venture to assert, for, knowledge on this
point, I take it, is beyond the power of man to acquire. I mean by the
word, "knowingly," when I say that the dog knowingly pitches his voice
in accord with the bell, not that he has any knowledge whatever of
harmony, such as an educated musician possesses, or such even as the
inherited experiences of a thousand years of music-loving ancestors
would naturally impress upon the mind of a civilized European of to-day,
but that he has an acquired imitative faculty (a faculty possessed by
some of the negroes of Central Africa as well as by many other savage
races), of attuning his voice to sounds which are pleasing to his ears.
In support of this proposition I instance the fact of the dog's acquired
habit of barking, which has been developed since his domestication. In
his wild state the dog _never_ barks.

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

The dog's voice is exceedingly pleasing to himself, and, most
frequently, when "baying the moon," he is listening to his own singing,
_not_ (as is generally supposed) as it pours forth from his throat, but
in a more pleasing manner, as it is breathed back to his listening ears
from the airy lips of Echo!

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

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

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

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

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

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

  [63] Professor L. J. Quigley.

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

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

Miss Ada Sterling, editor of _Fashions_, writes me as follows:--

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

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

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

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

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

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

  [64] Gibson, _Sharp Eyes_, pp. 105, 106; quotation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  [66] Romanes, _Animal Intelligence_, p. 282; quoted by Bingley,
  _Animal Biography_, Vol. II. p. 220.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  [67] Büchner, _Geistesleben der Thiere_, p. 163; quoted also by
  Romanes, _loc. cit. ante_, pp. 87, 88.

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

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

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

  [69] Lubbock, _Ants, Bees, and Wasps_, p. 74.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  [70] Van Beneden, _Animal Parasites and Messmates_, pp. 71, 72.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VI

PARENTAL AFFECTION

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

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

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

  [72] Vide Chap. IV., _The Emotions_, p. 105.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  [73] Baker, _Philosophical Trans._; quoted also by Romanes, _loc. cit.
  ante_, p. 245.

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

  [74] Baker, _Philosophical Trans._; quoted also by Romanes, p. 246;
  and Yarrell, _Brit. Fishes_, 2d ed., Vol. II. p. 436.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  [76] Reclus, _Primitive Folk_, p. 131.

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

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

CHAPTER VII

REASON

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  [79] Huber, _The Natural History of Ants_, p. 249; quoted also by
  Lubbock, _Ants, Bees, and Wasps_, p. 83; Romanes, _Animal
  Intelligence_, p. 65; Kirby and Spence, _Entomology_, p. 369 _et seq._

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

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

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

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

"These four genera" (_Formica sanguinea_, _Polyergus_,
_Strongylognathus_, _and Anergates_) "offer us every gradation from
lawless violence to contemptible parasitism.

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

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

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

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

  [80] Lubbock, _Ants, Bees, and Wasps_, pp. 88, 89.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  [82] Compare Kirby and Spence, _Entomology_.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  [85] As a matter of fact I have kept Argiope under observation in this
  anæsthetized condition for _thirteen weeks_.--W.

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

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

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

  [86] Compare Kirby and Spence, _Entomology_, pp. 231, 232, habits of
  _Epipone spinipes_ in regard to small grubs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some monkeys give unmistakable evidences of the possession by them of
the computing faculty. In 1889 I made the acquaintance of a very
intelligent chimpanzee which could count as high as three. That this was
not a trick suggested by sensual impulses I had ample opportunity of
satisfying myself. The owner of the animal would leave the room, no one
being present but myself, and when I would call for two marbles, or one
marble, or three marbles, as the case might be, the monkey would gravely