A Naturalist's Big Stories (1905)

by John Burroughs

A Naturalist’s Big Stories

By John Burroughs

TALK about “wild animal whoppers,” I have found nothing in my reading of the works of reputable naturalists quite so hard to believe, so utterly incredible in fact, as in Hudson’s “The Naturalist in La Plata.” What is one to think, for instance, of his man-chasing spider, and the man on horseback at that? Mr. Hudson suggests that when Nature made this species she “overshot her mark.” That he has himself overshot the mark in portraying the creature’s fierceness and prowess will, I fancy, be the conclusion of most readers. “When a person passes near one—say, within three or four yards of its lurking place—it starts up and gives chase, and will often follow for a distance of thirty or forty yards. I came once very nearly being bitten by one of these savage creatures. Riding at an easy trot over the dry grass, I suddenly observed a spider pursuing me, leaping swiftly along and keeping up with my beast. 1 aimed a blow with my whip and the point of the lash struck the ground close to it, when it instantly leaped upon and ran up the lash, and was actually within three or four inches of my hand when I flung the whip from me.” So the spider got the whip, if it failed to get the man. The question naturally occurs, what was Mr. Hudson doing, while the spider was traveling up his whip-lash from the ground? Was he holding still? Could he not snap the savage beast off? Our own wolf-spider is a savage little creature, and will show fight when you touch it, but here is a wolf-spider that, like a veritable wolf, pursues and overtakes a man on horseback, and actually comes near biting him. The size of the spider is not given; though it is said to be “extraordinary.” Yet it could hardly have been more than an inch high.

The bird-catching spider of South America has a spread of eight or ten inches, but I believe this is much the largest of the spider tribe. I have seen our wolf-spider seize and drag off a very small toad, but it could hardly travel fast enough to overtake a creeping baby.

This astonishing spider story of Mr. Hudson’s predisposes one to discount many other statements in his book. The precocity of the young of some of his animals surpasses anything of the kind I ever heard of. Of the lambs of the pampa or native breed of sheep he says this: “I have often seen a lamb dropped on the frosty ground in bitterly cold, windy weather in midwinter, and in less than five seconds [the italics are mine] struggle to its feet, and seem as vigorous as any day-old lamb of other breeds. The dam, patient of the short delay, and not waiting to give it suck, has started off at a brisk trot after the flock, scattered and galloping before the wind like hunanacos rather than sheep, with the lamb, scarcely a minute in the world, running freely at her side.”

Can one accept such a statement without a violent wrench to his “will to believe”? It takes all four-footed creatures of which I have any knowledge, some minutes to get their eyes open when they are born, and to find themselves in their new and strange surroundings, and they rarely do this without aid from the mother. Is there not just as much need that the fawn of the common wild deer should be able, on coming into the world, at once to find its legs and follow the dam as that the new-born lamb upon the pampa should? And yet the fawn does not follow the dam for some days, and probably does not get to its feet for some hours. President Roosevelt records that he once saw a frightened deer drop her fawn as she ran, but he does not record that the fawn sprang to its feet and followed its mother.

These pampa sheep are, no doubt, a very hardy breed, but the statement that they come into the world ready to flee from danger on the instant certainly taxes one’s credulity.

Mr. Hudson's statement that the young of the jacana—a bird, of the marshes—“is ready to begin active life from the very moment of leaving the shell,” is not quite so hard to believe, though hard enough. The young of certain reptiles will run, and hiss, and strike the instant they escape from the egg. But this maturity of powers is certainly rare among birds one moment from the shell. The young of our water-fowl require some hours to make ready for active life. But not so with the jacana. Mr. Hudson had found a nest on a mound of earth in a shallow lagoon containing four, “pipped” eggs. “While I was looking closely at one of the eggs lying on the palm of my hand, all at once the cracked shell parted, and at the same moment the young bird leaped from my hand and fell into the water. To perish? Not so. It pulled for the shore at once, and escaping from the water concealed itself in the grass, lying close and perfectly motionless like a young plover.”

This story has gone into recent works of animal instinct, and the truth of it has apparently never been questioned. All the same, it is a tough one.

There are several other observations in Mr. Hudson's book that one cannot swallow without a struggle. His account of the death-feigning instinct of the fox is so contrary to all we know of that animal that it is incredible. In one case which he relates a young fox actually fell down at the sight of two men approaching on horseback and played its part so well that a severe lashing with a whip failed to arouse it. What is the fox’s cunning and fleetness of foot given him for, or how has he ever acquired them, if this is the way his heart fails him at the sight of danger? The ‘possum behaves somewhat in this way, but it is a slow, stupid animal. Every instinct is supposed to be of some use to the animal possessing it, and to have been developed in the struggle for existence, but of what possible benefit could this death-feigning instinct be to the fox? His enemy would have his pelt without an effort.

The puma as figured by this La Plata naturalist is another animal whose habits in some respects contradict all we know of its tribe. Savage and cruel and bloodthirsty like our panther, leading much the same kind of life, it yet will not “defend itself against a human being,” but will rather defend a human being against its enemies; will fawn upon a man whom it meets in the night, rubbing playfully against his legs like a cat, etc.—all of which one would like to see corroborated by other observers.

The Robin.

Probably, with,us, no other bird is so closely associated with country life as the robin; most of the time pleasantly, but for a brief season, during cherry time, unpleasantly. His life touches or mingles with ours at many points—in the door-yard, in the garden, in the orchard, along the road, in the groves, in the woods. He is everywhere except in the depths of the primitive forests, and he is always very much at home. He does not hang timidly upon the skirts of our rural life, like, say, the thrasher or the cheewink; he plunges in boldly and takes his chances, and his share, and often more than his share, of whatever is going. What vigor, what cheer, how persistent, how prolific, how adaptive; pugnacious, but cheery, pilfering, but companionable!

When one first sees his ruddy breast upon the lawn in spring, or his pert form outlined against a patch of lingering snow in the brown fields, or hears his simple carol from the top of a leafless tree at sundown, what a mild thrill it gives one! What a train of pleasant associations is quickened into life!

What pictures he makes upon the lawn, what attitudes he strikes! See him seize a worm and yank it from its burrow!

I recently observed a robin boring for grubs in a country door-yard. It is a common enough sight to witness one seize an angle-worm and drag it from its burrow in the turf, but I am not sure that I ever before saw one drill for grubs and bring the big white morsel to the surface. The robin I am speaking of had a nest of young in a maple near by, and she worked the neighborhood very industriously for food. She would run along over the short grass after the manner of robins, stopping every few feet, her form stiff and erect. Now and then she would suddenly bend her head toward the ground and bring eye or ear for a moment to bear intently upon it. Then she would spring to boring the turf vigorously with her bill, changing her attitude at each stroke, alert and watchful, throwing up the grass roots and little jets of soil, stabbing deeper and deeper, growing every moment more and more excited, till finally a fat grub is seized and brought forth. Time after time, during several days, I saw her mine for grubs in this way and drag them forth. How did she know where to drill? The insect was in every case an inch below the surface. Did she hear it gnawing the roots of the grasses, or did she see a movement in the turf beneath which the grub was at work? I know not. I only know that she struck her game unerringly each time. Only twice did I see her make a few thrusts and then desist, as if she had been for the moment deceived.

How pugnacious the robin is! With what spunk and spirit he defends himself against his enemies! Every spring I see the robins mobbing the blue-jays that go sneaking through the trees looking for eggs. The crow-blackbirds nest in my evergreens, and there is perpetual war between them and the robins. The blackbirds devour the robins’ eggs, and the robins never cease to utter their protest, often backing it up with blows. I saw two robins attack a young blackbird in the air, and they tweaked out his feathers at a lively rate.

The past spring a pack of robins killed a cuckoo near me that they found robbing a nest. I did not witness the killing, but I have cross-questioned a number of people who did see it, and I am convinced of the fact. They set upon him when he was on the robin’s nest, and left him so bruised and helpless beneath it that he soon died. It was the first intimation I had ever had that the cuckoo devoured the eggs of other

Ducks and the Wind

Mr. R. Kearton, F.Z.S., in his interesting book called “Wild Nature’s Ways,” jumps to the conclusion that because he has seen ducks flying against the wind they always fly against the wind, in order not to ruffle their plumage, as would be the case, he thinks, did they fly with the wind. Now ducks fly where they want to go, regardless of the direction of the wind. But aside from this a duck would not ruffle his plumage any more going with the wind than against it, for once on the wing, the duck is going through the air, just as a steamboat is going with or against the tide. Like many other writers of animals and their habits, Mr. Kearton draws a hasty and incorrect conclusion from his observations, and falls into the common error of making too much out of them.