Chapter 12

It must be regarded as unfortunate that the experiments which have been made on pigeons have been limited to their features of form, color, and slight peculiarities in their habits. If the breeders had sought to modify the intellectual parts with anything like the insistence which they have given to the development of these bodily peculiarities, we might now have a most valuable store of knowledge as to the limitations of animal minds. The facts gained in the breeding of the carriers show clearly that certain of the instincts of these birds can be readily modified. There is every reason to suppose that their mental capacities in other directions have something of the same pliability.

Although the pigeon is the only free-flying form which has been won to intimate relations with man, there are numerous other species of these volant creatures which have been reduced to partial domestication, though they cannot be trusted to abide with us without being more or less completely caged. Experience has shown that by far the greater part of the arboreal birds may be kept and will breed in captivity. From the host of these feathered creatures men have from time to time selected species which grace their habitations by their beauty, their song, or by the sympathetic relations which they form with their captors. Our successes in these efforts toward domestication of these birds have been most eminent with those varieties which in their wilderness state have a well-developed social life, which abide in families or flocks, and have the pairing habit well affirmed. The reason for this has been already indicated. It is due to the sympathetic motive which is developed in such communal life, and is manifested in the friendly relations with each other which the creatures maintain. A good instance of this is to be found in the crows and their kindred, a group of extremely sociable creatures, which are endlessly engaged in chattering communications with each other. All these forms are highly domesticable, and if for any reason they had proved permanently attractive to men they would doubtless have been brought into the state of willing captives.

Although some of the free-flying or tree birds have been kept for their beauty alone, the greater part of them have commended themselves to man because of their voices. It is hardly necessary to tell the reader that the birds, of all animals, are most provided with means of expression through the voice. There is hardly a species which has not a greater range of notes or calls than the most vocal of our wild mammals, and many varieties are impelled to tuneful expression in a measure which no other creature, not even man, exhibits. In most cases these utterances are pleasing to the human ear, for they have the quality which we term musical. Therefore it is not surprising that the most of our captive birds have been chosen for their song.

It seems clear that the song of birds, like their calls--the two shade indefinitely into each other--expresses a sympathetic emotional consciousness of the actions going on about them, particularly of the life of their kind. In general these utterances are directed toward their kindred of their own species. In many cases, however, as among the imitative birds, the sounds which they utter indicate a curiously keen interest in the actions of their masters or other human affairs. The mocking-birds and some other species will, with great assiduity, endeavor to copy any sound which they happen to hear. I well remember watching a mocking-bird which was listening with rapt attention to the noise produced by a man sharpening a saw with a file. The poor bird would hearken with great attention until he thought he had caught the note, and then endeavor to reproduce it. As may be imagined, the measure of his success was small. He was fully conscious of his failure, and would beat himself about the cage in evident chagrin, returning again and again to try the hopeless task.

Wherever the vocal organs of caged birds permit them to imitate human speech they are apt to devote a large part of their labor to this task, paying little attention to other less meaningful sounds. It appears to me that they perceive in a way the sympathetic character of language and therefore take a peculiar pleasure in copying it. It is hardly to be believed that they ever get a sense of the connotative value of words, but it is not to be doubted that they sometimes attain to a certain appreciation of the denotation of simpler phrases. In this task they do not exhibit as much sagacity as the dog, a creature which learns to understand the purport of rather complicated sentences. Nevertheless, their capacity for imitating speech is a fascinating peculiarity, one which has greatly endeared them to bird fanciers.

Those who have observed the talking birds have doubtless noted the fact that their capacity for remembering and uttering words varies greatly. I am inclined to think that in the same species some individuals can do such tasks several times as easily as others. If these speaking forms could be brought to breed in captivity, and something like the selective care were given to their development that has been devoted to the varieties of pigeons, we might well expect to attain very remarkable results. If anywhere in the animal world there is a chance to open communication by means of speech with the lower creatures, it should be here.

At one time among our ancestors it was accustomed to make much use of the larger hawks in hunting. Curiously enough this amusement, more refined and elaborated than any other form of the chase, has gradually fallen into disuse among Europeans. So far as I have been able to learn, the only region in which it is well preserved is in northern Africa, a country in which the custom was probably introduced from Spain during the occupancy of that peninsula by the Moors. From the literature of this art of hawking, even after we allow much for the exaggeration of unobservant men, it seems certain that the training of these fierce birds was carried to a point of singular perfection. The creatures learned to do their duty in a very skilful way, and they readily acquired habits of obedience, under circumstances of excitement, more perfect than those which we succeed in instilling in any animal but the dog. When we consider the natural qualities of the hawk, and note that when well trained he flew at only the designated game, and came back to the master when a bit of hide or other lure was thrown into the air as a signal, we may fairly believe that the creature displayed an extraordinary fitness for receiving instruction. The facts are the more remarkable because these hawks were not bred in cages, but were taken from the wild nests; so that there was none of that gradual accumulation of inheritances under the conditions of selection which have brought about the obedience of our really domesticated animals.

The remarkable way in which the art of hawking has disappeared from our civilization deserves more than a passing notice, though it appears to be inexplicable. It is evident that it was a tolerably ingrained habit, at least among the English-speaking people, for it has left a very deep impress upon the language. There are far more phrases derived from the custom than can be traced to any other of the sportsman's arts. At least one of these collocations of words which has escaped from the minds of grown people still holds a place among the boys of this country. When two lads are fighting we often hear the bystanders say, by the way of encouragement to one of the contestants, "Give him jesse." The use of this curious phrase prevails in all parts of the United States, but after much inquiry I have failed to find a trace of it preserved in England. There seems to be little doubt that these words are due to a custom of beating a hawk which failed to do its duty with the thongs or jesses by which it was attached to the wrist of the falconer. Giving another jesse thus came to be equivalent to giving a person a strapping.

Whatever may have been the reason for abandoning this beautiful and in a way noble sport, its disuse must be deemed most unfortunate by all the students of animal intelligence, for it has deprived us of precious opportunities in the way of observations on the mental peculiarities which exist in a most interesting group of birds. In these days, when there is a fancy for reviving the customs of our forefathers, it might be well for some persons of leisure to give their attention to restoring the arts of falconry. Enough of the practice and of the traditions is left to make it an easy task to reinstitute all the important parts of the custom. Moreover, those who essayed the matter would have access to a much greater range of rapacious birds than our forefathers, who had to content themselves with the limited number of wild species which inhabit the continent of Europe. Especially on our Western plains, where game-birds abound and the country lies wide open, sportsmen would find an admirable field in which to follow the bird they flew. Not only would the restoration of hawking give us a sport much more skilful and refined than the fox chase, but it would reintroduce the cultivation of the only creature which, having once been brought to the service of man, has been permitted to return to its ancestral wild life.

The most striking and by far the most interesting quality exhibited by our birds is found in their sympathetic motive. In this spiritual quality, so far as it relates to their own kind, the feathered creatures are clearly in advance of all other species, including even man. A single fact, one of great generality, will serve to make this statement clear. Among the birds we find the only cases of true marriage which are known in the animal kingdom. In the greater number of the species the union is for a season, but among many it is for life. In the case of certain varieties of paroquets, the union is so indissoluble that, according to common report, a report which seems much better verified than the most of those concerning the habits of animals, neither member of the pair will survive the death of the other. Man, with all his striving towards a better social state, has, as a whole, not yet attained to the enduring affection for the mate which is evinced by the greater part of the birds.

In this same connection, we may note that the aesthetic appreciation among the birds appears to have attained a far higher level than it has won in any other creatures. There can be little doubt that the exquisitely beautiful plumage, the unparalleled shapeliness of form and grace of carriage, as well as the melodies which are uttered by so many species, all owe their development to a process of sexual selection which has led the discerning females to prefer the more ornamental of the males who sought them as partners. If any one will examine the exquisite shapes and gradations of color which are exhibited in the tail of the peacock, or of the lyre-bird, or even the coloration of the game-cock, he may perhaps imagine how prodigious must be the development of the aesthetic sense in these species, in order that it may take account of every little betterment which leads towards more perfect beauty. As it will take the generations of aesthetes many generations before they are able to "live up to" the level of their culture which is attained by the peacock's tail, it is not unreasonable for us to hold that in the appreciation of simple beauty in form and in color, the birds are far ahead of ourselves. It must not be supposed that our aesthetic culture is to be reckoned below that of birds, though in our case the work embodies the delineation of ideas, while in the birds it is a matter of pure ornament. Nevertheless, taking the evidence which shows the way in which these creatures appreciate beauty in the three realms of form, color, and sound, it seems to me clear that while their intellectual life is low, their purely emotional experiences are probably more vivid than those of ordinary men.

As the joy of life is, in the main, even in ourselves the result of emotional experiences, we may fairly reckon, even on _a priori_ ground, that the birds win a measure of happiness, though it be that of an unconscious kind, which is granted to no other living beings. Psychologically described, they might well be termed the group built for joy. Their bodies are, on the whole, the best constructed of all animals, except the insects. They suffer little from disease. We all see that their intercourse with each other is freer and merrier than that of other creatures. The wide range of their notes shows that in most forms they appreciate every little difference in the pleasure-giving changes of the day or the weather. They rejoice in the coming of each morning; they are sorrowful with the advent of each evening. They echo the distress of their kind in a readier way than any other forms. He is indeed a poor naturalist who overlooks this trait; for however deeply he may have delved, he has not won the jewel unless he appreciates this element of an unending joy which the bird-life continually offers him. From that life we may well believe that man is hereafter to derive some great and fruitful lessons.

USEFUL INSECTS

Relations of Man to Insect World.--But Few Species Useful to Man.--Little Trace of Domestication.--Honey-bees: their Origin; Reasons for no Selective Work; Habits of the Species.--Silkworms: Singular Importance to Man; Intelligence of Species.--Cochineal Insect.--Spanish Flies.--Future of Man relative to Useful Insects.

Although the relations of man to the insect world are prevailingly those of hostility, there are a few of these multitudinous creatures which have been more or less completely adopted into his great society. Although not more than half a dozen out of the million or more species in this subkingdom have thus been brought to the uses of civilization, the forms are interesting not only for what they give, but for the promise of further contributions when this great problem of winning help from the insect world receives adequate consideration.

As a whole, the insects are not well fitted to serve the needs of man. Owing to certain peculiarities in their organic laws they, fortunately for ourselves, are very limited in size. Although some of them afford savory food and are occasionally eaten by savages, and even by civilized folk when pressed by hunger owing to the famines which the invasions of these animals occasionally produce, they can never be of any value as sources of provisions, except through the stores which they accumulate in the manner of the bees. All that we have won, or are likely to win, from this realm is from the filaments which the creatures spin, the wax or honey which they accumulate, the coloring or other matters which their bodies afford, or the help which they may give us in our struggle with invading species of their class.

Probably the first insect to be brought into friendly relations with man was the honey-bee. This creature, like the most of our domesticated animals, is a native of the great continent of the Old World, though it has now been conveyed to all the flowery lands of the world where the season is long enough for it to win its harvest. In its wild as well as in its tame state the honey-bee dwells in one of the most perfect and highly elaborated of insect societies. It is a member of the group of membranous-winged insects known to naturalists as _Hymenoptera_, an order which includes all the elaborate societies of the class except the colonies of white ants. It is characteristic of all these colonial insects that, from the experience of ages, they have learned the great principles of the division of labor and of profit sharing towards which mankind are now clumsily stumbling; the great work which their societies are able to do is accomplished by a complete specialization of function and a perfect share in the commonwealth. So far has this elaboration gone, that in the bees the work of reproducing the kind is allotted to forms which do no labor; all the work of the hive being effected by individuals which are sterile, and whose sole function it is to toil unendingly for the profit of the great household.

While the greater part of the kindred of the bees either construct the nests for their young in the manner of our wasps or hornets, building them entirely in the open air, or excavate underground chambers in the fashion of our bumble-bees, our domesticated form at some time in the remote past adopted the plan of choosing for its dwelling-place some chamber in the rocks, or cavity in a hollow tree which could be shaped to the needs of a habitation. Owing to the size of these cavities, they were enabled to form societies composed of many thousands of individuals; while the species which adopted nests, in other conditions, were much more limited as regards their numbers. Thus the bumble-bee, which abides underground, dwells in very small communities, probably for the reason that the conditions of the soil it inhabits make it difficult to excavate and maintain large rooms. It is this habit of resorting to hollow spaces, as well as the instinct to store up honey in wax cases, which has made the common bee valuable to man.

At best the opportunities which the wilderness affords, in the way of fit dwelling-places for the swarm which goes forth from a hive, are much less than can readily be provided by art. In almost all cases the wild bees have to expend a great deal of labor in searching for a fit residence; and after such is found it requires a great deal of toil and expenditure of the costly wax in order to shape the cavity so that it may comfortably accommodate the multitude, and be reasonably safe from the attacks of other insects. Thus it has come about that the bee has, in a way, welcomed the interference of man with his ancestral conditions; and, though the species exists in the wildernesses of its native land, the domesticated varieties have so far taken up with man that in other countries they do not wander far from the limits of civilization. Now and then an uncared-for swarm which cannot find accommodations about the parent hive will betake itself to the wilderness; though it generally continues to seek sustenance from the abundant flowers of the tilled fields where it finds species, such as clover and buckwheat, from which it has been long accustomed to win the harvest of pollen and honey.

In North America the honey-bees, which were brought by the early settlers, and which had been kept on the frontier by the pioneers of our civilization, have always extended, in wild swarms, a little distance into the wilderness. But, at most, they appear to have wandered only for a few miles beyond the homestead, going no further away than would permit their use of the cultivated plants. The aborigines early learned to regard the insect as the _avant courier_ of European men. When they came upon an individual of the species they always knew that some white man's dwelling stood nearby. Those who are familiar with the solitudes of our Appalachian forests must often have remarked, in the stillness of a summer day, the hum of a swarm from some forest or domestic hive in its search for a dwelling-place. Those who have followed up the movements of these migrating colonies have had a chance to perceive how long is the search before they find a fit abiding place. Doubtless by far the greater part of these searchers for a home fail of their quest, and the wandering swarms perish without finding a suitable shelter.

In certain kinds of woods, as, for instance, those occupied by pine trees or other species which do not develop spacious hollows in their trunks, and where there are no crannied rocks--all the swarms which seek habitations there are foredoomed to destruction. If by chance the colonies wander too far, they generally find the wilderness so ill provided with plants which may furnish them with the sources of wax, honey, or other necessaries, that they cannot maintain their life. Thus it is that the bee, though domiciled with us rather than domesticated, has become united in its fortunes with civilization. In this position they have shown a remarkable adaptation to extremely varied conditions. They can withstand any climate which permits the development of the vegetation to which they need have access, provided the growing season continues long enough to accumulate their store. In the tropical lands they harvest so little honey that they are not profitable to man, and in the high north they need all their summer's accumulation to maintain them through the long winter. Thus, though they may range almost as far as man through the gamut of climates, they are profitable to their masters only in the middle latitudes. They commonly do not do well close to the sea, and cannot be kept on inconsiderable islands for the reason that they are, in their wanderings, likely to be lost in the waters.

The bee, like the other social insects, evinces a wide range of instincts which are intimately related to the economy of the hive; but these motives appear to be of an unchangeable character. They show no tendency to undergo the modifications which we observe to take place in our birds and mammals when they are brought under the influence of man. The only case in which they show any distinct effect from their contact with man is found in their evident recognition of those who care for them. They soon learn that their master is not to be feared, and, therefore, need not be resisted; but, beyond this dumb acceptance of a situation, they exhibit no trace of sympathetic recognition of our kind. It is clear that their mental endowments, though considerable, are very much more remote from our own than are those of the vertebrated animals with which we have formed a friendly association. Moreover, the type of life of the creatures in a way excludes them from any kind of share in human society. Each of them is, from its birth to its death, entirely devoted to the interests of its little commonwealth. Every impulse of their being relates to the economy of their hive. While we know little about instinct, we know enough of its manifestations to state that the real unit of this species is not the individual insect, but the colony to which it belongs. The separate form is hardly more than a bit of machinery so arranged that it may operate at a distance from the engine of which it forms a part. On this account it appears to be impossible for us ever to attain to any kind of sympathetic relations with these creatures.

Even more important than the bees are those insects which, in their immature state, yield us silk. The so-called silkworms, like the bees, originated in Asia, and have long been in the care of man. Beginning their experiments in spinning with the wool of animals and the various accessible vegetable fibres, men have ever been seeking materials which could serve them in the weaver's art. At one time or another they have tried an exceeding variety of materials; in modern days more than a score of insects have been experimented with in the endeavor to obtain fibres which could be turned to use. So far, however, the _Bombyx mori_--the form which, as its specific name indicates, feeds upon the leaves of the mulberry tree--is the only one which proves really serviceable. The advantages of this species are found in a peculiar assemblage of qualities, each of which is necessary to make it fit for the ends it attains at the hand of man.