Chapter 11

The tame wolf at the Jardin des Plantes, is described by M. Frederic Cuvier, in the following manner:--"This animal was brought up as a young dog, became familiar with every person whom he was in the habit of seeing, and in particular followed his master everywhere, evincing chagrin at his absence, obeying his voice, and showing a degree of submission, scarcely differing in any respect from that of the most thoroughly domesticated dog. His master being obliged to be absent for a time, presented his pet to the Jardin des Plantes, where the animal, confined in a den, continued disconsolate, and would scarcely take his food. At length, however, his health returned; he became attached to his keepers, and appeared to have forgotten all his former affection; when, after eighteen months, his master returned. At the first word he uttered, the wolf, who had not perceived him among the crowd, recognized him, exhibited the most lively joy, and, being set at liberty, lavished on his old friend the most affectionate caresses. A second separation and return was followed by similar demonstrations of sorrow, which, however, again yielded to time. Three years had passed, and the wolf was living happily in company with a dog, when his master again returned, and the still remembered voice was instantly replied to by the most impatient cries, which were redoubled as soon as the poor fellow was at liberty, when, rushing to his master, he threw his fore-feet on his shoulders, licking his face with every mark of the most lively joy, and menacing his keepers, who offered to remove him, and towards whom, not a moment before, he had been showing every mark of fondness. A third separation, however, seemed to be too much for this faithful animal's temper; he became gloomy, desponding, refused his food, and for a long time his life appeared to be in danger. His health, however, returned; but he no longer suffered the caresses of any but his keepers, and towards strangers manifested the original savageness of his species."

There was another wolf at the same Menagerie, who was very docile and affectionate, distinguishing those whom he knew from strangers, and seeking their caresses. We were very good friends, and I often played with him, so that he knew my voice. After an absence of two years, to my great surprise, he recognized it, dashed to the bars of the den, thrust his paws out to greet me, and gave every sign of delight. It is probable, that this circumstance, combined with another, may have given rise to the history related by Captain Brown, in his "Popular Natural History," of which I now beg to give a correct version:--"Mme. Ducrest [then Mlle. Duvaucel] and I were going out at Baron Cuvier's front door, when a man, holding something tied up in a handkerchief, asked if we belonged to the house. On replying in the affirmative, he offered his bundle; she shrank from it, as the same thing had occurred to me a few days before, and I received the dried and tattooed head of a New Zealander; but he opened the handkerchief, and displayed a beautiful little wolf puppy, covered with silky black hair. She joyfully received it; we carried it to the keepers of the Menagerie, and orders were given that it might be fed on soup and cooked meat. The wolf continued to be very handsome, very playful, and very tame for about a year, when she became a mother, and from that time was savage and unsociable to human beings, never recovering her former amiable disposition. She was from the Pyrenees."

The following story is told by a gentleman who was sporting in Hungary at the time the circumstance occurred:--"About dusk, just as the last sledge had arrived within a quarter of a mile of a village on the way homeward, and had cleared the corner of a wood which had bounded the road at a few yards distance for a considerable length; the owner, who was seated behind, with his back to the horses, espied a wolf rush out of the angle of the wood, and give chase to the sledge at the top of his speed. The man shouted to the boy who was driving, 'Farkas! farkas!' (a wolf! a wolf!). Itze het! itze het! (drive on),' and the lad, looking round in terror, beheld the animal just clearing the gripe which ran along the road they had passed. Quick as lightning, with shout and whip, and with all his might, he urged the horses to gain the village. Away they flew at their fullest stretch, as if sensible of the danger behind them, conveyed to them by the exclamation of the lad, and the dreaded name of the animal which he shouted in their ears. The man turned his seat and urged the boy still more energetically to lash the horses to their very utmost speed. He did not need any further incentive, but pushed on the nags with frantic exertion. The sledge flew over the slippery road with fearful speed; but the wolf urged yet more his utmost pace, and gained fast upon it. The village was distant about two hundred yards below the brow of the hill; nothing but the wildest pace could save them, and the man felt that the wolf would inevitably spring upon them before they could get to the bottom. Both shouted wildly as they pursued their impetuous career, the sledge swerving frightfully from one side of the road to the other, and threatening every moment to turn over. The man then drew his thick bunda (sheep-skin) over his head; he looked behind and saw the fierce, panting beast within a few yards of him; he thought he felt his hot breath in his face; he ensconced his head again in his bunda, and, in another moment, the wolf sprang upon his back, and gripped into the thick sheep skin that covered his neck. With admirable presence of mind the bold-hearted peasant now threw up both his hands, and grasping the wolf's head and neck with all his strength, hugged him with an iron clutch to his shoulders. 'Itze het,' now shouted the cool fellow, and holding his enemy in a death grip, they swept into the village, dragging the fierce brute after them, in spite of his frantic efforts to disengage himself. The shouts of the boy and man, with the mad speed and noise of the horses, brought the villagers out to see what was the matter. 'Farkas! farkas!' shouted both, and the peasants immediately seeing their perilous position, gave chase with their axes, calling out to the man to hold on bravely. At length the boy succeeded in slackening the speed of the animals, the sledge stopped, and the peasants, rushing on, dispatched the ferocious creature upon the man's back, whose arms were so stiffened with the immense muscular exertion he had so long maintained, that he could hardly loose them from the neck of the dead wolf."

An unfortunate clergyman, in the neighbourhood of Eauxbonnes in the Basses Pyrenees, was not as fortunate as the Slovack peasant; for, as he was returning from visiting the sick in January, 1830, he was beset by hungry wolves, and torn to pieces by them; the fragments which they left, and the blood upon the snow, alone telling his fate.

The North American wolves are not as gaunt as those of Europe, having shorter legs, thicker fur, shorter muzzle, broader heads, more bushy tail, and being altogether more compact. Their habits, however, are much the same, A farmer in New Hampshire was one night awakened by a noise in his hog-pen; on looking out he saw, what he supposed to be a fox, on the low, sloping roof of the sty. He went out, but found that the animal was a grey wolf, which, instead of making off, fiercely attacked him, rushing down the roof towards him; and before the man had time to move back, the wolf had bitten his arm three times, with his quick and repeated snaps, lacerating it from the elbow to the wrist; then, however, he leaped from the roof to the ground, and by so doing lost his advantage; for the man succeeded in seizing him on each side of the neck with his hands, and held him firmly in that position till his wife, whom he called out, came up with a large butcher's knife, and cut the beast's throat. It was three months before the man's arm was healed; every incision, it was said, piercing to the bone.[5]

A white wolf always attends the bull, called buffalo, of Western America; besides which the same country affords other varieties. Among them are the Coyotes, or Medicine Wolves, of the Indians, who show them great reverence. They are small, sagacious, and cunning; assemble in packs, and hunt in troops of from three to thirty, along the runs of deer and antelopes, and run down their quarry. When game has been killed by hunters, they sit patiently at a short distance, while larger wolves prowl around, pouncing on the pieces thrown to them by the men, and which the small ones drop instantly. They keep watch round a camp at night, and gnaw the skin ropes of horses and cattle.

When the Coyotes, or small white wolves, of Mexico, lose all hope of escape, they curl themselves up and await death. If impelled by hunger, one snatches a piece from the hunter, while he cuts up his game, the whole herd rush upon it, fight, growl, and tear each other for it. Mr. Ryan, from whose lively descriptions these notices are taken, was for days followed by a large grey wolf, and every evening when he encamped, the wolf squatted himself down, and helped himself whenever he could. Something, however, was generally left for him; and he became so tame, that he stopped when the party stopped, and when anything was killed, walked round and round, licking his jaws in expectation of his share. No one ever molested him, and, therefore, he continued quite harmless. This sort of proceeding will sometimes take place with a whole pack.

Mr. Ruxton one day killed an old buck, and left it on the ground, where six small wolves were in attendance. Ten minutes after he left his game, the six wolves came up with him, one of which had his nose and face besmeared with blood, and he seemed to be almost bursting. Thinking it impossible they should have devoured the buck in so short a time, he had the curiosity to return and see what impression they had made upon it, and why they had left it. To his astonishment, he found only the bones and some of the hair remaining, the flesh having been taken off as if it had been scraped with a knife. They flourish their tails, snarl, bite, squeak, and swallow the whole time of their meal; and if kindly treated, will come and warm themselves by the fires of the hunters when they are asleep, and sit nodding their own heads with drowsiness.

The Esquimaux dogs, though very bold when attacking bears, are so much afraid of wolves, that they scarcely make any resistance when set upon by them. Sir John Richardson tells us, that a wolf, wounded by a musket-ball, returned after dusk, and carried off a dog from among fifty others, who howled piteously, but did not dare to try and rescue their companion.

Several wolves will combine, and, forming a semicircle, creep slowly towards a herd of deer, if there be a precipice near, and hemming them in gradually, so as not to alarm them suddenly, drive them to the edge of the precipice; then they all at once set up the most terrific yells, and taking flight, the poor deer leap over the precipice, where the wolves follow them at their leisure by a safer path, to feed on their mangled carcases.

On one occasion, a troop of nine white wolves endeavoured to practise the same trick upon Sir John Richardson, evidently intending to drive him into the river. However, when he rose up they halted, and on his advancing, made way for him to go to the tents.

The lovers of tragic histories will find many of the most fearful kind among the legends of all countries where wolves abound; all probably founded on fact, but mostly interwoven with romance. There cannot be anything much more shocking than that of the solitary traveller, galloping into a village pursued by these beasts, and knocking at the doors, earnestly entreating for refuge. The inhabitants were mostly buried in sleep; some few heard and did not move, others had a dim, confused notion of what was passing, and also remained in their beds; while others again did not hear anything. The next morning the sad event was told by finding the traveler's cloak and a few bones.

[5] Gosse's Canadian Naturalist.

FOXES.

Stealing along in the dark of evening, the cunning and rapacious Fox (Canis Vulpes) leaves his hole in the earth, and roams in search of his prey. The poultry-yards, rabbit-warrens, and the haunts of game, tell of his skilful depredations; but he is not at all difficult in his appetite. To be sure, when he can get ripe grapes, he has a feast. If young turkeys and hares are not to be had, he puts up with a young fawn, a wild duck, or even weasels, mice, frogs, or insects. He will also walk down to the sea-shore, and sup upon the remains of fishes, or arrest the crabs and make them alter their sidelong course so as to crawl down his throat. Reynard also has an eye to the future; for he never lets anything escape which comes within his sharp bite, and as there must be a limit to the quantity which any animal can contain, when he cannot possibly eat any more, he, in various spots, well marked by himself, buries the remainder for the morrow's meal. With only his toes touching the earth, he prowls about with noiseless steps; his nose and ears alive to the faintest sound or odour; his cat-like eyes, with linear pupil, gleaming like coals of fire, and he suddenly springs upon his victims before they are aware of his vicinity. His bushy tail is the envied trophy of the huntsman, who calls it a brush. His colours are white, black, red, yellow, bluish, or variegated; and in cold climates he always turns white in winter. The father takes no care of his children; but the mother performs her duty with the most exemplary devotion for four months.

The fox is generally a solitary, suspicious animal; even when as much tamed as he can be, he seems to think he is going to be deceived and ill-treated: perhaps he judges of others by himself. He lives very often in a burrow, called an earth, belonging to somebody else, for he has very lax morals concerning property, and a great idea that right is established by possession. If he should be caught and put in confinement, he is very ferocious, or dies of ennui; but he is much too coy and clever to be easily entrapped. His cry is a sort of yelp, which, however, he is much too cautious to utter when he is earning his living.

Occasionally the fox has been caught in a trap, and there is the history of one who escaped and left one of his fore feet behind him. After a lapse of time, his trail was to be seen in various places, and was, of course, easily recognized. This continued for two years, when he was chased by Mr. St. John and easily killed. Another who was unearthed by the dogs, instead of running after the usual fashion of these beasts, turned suddenly upon each dog that came up and jumped over him. This could not last long, although it puzzled the dogs very much; he was taken, and then only was the reason for his manoeuvre discovered by finding that he had only three feet.

Mr. St. John relates the following history of the cunning of a fox:--"Just after it was daylight, I saw a large fox come very quietly along the edge of the plantation; he looked with great care over the turf wall into the field, and seemed to long very much to get hold of some of the hares that were feeding in it, but apparently knew that he had no chance of catching one by dint of running. After considering a short time, he seemed to have formed his plans, examined the different gaps in the wall, fixed upon one which appeared to be most frequented, and laid himself down close to it, in an attitude like that of a cat at a mouse hole."

"In the meantime I watched all his plans; he then with great care and silence scraped a small hollow in the ground, throwing up the sand as a kind of screen; every now and then, however, he stopped to listen, and sometimes to take a most cautious peep into the field. When he had done this he laid himself down in a convenient posture for springing on his prey, and remained perfectly motionless, with the exception of an occasional reconnoiter of the feeding hares. When the sun began to rise, they came, one by one, from the field to the plantation; three had already come without passing by his ambush, one within twenty yards of him, but he made no movement beyond crouching still more flatly to the ground. Presently two came directly towards him, and though he did not venture to look up, I saw, by an involuntary motion of his ears, that those quick organs had already warned him of their approach. The two hares came through the gap together, and the fox, springing with the quickness of lightning, caught one and killed her immediately; he then lifted up his booty, and was carrying it off, when my rifle-ball stopped his course."

In Captain Brown's "Popular Natural History," I find the following:--"In the autumn of the year 1819, at a fox-chase in Galloway, a very strong fox was hard run by the hounds. Finding himself in great danger of being taken, Reynard made for a high wall at a short distance, and springing over it, crept close under the other side: the hounds followed, but no sooner had they leaped the wall, than he sprang back again over it, and by this cunning device gave them the slip, and got safe away from his pursuers."

An American gentleman of Pittsfield, accompanied by two blood-hounds, found a fox, and pursued him for nearly two hours, when suddenly the dogs appeared at fault. Their master came up with them near a large log of wood lying on the ground, and felt much surprise at their making a circuit of a few roods without any object in view, every trace of the fox seeming to have been lost, while the dogs still kept yelping. On looking about him the gentleman saw the fox stretched upon the log, apparently lifeless. He made several unsuccessful efforts to direct the attention of the dogs towards the place, and at length he approached so near as to see the animal breathe. Even then Reynard did not show any alarm; but his pursuer aimed a blow at him with the branch of a tree, upon which he leaped from his lurking-place, and was taken.

One of the drollest incidents in fox-hunting was that at Newry, in Ireland, when, being pursued very hotly, the fox leaped on to the top of a turf-stack, where he laid himself down quite flat. At last, one of the hounds perceived him, and he was obliged again to run. After this, he climbed up a stone wall, whence he sprang on to the roof of a cabin near by, and mounting to the chimney top, from thence inspected his enemies. An old hound, however, followed him, and was on the point of seizing him, when Reynard dropped down the chimney into the lap of an old woman, who was smoking her pipe at the corner. The hound did not dare to follow, but the sportsmen came up, and entering the cabin, found it in possession of the fox; the frightened woman and children huddled into one corner, and the fox (who was taken alive) grinning at them.

In all ages of fable, the fox has been the principal hero. The most ancient fables on record, those of Lokman, the Arabian, from whom Æsop took most of his, gives him a very conspicuous place among the crafty courtiers of the lion. The chief phrase of which the wily flatterer makes use, as he bows with affected humility to his sovereign, is, "Oh, Father of Beauty," by which indirect compliment he generally gains his wishes. The early German writers have also chosen him as the principal hero of various histories, and the poem of "Reynard, the Fox," will live as long as printers and illustrators exercise their art and talent.

The Arctic fox is smaller than ours; even the soles of his feet are covered with fur, like those of the hare, and he is altogether more thickly clothed. He has often been supposed to be pied in colour, but this is only in process of turning to the hue of winter. He is in these climates a much more gregarious animal, and several families live in the same earth. Bishop Heber mentions one in India, which feeds chiefly on field-mice and white ants, and this probably is the species of which the natives say, that he can turn nine times within the space of his own length. He is about half the size of the European.

Much valuable fur is derived both from European and American foxes, where there is a great variety of colour, not depending on temperature.

In Ireland there is a small animal called a fox, which does not eat flesh, but contents itself with vegetables, and is so perfectly harmless, that it roams about, unmolested even by dogs.

HYÆNAS.

There cannot be a much more uninteresting animal than the hard-hided, knock-kneed Hyæna, which is pre-eminently African, although he is found in the East; having, according to the opinion of some naturalists, migrated thither in the wake of caravans. He has a ferocious, ill-natured look, yet the first impression made by his appearance can only be expressed by the word "sneaking." He is of a tawny colour, more or less dusky till it approaches black, and is generally spotted, or striped. He has a mane continued all along the spine; his ears are long and erect; he is digitigrade, his claws are strong, and not retractile; he possesses a gland which sends forth a disagreeable odour, and his eyes have a pupil which is contracted at the top, and round at the bottom, which gives them a singular expression.

The great peculiarity of form in the Hyæna is the disproportionate smallness of his hind quarters; besides which, the vertebræ of his neck very often become stiffened, in consequence of the strain put upon them by the powerful muscles of that part, and of the jaws. So firm is the hold which they take, that nothing will make them leave what they have once seized. They devour bones as well as muscles, rejecting only hoofs, horns, and skull; and this power must have existed in former ages, for in the caves which they inhabited, and into which they dragged their prey, their fossil remains are found with those of gigantic mastodons, etc., on which their teeth had made impression. This stiffness of the neck has caused many to imagine that it was composed of one joint only, and led the Arabs to make Hyænas the symbols of obstinacy.

The habits of Hyænas accord with their outward appearance; they are nature's scavengers, and feed on everything, being, with the jackal and Genet cat, the especial robbers of the cemetery. Many are the stories told of their cruel depredations, such as their stealing into the kraals of the Caffres and Hottentots, and abstracting the sleeping infants from under the kaross of its mother, who only becomes conscious of her loss when she hears the cries of the victim. Major Denham, in his travels, tells us of a village stormed by them at night, when they carried off asses and other animals.

My own impressions of the Hyæna are, that he is a timid, cowardly animal. I always found them shun my approach; and my uncle has told me, that when he often encountered them during his command of the outpost of Tantum Querry, on the leeward coast of Africa, they invariably turned from him, and slunk out of sight with their dragging, shuffling gait. I cannot say that they disturbed the stillness of the night, because a tropical night never is still; but their cry used suddenly to come upon our ears, and I know not why, always seemed to be close to us. The roar of a leopard or lion is most grand, however terrific; but what is called the laugh of the hyæna, is just like the triumphant exultation of a fierce madman, when he reaches his long-sought victim.