 section 58 of the Animal Storybook. This is a LibreDocs recording. All LibreDocs recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibreDocs.org. The Animal Storybook, edited by Andrew Lang. Mr. Bolt, The Scotch Terrier, by Mr. Jesse. All children who know anything of dogs or cats will have found out very soon that the ugly ones are generally far cleverer and more sensible than the pretty ones, who are very apt to think too much of themselves, and who will spend a long time admiring themselves in the glass just as if they were vain men and women. Perhaps it is not altogether their fault if they are stupid, for when they are shaped well and are fine glossy coats, their masters and mistresses spoil them and give them too much to eat, so they grow lazy and greedy and disobedient, and like better to lie on the half rag than to do tricks or jump over fences. Now luckily for himself, Mr. Bolt, the hero of this story, was quite a plain dog. There could be no doubt about it, and those who loved him did so because he was useful and good company, and not because he was elegant or graceful. Bolt was a large Scotch Terrier, rough and hairy with a thick sort of grey fringe, and great dark eyes looking out from underneath the fringe. His tail and his legs are very short, and his back was very long, so long that he reminded one of a furniture van more than anything else. But clever though he was, Bolt had his faults, and the worst of them was that he was very apt to take offense when none was intended, and was far too ready to pick a quarrel and to hit out with all his might. He probably owed some of this love of fighting to the country in which he was born. For, although a Scotch dog by descent, he was Irish by birth, and his earliest home was near Dublin. As everybody knows, the happiest moment of an Irish man's life is when he is fighting something or somebody, and Bolt in his youth was as reckless as any Irishman of them all. He was hardly a year old when he turned upon his own mother, who had done something to displease him when they were chained together in a stable, and never let her throat go until she was stone dead. Cats too were his natural enemies, whom he fought and conquered when no dogs were at hand. And sometimes he would steal out at night from his master's bed, where he always slept, and go for a chase by the light of the moon. Early one morning a fearful noise was heard in the house, and when his master, unable to bear it any longer, got out of bed to see what had happened. He found a strange cat lying on the stairs quite dead, and a house cat with which Bolt was barely on speaking terms, sitting in a friendly manner by the side of the conqueror. It is supposed that the strange cat had been led either by motives of curiosity or robbery to enter by some open window, and that the house cat, unable to drive him out, had welcomed Bolt's ready help for the purpose. Fighter though he was by nature, Bolt had inherited enough Scotch caution not to begin a quarrel unless he had a fair chance of victory. But he was generous, and sold him attack dogs smaller than himself unless he was forced into it, or really had nothing better to do. He always began by seizing his enemy's hind leg, which no other dog had been known to do before, and he had such a dislike to dogs whose skins were yellow, that not even the company of ladies, and the responsibility weighing upon him as their escort, would stop Bolt's wild rush at his yellow foe. He hated being shut up too, and showed amazing cleverness in escaping from prison. If that was quite impossible, he did the next best thing which was to gnaw and destroy every article he could in any way reach. One day, when he had behaved so oddly that his family feared he must be going mad, children had been known to frighten their parents in a similar way. He was chained up in a little room, and feeling too angry to sleep, he amused himself all night with tearing a Bible, several shoes and a rug, while he gnawed a hole through the door, and bit through the leg of a table. In the morning when his master came to look at him, he seemed quite recovered, and very well pleased with himself. As you will see, Bolt had plenty of faults, but he also had some very good qualities, and when he did not think himself insulted by somebody's behaviour, he could show a great deal of sense. One night, the cook had been sitting up very late, baking bread for the next day, and being very tired, she fell asleep by the kitchen-thire, and a spark fell out on her woolen dress. As there was no blaze, and a girl was a heavy sleeper, she would most likely never have waked at all until it was too late. Only luckily for her, the smell reached Bolt's nose as he was lying curled up on his master's bed, near the door which always stood open. Before rousing the house, and giving them all a great fright, he thought he had better make sure exactly what was wrong, so he ran thirst down to the kitchen from which the smell seemed to come, and finding the cook half-stupified by the smoke he rushed back to call his master. This he managed to do by tearing up and down the room, leaping on the bed and pulling off all the clothes, so that the poor man was quite cold. His master was much astonished at the state of excitement Bolt was in, and feared at first that he had gone mad, but after a few minutes he decided that he would get up and see what was the matter. Bolt went carefully before him into the kitchen, and sat down by the side of the sleeping girl, turning his face anxiously to the door, to make sure that his master should make no mistake. So in a few seconds the fire was put out, and the girl escaped with nothing worse than a slight scorching. I might tell you many stories of Bolt and his funny ways, but I have only room for one now. After some time his mistress and her daughter left the house in which Bolt had spent so many years, and took lodgings in Dublin. Bolt went with them, but when they all arrived the land-aided eclairgy did not like dogs, and Bolt must be placed elsewhere. Now this was very awkward. Of course it was out of the question that Bolt could be left behind, yet he was too late to make other arrangements. So after some consideration he was sent back to some lodgings nearby, where his master had formerly lived, and where they promised to take great care of him. His young mistress called every day to carry him off for a walk, and she often tried to get him to enter the house she herself was living in. But nothing would persuade the offended Bolt to go inside the door. He would sit on the step for some time, hoping she would be persuaded to return with him. When he found that was hopeless he walked proudly back to his own rooms. His mistress stayed in that house for nearly a year, and in all that time Bolt never forgot or forgave the slight put upon him, or could be induced to enter the house. Indeed his feelings were so bitterly hurt, that even when they all set up house again it was months before Bolt could be got to do anything more than pay his family a call now and then, and sometimes dying with them. So you see, it is a serious thing to offend a dog, and he needs to be as deadly handled as a human being. End of Section 58, Section 59 of the Animal Story Book. This silly Brevox recording. All Brevox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit lebrevox.org. Recording by April 6090, California, United States of America. The Animal Story Book, edited by Andrew Lang. A Raven's Funeral. By Mrs. Lang. A Raven's Funeral. In the days of Tiberius, the Emperor, there was a young raven hatched in a nest upon the Church of Caster and Pollux, which, to make a trial how he could fly, took his first flight into a shoemaker's shop just over against the said church. The master of the shop was well enough content to receive this bird, as commanded to him from so sacred a place, and in that regard set great store by it. This raven in short time became acquainted to man's speech, began to speak, and every morning would fly up to the top of the roaster, or public pulpit for orations. When, turning to the open forum or market place, he would salute and bid good morrow to Tiberius Caesar, and after him to Germanicus, Andrusus, the young princes, every one by their names, and in none the people of Rome also that past, and when he had done so afterwards would fly again to the shoemaker's shop for a fore said. This duty practiced yay and continued for many years together to the great wonder and admiration of all men. Now it fell out so that another shoemaker who had taken the next shop unto him, either upon a malicious envy or some sudden spleen and passion of anger, killed the raven. Whereat the people took such indignation that they, rising in an uproar, drove him out of the street and made that quarter of the city too hot for him, and not long after murdered him for it. But contrary wise the carcass of the raven was solemnly interred, and the funeral performed with all the ceremonial obsequies that could be devised, for the corpse of this bird was bestowed in a coffin, couch or bed, and the same bedeck with chaplets of fresh flowers of all sorts, carried upon the shoulders of two black amours with minstrels before, sounding the whole voice and playing on the fife, as far as the funeral fire, which was piled and made in the right hand of the cosy apia in a certain plain for open field. So highly reputed the people of Rome, that ready wit and apt disposition in a bird, as they thought it is sufficient cause to ordain a sumptuous burial therefore. End of Section 59 Section 60 of the Animal Storybook. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Bill Moseley. The Animal Storybook, edited by Andrew Lang. A Strange Tiger, Bing Lee's Animal Biography. In the year 1790, a baby tiger only six weeks old, whose skin was most beautifully marked in black and yellow, and whose figure was as perfectly modeled as the figure of any tiger could be, was put on board a large East India company ship called the Pit, to be brought to London as a present to George III. Of course, in those days, no one ever thought of coming through the Red Sea, but all vessels sailed all the way round by the Atlantic, so the voyage naturally took many months, especially if the winds were unfavorable. Under these circumstances, it was as well to choose your fellow passengers carefully, as you had to live such a long time with them. Unlike most of its tribe, the little tiger soon made itself at home on board ship. And as it was too small to do much harm, it was allowed to run about loose and played with anybody who had time for a game. They generally liked to sleep with the sailors in their hammocks, and they would often pretend to use it for a pillow, as it lay in full length on the deck. Partly out of fun, and partly because it was its nature to do so, the tiger would every now and then steal a piece of meat, if it found one handy. One day it was caught red handed by the carpenter, who took the beef right out of its mouth, and gave it a good beating. But instead of the man getting bitten for his pains, as he might have expected, the tiger took his punishment quite meekly, and bore the carpenter no grudge after. One of its favorite tricks was to run out to the very end of the balsprit, stand there looking over the sea, and there was no place in the whole ship to which it would not climb when the fancy took it. But on the whole the little tiger preferred to have company in its gambles, and was especially fond of dogs, of which there were several on board. They would chase each other and roll over together, just like two puppies, and during the ten months or so that the voyage from China lasted, they had time enough to become fast friends. When the vessel reached London, the tiger was at once taken to the tower, which was the zoological gardens of those days. The little fellow did not mind, for he was always ready to take what came and make the best of it. All the keepers grew as fond of him as the sailors had been. No more is known about him for eleven months when he was quite grown up, and then one day just after he had had his dinner, a black rough-haired terrier pup was put into his cage. Most tigers would have eaten it at once, but not this one, who still remembered his early friends on board ship. He used to watch for the pup every day and lick it all over, taking care never to hurt it with his rough tongue. In general, the terrier had its food outside the cage, but sometimes it was forgotten, and then it would try to snatch a bit of the tiger's meat. But this, the tiger thought impertinent and made the dog understand that it was the one thing he would not stand. After several months of close companionship, the terrier was for some reason taken away, and one day when the tiger awakened from his after dinner nap, he found the terrier gone and a tiny Dutch mastiff in its place. He was surprised, but as usual, made no fuss and proceeded to give it a good lick, much to the alarm of the little mastiff. However, its fright soon wore off, and in a day or two it might be seen barking round him and even biting his feet, which the tiger never objected to, perhaps because he could hardly have felt it. Two years after the tiger had been settled in the tower, the very same carpenter who had beaten him for stealing the beef came back to England and at once paid a visit to his old friend. The tiger was enchanted to see him, and rushing to the grating began rubbing himself against it with delight. The carpenter begged to be let into the cage, and though the keepers did not like it, he declared there was no danger and at last they opened the door. In a moment the tiger was by his side, nearly knocking him down with joy and affection, licking his hands and rubbing his head on his shoulders, and when after two or three hours the carpenter got up to go, the tiger would hardly let him leave the den, for he wanted to keep him there forever. But all tigers cannot be judged by this tiger. End of section sixty, recording by Bill Mosley County, Texas, USA. Section sixty one of The Animal Storybook. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Betty B. The Animal Storybook, edited by Andrew Lang. Halcyons and their biographers by Mrs. Lang. Some of the old writers such as Pliny, Plutarch, Ovid, and Aristotle tell a pretty story about a bird called the Halcyon, which flew sporting over the seas and in midwinter, when the days were shortest, sat on its nest and brooded over its eggs. And Neptune, who loved these small gay plumaged creatures, took pity on them and kept the wave still during the time they're sitting, so that by and by the days that a man's life that were free from storm and tempest became known as his Halcyon days, by which name you will still hear them called. Now, after a careful comparison of the descriptions of the ancient writers, modern naturalists have come to the conclusion that the Halcyon of Pliny and the rest was no other than our beautiful King Fisher, which flashes its lovely green and blue along the rivers and cascades both of the old world and the new. It is now known that the King Fisher is one of the burrowing birds and that it scoops out in the sand or soft earth of the riverbanks, a passage which is often as much as four feet long and grows wider as it recedes from the water. It feeds upon fish and fish bones may be found in large numbers on the floor of the King Fisher's house, which either from laziness or a dislike to change, he inhabits for years together. His eyes are wonderfully quick and he can detect a fish even in turbulent waters from the bow of a tree. Then he makes a rapid dart and rarely misses his prey. No bird has been the subject of so many superstitions and false stories as the King Fisher, which attracted much attention from its great beauty. Ove changes the King of Magnesia and his wife, Alsione, into King Fisher's. Plenty talks of the bird's sweet voice, whereas its note is particularly harsh and ugly. And Plutarch mistakes the sea urchin shell for that of the Alsione. Even the Tartars have a story to tell of this bird and assure us that a feather plucked from a King Fisher and then cast into the water will gain the love of every woman it afterwards touches, while the Ostiax held that the possession of the skin, bill and claws of the King Fisher will ensure the owner a life made up of Halcyon days. End of section 61. Section 62 of the Animal Story Book. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Melissa Jane, Memphis, Tennessee. The Animal Story Book, edited by Andrew Lang. Chapter 62. The Story of a Frog by Miss Blackley. Part 1. Everyone knows what excitement the approach of the shooting season causes to a certain class of people in Paris. One is perpetually meeting some of them on their way back from the canal where they have been getting their hands in by popping at larks and sparrows, dragging a dog after them, and stopping each acquaintance to ask, do you like whales and partridges? Certainly. Oh well, I'll send you some about the second or third of next month. Many thanks! By the way, I hit five sparrows out of eight shots just now! Not bad, was it? First rate indeed! Well, towards the end of August, 1830, one of these sportsmen called at number 109 in the Four Bois Saint-Denis, and on being told that Ducat was at home, climbed to the fifth floor, dragging his dog up step by step, and knocking his gun against every corner until he reached the studio of that imminent painter. However, he only found his brother, Alessandro, one of those brilliant and original persons whose inherent laziness alone prevented his bringing his great natural gifts to perfection. He was universally voted a very good fellow, for his easy good nature made him ready to do or give whatever anyone asked. It was not surprising, therefore, that the newcomer soon managed to persuade Alexandre that nothing could be more delightful than to attend the opening of the shooting season on the plains of Saint-Denis, where, according to General Report, there were swarms of quails, clouds of partridges, and troops of hairs. As a result of this visit, Alexandre de Camp ordered a shooting coat from his tailor, a gun from the first gun makers in Paris, and a pair of gators from an equally celebrated firm, all of which cost him 660 francs, not to mention the price of his license. On August 31st, Alexandre discovered that one important item was still wanting to his outfit, a dog. He went at once to a man who had supplied various models to his brother, Ujens, well-known picture of performing dogs, and asked if he had happened to have any sporting dogs. The man declared he had the very thing, and going to the kennel, promptly whipped off the three-cornered hat and little coat worn by a black and white mongrel, whom he hastened to present to his customer as a dog of the purest breed. Alexandre hinted that it was not usual for a pointer to have such sharp-pointed ears, but the dealer replied that love was an English dog, and that it was considered the very best form for English dogs to have pointed ears. As this statement might be true, Alexandre made no further objections, but paid for the dog and took love home with him. At five o'clock next morning, Alexandre was roused up by his sporting friend, who, scolding him well for not being ready earlier, hurried him off as fast as possible, declaring the whole plane would be shot before they could get there. It was certainly a curious sight. Not a swallow, not even the meanest little sparrow, could rise without a volley of shots after it, and everyone was anxiously on the lookout for any and every sort of bird that could possibly be called game. Alexandre's friend was soon bitten by the general fever and threw himself energetically amidst the excited crowd, whilst Alexandre strolled along more calmly, dutifully followed by love. Now everyone knows that the first duty of any sporting dog is to scour the field and not to count the nails in his master's boots. This thought naturally occurred to Alexandre, and he accordingly made a sign to love and said, Seek! Love promptly stood up on his hind legs and began to dance. Dear me, said Alexandre, as he lowered his gun and contemplated his dog. It appears that love unites the lighter accomplishments to his more serious education. I seem to have made a rather good bargain. However, having bought love to point and not to dance, he waited till the dance was over and repeated in firm tones. Seek! Love stretched himself out at full length and appeared to be dead. Alexandre put his glass into his eye and inspected love. The intelligent creature was perfectly immovable. Not a hair on his body stirred. He might have been dead for 24 hours. This is all very pretty, said Alexandre. But, my friend, this is not the time for jokes. We are here to shoot! Let us shoot! Come, get up! Love did not stir an inch. Wait a bit, remarked Alexandre as he picked up a stick from the ground and took a step towards love, intending to stir him up with it. Wait a bit. But no sooner did love see the stick in his master's hand than he sprang to his feet and eagerly watched his movements. Alexandre, thinking the dog was at last going to obey, held the stick towards him and for the third time ordered him to seek. Love took a run and sprang gracefully over the stick. Love could do three things to perfection. Dance on his hind legs, sham dead, and jump for the king. Alexandre, however, who did not appreciate the third accomplishment any more than he had done the two others, broke the stick over love's back which sent him off howling to his master's friend. As fate would have it, the friend fired at that very moment and an unfortunate lark fell right into love's jaws. Love thankfully accepted this windfall and made but one mouthful of the lark. The infuriated sportsman threw himself on the dog and seizing him by the throat to force open his jaws thrust in his hand and drew out three tail feathers. The bird itself was not to be thought of. Bestowing a vicious kick on the unhappy love, he turned on Alexandre, exclaiming, Never gun do you catch me shooting with you. Your brute of a dog is just avowed as superb quail. Ah, come here if you dare, you rascal. Poor love had not the least wish to go near him. He ran as fast as he could to his master, a shore proof that he preferred blows to kicks. However, the lark seemed to have wedded love's appetite and perceiving creatures of apparently the same kind rise now and then from the ground, he took to scampering about in hopes of some second piece of good luck. Alexandre had some difficulty in keeping up with him, for love hunted his game after a fashion of his own. That is to say, with his head up and his tail down. This would seem to prove that his sight was better than his scent, but it was particularly objectionable to his master, for he put up the birds before they were within reach and then ran barking after them. This went on nearly all day. Towards five o'clock Alexandre had walked about fifteen miles in love at least fifty. The former was exhausted with calling and the latter with barking, when all of a sudden love began to point so firmly and steadily that he seemed changed to stone. At this surprising sight Alexandre, forgetful of all his fatigues and disappointments, hurried up, trembling less love should break off before he could get within reach. No fear, love might have been glued to the spot. Alexandre came up to him, noted the direction of his eyes, and saw that they were fixed on a tuft of grass. And that under this grass there appeared to be some grayish object. Thinking it must be a young bird which had strayed from its covey, he laid down his gun, took his cap in his hand, and cautiously creeping near like a child about to catch a butterfly. He flung the cap over the unknown object, put in his hand, and drew out a frog. Anyone else would have flung the frog away, but Alexandre philosophically reflected that there must certainly be some great future in store for this, the sole result of his day's sport. So he accordingly put the frog carefully into his game bag and brought it home, where he transferred it to an empty glass GM jar and poured the contents of his water bottle on its head. So much care and trouble for a frog may appear excessive, but Alexandre knew what this particular frog had cost him, and he treated it accordingly. It had cost him 660 francs without counting his license. Part two Oh, oh, cried Dr. Theory as he entered the studio next day. So you've got a new inmate. And without paying any attention to Tom's friendly growls or to jocos engaging grimaces, he walked straight up to the jar, which contained Madam Waselle Comargo, as she had already been named. Madam Waselle Comargo unaware that Theory was not only a learned doctor, but also a most intellectual and delightful person fell into swimming round and round her jar as fast as she could go, which however did not prevent her being seized by one of her hind legs. Dear me, said Theory, as he turned the little creature about, a specimen of the Rana Temporaria. See, there are the two black spots near the eyes, which give it the name. Now, if you only had a few dozens of this species, I should advise you to have a fricassee made of their hind legs to send for a couple of bottles of good Claret and ask me to dinner. But as you only happen to have one, we will with your leave content ourselves with making a barometer. Now, said Theory, opening a drawer, let us attend to the prisoner's furniture. Saying which, he took out two cartridges, a gimlet, a pen knife, two paint brushes, and four matches. Decaux watched him without in the least understanding the object of all these preparations, which the doctor was making with as much care as though for some surgical operation. First, he emptied the powder out of the cartridges into a tray and kept the bullets. Then he threw the brushes and ties to Jaco and kept the handles. What the do so you about? cried Decaux, snatching his two best paint brushes from Jaco. Why, you're ruining my establishment. I'm making a ladder, gravely replied Theory. And true enough, having bored holes in the bullets, he fixed the brush handles into them, so as to form the sides of the ladder using the matches to make the wrongs. Five minutes later, the ladder was completed and placed in the jar, where the weight of the bullets kept it firmly down. No sooner did madam Wasel Camargo find herself the owner of this article of furniture than she prepared to test it by climbing up to the top rung. We shall have rain, said Theory. You don't say so, replied Decaux, and there's my brother who wanted to go out shooting again today. Madam Wasel Camargo does not advise his doing so, remarked the doctor. How so? My dear friend, I have been providing you with an inexpensive but reliable barometer. Each time you see madam Wasel Camargo climb to the top of her ladder, it's a sure sign of rain. When she remains at the bottom, you may count on fine weather. And if she goes up halfway, don't venture out without your umbrella. Changeable, changeable. Dear me, dear me, said Decaux. During the next six months, madam Wasel Camargo continued to foretell the weather with perfect and unerring regularity. But for painful reasons into which we need not inquire too closely, madam Wasel's useful career soon closed and she left a blank in the menagerie. End of Section 62 Most children who were taught music forty or fifty years ago learnt as one of their first tunes and air called the woodpecker tapping on the hollow oak tree. Oak trees are not the only ones that woodpeckers, and especially American woodpeckers, tap on. There is hardly any old tree which they disdain to work upon. Sometimes for food, sometimes for nesting purposes, sometimes it would seem merely for the sake of employment and of keeping their bills in order. For the woodpecker's bill is a very powerful instrument, and can get through a great deal of work. In the case of the ivory-billed woodpecker, it is not only white and hard and strong, but it has a ribbed surface, which tends to prevent its breaking. And even if he does not form one of this class, the woodpecker is as clever in his own line as any carpenter, and more industrious than many. The moment that he notices symptoms of decay in any tree, he flies off to make a careful examination of it. And when he has decided on the best mode of attack, he loses no time, and has even been known to strip all the bark off a dead pine tree of thirty feet long in less than twenty minutes. And this is not in little bits, but in sheets five or six feet long, and as whole as the fleece of a sheep when it is sheared. Of course, different varieties of woodpeckers have little differences in their habits, in the same way that habits differ in different families, but certain customs and ways of digging are common to them all. Every woodpecker, for instance, when placed in a wooden cage, will instantly set to work to dig himself out of it, and to keep him safe, he needs to be surrounded by wire against which his bill is utterly useless. In general, the male and female work by turns at the hole, which is always begun by the male, and is as perfectly round as if it had been measured and drawn from one point to another. For a while the boring is quite straight, and then it takes a sloping direction, so as to provide a partial shelter against the rain. Sometimes the bird will begin by a slope and end in a direct line, but the hole is never straight all through, and the depth varies from two to five feet, according to the kind of woodpecker that is digging. The inside of the nest and the passage to it are as smooth as if they had been polished with a plane, and the chips of wood are often thrown down in a careless manner at some distance, in order that attention may not be attracted to the spot. Often the birds' labors have to begin, especially in orchards, which are favorite nesting places with them, with having to turn out swarms of insects nestling comfortably between the bark and the tree. These he either kills or eats. Anyhow, he never rests until they are safely got rid of. The woodpecker is never still, and, in many respects, is like a mischievous boy. So, as can be imagined, is not very easy to make a pet of. One adventurous person, however, captured a woodpecker in America, and has left us a history of its performances during the three days it lived in captivity. The poor bird was very miserable in its prison, and cried so like a child that many persons were completely taken in. Left alone for a short time in the room while his captor had gone to look after his horse, he examined the room carefully to see where lay his best chance of escape. His quick eye soon detected the plaster between the window and the ceiling, and he began at once to attack the weak place. He worked so hard that when his master returned he had laid bare the last, and had bored a hole bigger than his own head, while the bed was strewn with big fragments of plaster. A very little while longer, and he would have been free, and what a pity that he was disturbed in his work. But his master was most anxious to keep him a little longer, to observe his ways, so he tied him to the leg of the table, and went off to get him some food. By the time the man came back, the mahogany table was lying in bits about the floor, and the woodpecker was looking eagerly around to see what other mischief he could do. He would not eat food of any kind, and died in three days, to the great regret of his captor. End of Section 63, Recording by narrator Jay. Section 64 of the Animal Story Book This is a Libythox recording. All Libythox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit libythox.org The Animal Story Book edited by Andrew Lang Dogs Over the Water by Mrs. Lang No animal, not even the horse, has made itself so many friends as the dog. A whole library might be filled with stories about what dogs have done, and men could learn a great deal from the sufferings dogs have gone through for masters that they love. What other differences there may be between foreigners and Englishmen? There is at any rate none in the behaviour of British and foreign dogs. Love me, love my dog, the proverb runs. But in general, it would be much more to the point to say, love my dog, love me. We do not know anything of the Austrian officer of whose death I am going to tell you, but after hearing what his dog did, we should all have been pleased to make the master's acquaintance. In the early years of this century, when nearly every country in Europe was turned into a battlefield by Napoleon, there was a tremendous fight between the French and the Austrians at Casteliglone in Lombadi, which was then under the Austrian yoke. The battle was hard fought and lasted several hours, but at length the Austrian ranks were broken, and they had to retreat after frightful losses on both sides. After the field had been won, Napoleon, as his custom was, walked around among the dead and dying to see for himself how the day had gone. Not often had he performed this duty amidst a greater scene of blood and horror, and as he came to a spot where the dead were lying fickest, he saw to his surprise a small, long-eared spaniel standing of his feet on the breast of an Austrian officer, and his eyes fixed on his face, waiting to detect the slightest movement. Observed in his watch, the dog never heard the approach of the emperor and his staff. But Napoleon called to one of his attendants and pointed out the spaniel. At the sound of his voice, the spaniel turned round and looked at the emperor, as if he knew that to him only he must appeal for help. And the prayer was not in vain, for Napoleon was very sold and needlessly cruel. The officer was dead and beyond any aid from him, but the emperor did what he could, and gave orders that the dog should be looked after by one of his own men, and the wounded Austrians carefully tended. He knew what it was to be loved as blindly by men, as that officer was loved by his dog. Nearly two years before this time, France was trembling in the power of a set of bloody ruffians, and in Paris especially, no man felt his head to be safe from one hour to the other. Hundreds of harmless people were clapped into prison on the most poultry charges, and if they were not torn to pieces by infuriated crowds, they ended their lives on the guillotine. Among the last of the victims, before the fall of Robespierre, which finished the reign of terror, was a magistrate in one of the departments in the north of France, whom everyone looked up to and respected. It may be thought that it would not have been easy to find a pretext for throwing into prison a man of such an open and honourable life, but when other things failed, a vague accusation of conspiracy against the government was always possible, and accordingly the magistrate was arrested in his own house. No one was there to help him or to share his confinement. He had long sent away his children to places of safety. Some of his relations were in jail, like himself, and his friends dared not come forward. They could have done him no good, would only have shared his fate. In those dark days every man had to suffer alone, and nobly they did it. Only one friend the magistrate had who ventured openly to show his affection, and even he might go no farther than the prison doors, namely his Spaniel, who for twelve years had scarcely left his side. For though dogs were not yet prescribed, the Spaniel's whinings availed nothing, and the gates were shut against him. At first he refused to believe that his master would never come back, and returned again and again with the hopes of meeting the magistrate on his way home. At last the dog's spruits gave way, and he went to the house of a friend of the family who knew him well and receded him kindly. Even here, however, he had to be carefully hidden, lest his protector should be charged with shattering the dog of an accused person, and have to pay the penalty on the guillotine. The animals seemed to know what was expected of him, and neither barked or growled as dogs loved to do, and indeed he was too sad to take any interest in what was going on around him. The only bright spot in his day was toward evening, when he was secretly let out, and he made straight for the gate of the prison. The gate was never opened, but he always hoped that this time it would be, and sat on, and the gate of the prison was open. And on, till he felt that his chance was gone for that day. All the prison officials knew him by sight and were sorry for him, and one day the jailer's heart was softened, and he opened the doors and led him to his master's cell. It would be difficult to say which of the two was the happier, and when the time came for the prisoners to be locked up for the night, the man could scarcely tear away the dog, so closely did he cling to his master. However, there was no help for it. He had to be put outside, lest it should occur to someone in authority to make a visit of inspection to the prison. Next evening the dog returned at the same hour and was again admitted, and when his time was up he went home with a light heart, sure that by sunset next day he would be with his beloved master. This went on for several weeks, and the dog at any rate would have been quite satisfied if he had gone on forever. But one morning the magistrate was told that he was to be brought before his judges to make an answer to his charge and receive his sentence. In the midst of a vast crowd which dared not show sympathy even if it felt it, the magistrate pleaded for the last time, without a friend to give him courage except his dog, which had somehow forced himself through guards and crowd, and lay crouched between his legs, happy at this unexpected chance of seeing his master. Sentence of death was pronounced, as was inevitable, and the hour of execution the hour of execution was not long delayed. In the wonderful way the animals always do know when surfing out of the common is passing, the spaniel was sitting outside the door when his master walked out for the last time, although it was long before the hour of his daily visit. Alone, of all the friends that he had known and loved, his dog went with him and stood beside him on the steps of the guillotine, and sat at his feet when his head fell. Fagely, the spaniel was aware that something terrible had happened. His master, who had never felt him before, would not speak to him now. It was in vain to lick his hand, he got no pat in answer, but if his master was asleep and his bed was underground, then he too must sleep by his side till the morning came and the world awoke again. So two nights passed, and free. Then his friend who had shouted him during those long weeks came to look for him, and after much coaxing and caressing persuaded him to return to his old hiding place. With great difficulty he was induced to swallow some food, but the moment his protectors back was turned he rushed out and fought his way to his master's grave. This lasted for three months, and every day the dog looked sadder and thinner than the day before. At length his friend thought he would try a new plan with him and tied him firmly up, but in the morning he found that the dog had, like Sampson, broken through his bonds, and was lying on the grave which he never left again. Food was brought to him, he never came to seek it himself, and in time he refused even what was lying there before him. One day his friends found him trying to scratch up the earth where his master lay, and all at once his strength gave way, and with one howl he died, showing the two men who stood a round of love that were stronger than death, and fidelity that lasted beyond the grave. From Observations in Natural History One more story of a little dog, this time an English one, and I have done. It was on February 8, 1587 that Mary Queen of Scots ended her 18 years of weary captivity upon a scaffold at Fotheringay, carefully dressed in a robe of black velvet, with a long mantle of satin floating above it, and her head covered with white crepe veil. Mary ascended the platform when the executioner was awaiting her. Some English nobles sent by Queen Elizabeth to see that her orders were carried out, were standing by, and some of Queen Mary's faithful women. But beside these was one whose love for her was hardly less, the Queen's little dog, who had been her constant companion in the prison. He was sitting there the whole time, says an eyewitness, keeping very quiet, and never stirring from her side. But as soon as the head was stricken off and placed upon the seat, he began to bestow himself and cry out. Afterwards he took up a position between the body and the head, which he kept until someone came and removed him, and this had to be done by violence. We are not told who took him away and tenderly washed off the blood of Mary, which was staining his coat. But we may be sure that it was one of the Queen's ladies who cherished everything that belonged to her, and in memory of her mistress would care for her little dog to the end of its days. End of section 64 When Viol, the traveler, was in Africa, he made the acquaintance of a bird to which he gave the name of Capiceer. It was a small creature, which was in the habit of coming with its mate several times a day into Viol's tent, a proceeding which he thought arose from pure friendship, but which he soon found sprang from interested motives. Viol was making a collection of birds, and his table was strewn about with moss, wool, and such things as he used for stuffing. The Capiceer, with more sense than might have been expected of him, found out very soon that it was much easier to steal Viol's soft material than to collect it laboriously for himself, and the naturalist used to shut his eyes with amusement while the birds flew off with a parcel of stuffing as big as themselves. He followed them and tracked them to a bush, which grew by a spring in the corner of a deserted garden. Here they had placed a thick layer of moss, in a fork of one of the branches, and were now engaged in weaving in grass, cotton, and flecks. The whole of the second day the little pair worked hard, the male making in all 46 journeys to Viol's room for thieving purposes. The spoil was always laid either on the nest itself or within the reach of the female, and when enough had been collected they both trampled it in and pressed it down with their bodies. At last the male got tired and tried to prevail on his wife to play a game. She declined and said she had no time for such things, so, to revenge himself, the male proceeded to pull to pieces her work. Seeing that he would have his own way, the female at length consented to play for a little, and fluttered from bush to bush, while her mate flew after her, but she always managed to keep just out of his reach. When he had had enough, he let her go back to her work, while he sang a song for a little, and then made ready to help build the nest. He found, or stole, the materials necessary, and carried them back to his wife, who packed them firmly in and made all tidy. But her husband was much more idle than she, and he soon tired of steady labor. He complained of the heat and laughed at her for being in such a hurry, and said there was plenty of time before them, and he wanted a little fun. So eight times during that one morning, the poor wife had to leave off her building and hide her impatience and pretend to play, when she would have much rather have been doing something else, and it was three days before the bottom was finished and the sides begun. Certainly the making of the bottom was rather a troublesome business, for the birds had to roll over every part of it, so as to get it firm and hard. Then, when all was right, they made a border, which they first trimmed around and next overlaid with cotton, pressing it all together with their breasts and shoulders. The twigs of the bush in which the nest was built were interlaced into the sides to prevent the whole structure being blown down, and particular care was taken that none of them should stick out in the inside of the nest, which was absolutely smooth and solid. After seven days it was done, and very pretty it was. It was perfectly white in color, and about nine inches high on the outside, where it had been made very thick, and not more than five inches within. However, that was quite big enough for two such little people. End of section 65. Section 66 of The Animal Storybook. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Betty B. The Animal Storybook edited by Andrew Lang. Owls and Marmots and Eagles Nests by Mrs. Lang. Owls and Marmots. It is curious when we come to think of it how very few of the creatures that live upon the earth ever take the trouble to build any kind of house to live in. For the most part, they are contented to find out some cave or hole or convenient place where they can be hidden, and from which they can steal fourth to get their food. But as for collecting materials from the outside to make their dwelling place stronger or more beautiful, as do the beavers for instance, why we might all look for many years before we should find a horse or a tiger employing himself like that. Yet we all know that all the birds that live, the cuckoo accepted, managed to build some kind of a nest, and so do some fishes and many insects. It would take too long to write about them all, but we will just see how some of the cleverest among them go to work. One of the first things that struck Europeans traveling 60 or 70 years ago in the wild country beyond the great Mississippi was the fact that whole districts sometimes several acres in extent and sometimes several miles were covered with little mounds of the shape of a pyramid about two feet wide at the bottom and at the most 18 inches high. These are the houses of the marmots or prairie dogs, and when deserted as they often are by their original inhabitants, they become the homes of burrowing owls. Now a neat comfortable well-built house is really quite necessary for the marmot, as he goes fast to sleep when the weather begins to get cold and does not wake up till the sun is shining warmly again on the earth above him. Then he sets to work either to repair the walls of his house which have been damaged by the heavy rains and hard frosts or if that seems useless labor to dig a fresh one somewhere else. But industrious as he is the hard work does not make the marmot at all a dull boy, and he can still spare time for a good game now and then. Of course as we are talking about birds perhaps we ought not to be describing marmots which are naturally not birds at all, but as they build for the burrowing owls to inhabit a description of the houses may not be out of place. The entrance to the marmot's house is either at the top or on the side of the little mound above ground. Then he hollows out a passage straight down for one or sometimes two feet and this passage is continued in a sloping direction for some distance further. When it leads like a story in the Arabian Nights into a large warm room built of soft dry grass which has been packed into a tight firm mass. In general the outside of the little mounds is covered with small plants and grasses so that the marmot always has his food near at hand. But occasionally they prefer to make their villages in barren spots as being safer from enemies. Still wherever they are the sociable little colony of marmots are said to be haunted by at least one burrowing owl, a bird about nine inches long and from a distance not very unlike the marmot itself when it is sitting up listening for the approach of danger. If no burrow seems likely to be vacant at the time he wants one the owl does not scruple to turn out the owner who has to begin all his labor over again. Sometimes when affairs above ground are more than usually disturbed and foes of all kinds are prowling about seeking whom they may devour owls and marmots and rattlesnakes and lizards rush helter-skelter into the underground city taking refuge from the dangers of the upper world. It would be a strange sight if we could see it and it would be stranger still if the fugitives managed to separate without some of the party having gone to make the dinners of the rest. Eagles Nests. Eagles as a rule build their nests on the shelves of rocks high out of reach of any but the boldest climbers. There are however some species among them who prefer the tops of trees at a height varying from 15 to 50 feet. These nests are constructed of long sticks, grass and even reeds and are often as much as five or six feet high and at least four broad. Soft pine tops form the lining and a bed for the young. Many eagles are clever divers and like the excitement of catching their own fish instead of merely forcing the fish hawks to give up their prey and an American naturalist gives an interesting account of the sporting proceedings of two eagles on the Green River in Kentucky. The naturalist had been lying hidden among the rocks on the bank of the river for about two hours when suddenly far above his head where the eagle had built his nest he heard a loud hissing and on looking up saw that the little eagles had crawled to the edge of the nest and were dancing with hope and excitement at the idea of a good dinner. In a few moments the parent eagle reached the rock and balancing himself on the edge by the help of his wings and tail handed over his spoil to the young ones. The little eagle seemed in luck that day for soon their mother appeared in sight carrying in her claws a perch but either the watcher below made some movement or else her eyes were far sharper than her mates or with a loud cry she dropped her fish and hovered over the nest to protect it in case of an attack. When all was quiet again the naturalist went out cautiously to examine the perch which he found to weigh as much as five and a half pounds you do not catch such big perch in England. End of section 66. End of The Animal Story Book edited by Andrew Lang.