THE TUNDRA AND ITS ANIMAL LIFE.
Around the North Pole lies a broad belt of inhospitable land, a desert which owes its special character rather to the water than to the sun. Towards the Pole this desert gradually loses itself in fields of ice, towards the south in dwarfed woods, becoming itself a field of snow and ice when the long winter sets in, while stunted trees attempt the struggle for existence only in the deepest valleys or on the sunniest slopes. This region is the Tundra.[6]
It is a monotonous picture which I attempt to sketch when I seek to describe the tundra, a picture gray on gray, yet not devoid of all beauty; it is a desert with which we have to do, but a desert in which life, though for many months slumbering and apparently banished, stirs periodically in wondrous fulness.
Our language possesses no synonym for the word tundra, because our Fatherland possesses no such tract of country. For the tundra is neither heath nor moor, neither marsh nor fen, neither highlands nor sand-dunes, neither moss nor morass, though in many places it may resemble one or other of these. “Moss-steppes” someone has attempted to name it, but the expression is only satisfactory to those who have grasped the idea of steppe in its widest sense. In my opinion the tundra most resembles one of those moors which we find—and avoid—on the broad saddles of our lofty mountains; but it differs in many and important respects even from these boggy plateaus; indeed its character is in every respect unique. The region is sometimes divided into low and high tundra, though the differences between the land under three hundred feet above sea-level and that above this line are in the tundra more apparent than real.
The low tundra is bounded by flat, wavy outlines; its valleys are shallow troughs, and even the heights, which, from a distance, look like hills or even mountains, turn out to be only flat hillocks when one approaches their base. Flatness, uniformity, expressionlessness prevail, yet that there is a certain variety in the landscape, a diversity in some of its individual features, cannot be disputed. As one wanders through the tundra for days at a time, one’s attention is often arrested by dainty, even charming little pictures, but such pictures rarely stamp themselves on the memory, since on closer examination they prove, in all important details, in setting and surroundings, in contour and colour, like too many other scenes to make a distinct impression. Notwithstanding this monotony, the general aspect of the tundra has little unity, still less grandeur, and on this account one does not become enthusiastic about the region, does not reach to the heights of emotion which other landscapes awaken, perhaps does not even attain to full enjoyment of the real beauties which, it must be admitted, even this desert possesses.
The tundra receives its greatest beauty from the sky, its greatest charm from the water. The sky is seldom quite clear and bright, though even here the sun, shining uninterruptedly for months together, can beat down hot and oppressive on the flat hills and damp valleys. The blue sky is usually seen only in isolated places through light, white, loose-layered clouds; these are often massed together into cloud-banks which form on all sides of the apparently immeasurable horizon, continually changing, shifting, assuming new forms, appearing and vanishing again, so ravishing the eye with their changeful brilliance that one almost forgets the landscape underneath. When a thunder-storm threatens after a hot day the sky darkens here and there to the deepest gray-blue, the vapour-laden clouds sink beneath the lighter ones, and the sun shines through, clear and brilliant; then the dreary, monotonous landscape is magically beautified. For light and shade now diversify the hill-tops and valleys, and the wearisome monotony of their colour gains variety and life. And when, in the middle of a midsummer night, the sun stands large and blood-red in the heavens, when all the clouds are flushed with purple from beneath, when those hill-tops which hide the luminary bear a far-reaching flaming crown of rays, when a delicate rosy haze lies over the brown-green landscape, when, in a word, the indescribable magic of the midnight sun casts its spell over the soul: then this wilderness is transformed into enchanted fields, and a blissful awe fills the heart.
Fig. 5.—The High Tundra in Northern Siberia.
But variety and life are also given by the jewels of the tundra—its innumerable lakes. Distributed singly or in groups, lying beside or rising above each other, stretching out into water-basins miles in breadth, or shrinking into little pools, they occupy the centre of every hollow, beautify every valley, almost every glen, sparkle in the all-enlivening sunshine, and gray and colourless though they may be, assume, if seen from the top of a hill, the deep blue of mountain lakes. And when the sunlight flashes and twinkles on their mirroring waves, or when they, too, are touched by the rosy glow of midnight, they stand out from the surrounding gloom like living lights, on which the eye delights to linger.
Much grander, though still gloomy and monotonous, is the spectacle presented by the high tundra. Here the mountains—for such they are—have all the charms of height. They almost always rise precipitously, and the chains they form have much-broken lines, and in all suitable places the snowy sheets which cover them become glaciers. Tundra in the strict sense is only to be found where the water does not find rapid outlet; the whole remaining country seems so different from the low grounds that only the essentially similar vegetation proclaims it tundra. The boulders, which in the low grounds are turfed over with thick layers of dead plant remains, are here almost everywhere exposed; endless heaps of gigantic blocks cover the slopes and fill the valleys; boulders form the substratum of wide, almost flat surfaces on which the traveller treads hesitatingly, as he ponders over the difficult riddle regarding the forces which have distributed the blocks over these vast surfaces with almost unvarying regularity. But everywhere between them the water trickles and glides, ripples and swells, rushes and roars, rages and thunders down to the low ground. From the slopes it flows in trickling threads, converging runlets, and murmuring brooklets; from the crevices of the glaciers it breaks forth in milky torrents; it enters the water-basins in turbid rivulets; it escapes from the purifying lakes in crystalline streams, and whirling and foaming, hissing and raging, it hurries onwards down the valleys, forming alternate waterfalls and whirlpools, till it reaches the low tundra, a river, or the sea. But the sun, as often as it breaks through the clouds, floods this unique mountain region also with its magic colours, defines every hill and valley, illumines every snowfield, makes every glacier and ravine conspicuous and telling, gives effect to every peak, ridge and cliff, shows every lake as a clear and smiling mountain eye, spreads, morning and evening, the blue haze of distance like a delicate veil over the background of the picture, and, at midnight, floods the whole with its deepest rays, so that it is bathed in rosy light. Surely even the tundra is not without its charms.
In some places, though very rarely, the vegetation gives a certain form and beauty to the scenery. Pines and firs, if not altogether confined to the south, are only to be found in the most sheltered valleys. The few firs which are to be seen look as if they had been seized by a giant hand and twisted like a screw, and they do not thrive in the higher districts. The birches penetrate farther, but even they are stunted and bent like grizzled dwarfs. The larches alone here and there hold the field, and grow to be really trees, but they cannot be described as characteristic of the tundra. The most characteristic plant is certainly the dwarf-birch. Only under exceptionally favourable circumstances attaining to a yard in height, it predominates over by far the greater part of the tundra so absolutely that all other bushes and shrubs seem only to have sprung up between the birches. It spreads over all tracts where it can take root, from the shore of the sea or river to the tops of the mountains, a more or less thick covering so equal in height that great stretches look as if they had been shorn along the top; it recedes only where the ground is so soaked with water that it forms swamp or morass; it is stunted only where the heights are covered with infertile quartz or with stiff clay, which hardens readily in the sun; but it strives for mastery with the bog-moss on all the low grounds and with the reindeer-moss on every height. Areas of many square miles are so thickly clothed—one might almost say felted—that only the indestructible bog-moss ventures to assert its claim to the soil beside, or rather under the birches. In other less moist places we find dwarf-birches, sweet-willow, and marsh-andromeda mixed together. In the same way various berry-bearing bushes are often mixed, especially cowberries, crowberries, cranberries, and whortleberries.
If the ground lies below the level of the surrounding plains, and is therefore very moist, the bog-moss gains the day, and, gradually crowding out the dwarf-birch, forms great swelling cushions. As the root-parts rapidly die away into peat, these cushions become higher and more extensive until the water impedes any further advance, or else they break up into dome-like hillocks. If the basin be very flat, the accumulated water rarely forms a lake or pond, scarcely even a pool, but soaks through the soil to an indefinite depth, and so forms a morass whose thin but tough covering of interlacing sedge-roots can only be trodden in safety by the broad-hoofed reindeer; and even his steps, and the deeply-sinking runners of the sledge, make it yield and tremble like jelly.
When the depression becomes a short confined trough, without outlet, into which a streamlet flows, however slowly, the morass becomes a bog, or lower down, a swamp. In the first of these, reeds, in the second downy willows (sallows), a second characteristic plant of the tundra, attain to luxuriant growth. Though only in very favourable circumstances becoming as tall as a man, these plants form thickets which may be literally impenetrable. Their branches and roots interlace to an even greater extent than do those of the dwarf-firs on the mountains, forming an inextricable maze which can best be compared to a felt compacted out of all the different parts of the willow. It withstands the strongest arm, when one tries to clear a path through it, and it offers so much obstruction to the foot that the most persistent explorer soon gives up the attempt to pierce it, and turns aside, or retraces his steps. This he does the more readily as the substratum is in most cases morass or an almost continuous series of marshy, slimy pools whose fathomableness one is unwilling even to try.
As the traveller journeys through the tundra, he recognizes that the whole region presents to the eye the individual features already described, in regular alternation and monotonous repetition. Only where a large river of considerable volume flows through the low tundra is there any real change. Such a river deposits on its banks the masses of sand it has carried down; and the wind, which blows constantly and usually violently, piles these gradually up into dunes along the banks; thus a soil foreign to the tundra is formed. On these sand-hills the larch grows, even in the tundra of Siberia, to a stately tree, and becomes, in association with willows and dwarf alder bushes, an ornament to the landscape. In the neighbourhood of small lakes the trees may even be grouped together, and, with the shrubs already named, form a natural park which would not escape observation even in a much richer and more fertile district, and is here so very remarkable that it leaves a lasting impression.
Fig. 6.—Peregrine Falcons and Lemmings.
When the larch has taken root in the sand-hills, there grow up under its sheltering branches other tall-stemmed plants such as sharp-leaved willows, mountain ash, black alder, and woodbine bushes, and there spring from the sand many flowers which one thought to have left far behind in the south. The surprised southerner is cheered by the red glory of the willow-herb; the charming wild rose clings close to the motherly earth, decorating it with its slender stems and its flowers; the bright forget-me-not looks up with home-like greeting; here hellebore and chives, valerian and thyme, carnations and blue-bells, bird-vetch and alpine vetch, ranunculus and immortelles, lady’s-smock, Jacob’s-ladder, cinquefoil, love-lies-bleeding, and others find a home in the desert. In such places more plants grow than one had expected, but the traveller is certainly modest in his expectations when he has seen the same poverty all around for days and weeks together, always dwarf-birches and sallows, marsh-andromeda and sedge, reindeer-moss and bog-moss; has refreshed himself with the stunted crowberries and cranberries half-hidden in the moss, half-creeping on the ground, and has been obliged to take the cloudberries which decorate the moss-cushion as flowers; when he has tramped over them and among them for days together always hoping for a change, and always being disappointed. Every familiar plant from the south reminds him of happier regions; he greets it as a dear friend whose value is only realized when he has begun to fear losing him.[7]
It seems strange that the plants above-named and many others should spring only from the dry sand of the dunes, but the apparent riddle is solved when we know that it is only the sand thus piled up, that becomes sufficiently warmed in the months of uninterrupted sunshine for these plants to flourish. Nowhere else throughout the tundra is this the case. Moor and bog, morass and swamp, even the lakes with water several yards in depth only form a thin summer covering over the eternal winter which reigns in the tundra, with destructive as well as with preserving power. Wherever one tries to penetrate to any depth in the soil one comes—in most cases scarcely a yard from the surface—upon ice, or at least on frozen soil, and it is said that one must dig about a hundred yards before breaking through the ice-crust of the earth. It is this crust which prevents the higher plants from vigorous growth, and allows only such to live as are content with the dry layer of soil which thaws in summer. It is only by digging that one can know the tundra for what it is: an immeasurable and unchangeable ice-vault which has endured, and will continue to endure, for hundreds of thousands of years. That it has thus endured is proved indisputably by the remains of prehistoric animals embedded in it, and thus preserved for us. In 1807 Adams dug from the ice of the tundras the giant mammoth, with whose flesh the dogs of the Yakuts sated their hunger, although it must have died many thousands of years before, for the race became extinct in the incalculably distant past. The icy tundra had faithfully preserved the carcase of this primitive elephant all through these hundreds of thousands of years.[8]
Many similar animals, and others of a more modern time, are embedded in the ice, though it is not to be supposed that the tundra was ever able to sustain a much richer fauna than it has now. Bison and musk-ox traversed it long after the time of the mammoth; giant-elk and moose belonged to it once. Now its animal life is as poor and monotonous as its vegetation—as itself. This holds true, however, only with regard to species, not to individuals, for the tundra is, at least in summer, the home of numerous animals.
The year is well advanced before the tundra begins to be visibly peopled. Of the species which never leave it one sees very little in winter. The fish which ascend its rivers from the sea are concealed by the ice; the mammals and birds which winter in it are hidden by the snow, under which they live, or whose colour they wear. Not until the snow begins to melt on the southern slopes does the animal life begin to stir. Hesitatingly the summer visitors make their appearance. The wolf follows the wild reindeer, the army of summer birds follows the drifting ice blocks on the streams. Some of the birds remain still undecided in the regions to the South, behave as if they would breed there, then suddenly disappear from their resting-place by the way, fly hastily to the tundra, begin to build directly on their arrival, lay their eggs, and brood eagerly, as though they wished to make up for the time gained by their relatives in the South. Their summer life is compressed into few weeks. They arrive already united, paired for life, or at least for the summer; their hearts stirred by all-powerful love, they proceed, singing and rejoicing, to build a nest; unceasingly they give themselves up to their parental duties, brood, rear, and educate their young, moult, and migrate abroad again.
Fig. 7.—The White or Arctic Fox (Canis lagopus).
The number of species which may be looked upon as native to the tundra is small indeed, yet it is much greater than that of those which may be regarded as characteristic of the region. As the first of these, I should like to place the Arctic fox. He ranges over the whole extent of the tundra, and is sure of maintenance and food in the south at least, where he occurs along with our fox and other allied species. Like some other creatures he wears the colours of his home, in summer a rock-coloured dress, in winter a snow-white robe, for the hairs of his thick fur coat are at first stone-gray or grayish-blue, and become snow-white in winter.[9] He struggles through life with ups and downs like other foxes, but his whole character and conduct are quite different from those of our reynard and his near relatives. One scarcely does him injustice in describing him as a degenerate member of a distinguished family, unusually gifted, intelligent, and ingenious. Of the slyness and ingenuity, the calculating craft, the never-failing presence of mind of his congeners he evinces hardly any trace. His disposition is bold and forward, his manner officious, his behaviour foolish. He may be a bold beggar, an impudent vagabond, but he is never a cunning thief or robber, weighing all circumstances, and using all available means to attain his end. Unconcernedly he stares at the huntsman’s gun; unwarned by the ball, which passes whistling over his body, he follows his worst enemy; unhesitatingly he forces his way into the birch-bark hut of the wandering reindeer-herdsmen; without fear he approaches a man sleeping in the open, to steal the game he has caught, or even to snap at a naked limb. On one occasion an Arctic fox at which I had several times fired in vain in the dusk, kept following my steps like a dog. My old sporting friend, Erik Swenson of Dovrefjeld, relates that one night a fox nibbled the fur rug on which he lay, and old Steller vouches for many other pranks which this animal plays, pranks which every one would declare incredible were they not thoroughly guaranteed by corroborating observations. An insufficient knowledge of human beings, so sparsely represented in the tundra, may to some extent account for the extraordinary behaviour of this fox, but it is not the only reason. For neither the red fox nor any other mammal of the tundra behaves with so little caution; not even the lemming approaches him in this respect.
A strange creature certainly is this last inhabitant of our region whatever species of his family we consider. He, or at least his tracks, may be seen everywhere throughout the tundra. The tracks run in all directions, often through places overgrown by dwarf-birches, narrow, smooth, neatly-kept paths in the moss, going straight for several hundred yards, then diverging to right or left, and only returning to the main path after many circuits. On these we may often see, in great numbers during a dry summer, a little, short-tailed, hamster-like animal nimbly pattering along and soon disappearing out of sight. This is the lemming, a rodent smaller than a rat, but larger than a mouse, and with brightly but irregularly marked skin, usually brown, yellow, gray, and black. If we dissect the animal we see, not without surprise, that it consists almost entirely of skin and viscera. Its bones and muscles are fine and tender; its viscera, especially the alimentary and the reproductive organs, are enormously developed. This state of things explains some phenomena of its life which were long considered unintelligible: the almost abrupt occurrence of well-nigh unlimited fertility, and the vast, apparently organized migrations of the animal. In ordinary circumstances the lemming leads a very comfortable life. Neither in summer nor in winter has he any anxiety about subsistence. In winter he devours all sorts of vegetable matter,—moss-tips, lichen, and bark; in summer he lives in his burrow, in winter in a warm, thick-walled, softly-lined nest. Danger indeed threatens from all sides, for not only beasts and birds of prey, but even the reindeer devour hundreds and thousands of lemmings;[10] nevertheless they increase steadily and rapidly, until special circumstances arise when millions, which have come into existence within a few weeks, are annihilated within a few days. Spring sets in early, and a more than usually dry summer prevails in the tundra. All the young of the first litter of the various lemming females thrive, and six weeks later, at the most, these also multiply. Meantime the parents have brought forth a second and a third litter, and these in their turn bring forth young. Within three months the heights and low grounds of the tundra teem with lemmings, just as our fields do with mice under similar circumstances. Whichever way we turn, we see the busy little creatures, dozens at a single glance, thousands in the course of an hour. They run about on all the paths and roads; driven to extremity, they turn, snarling and sharpening their teeth, on the defensive even against man, as if their countless numbers lent to each individual a defiant courage. But the countless and still-increasing numbers prove their own destruction. Soon the lean tundra ceases to afford employment enough for their greedy teeth. Famine threatens, perhaps actually sets in. The anxious animals crowd together and begin their march. Hundreds join with hundreds, thousands with other thousands: the troops become swarms, the swarms armies. They travel in a definite direction, at first following old tracks, but soon striking out new ones; in unending files—defying all computation—they hasten onwards; over the cliffs they plunge into the water. Thousands fall victims to want and hunger; the army behind streams on over their corpses; hundreds of thousands are drowned in the water, or are shattered at the foot of the cliffs; the remainder speed on; other hundreds and thousands fall victims to the voracity of Arctic and red foxes, wolves and gluttons, rough-legged buzzards and ravens, owls and skuas which have followed them; the survivors pay no heed. Where these go, how they end, none can say, but certain it is that the tundra behind them is as if dead, that a number of years pass ere the few who have remained behind, and have managed to survive, slowly multiply, and visibly re-people their native fields.[11]
Fig. 8.—The Reindeer (Tarandus rangifer).
A third animal characteristic of the tundra is the reindeer. Those who know this deer, in itself by no means beautiful, only in a state of captivity and slavery, can form no idea of what it is under natural conditions. Here in the tundra one learns to appreciate the reindeer, to recognize and value him as a member of a family which he does not disgrace. He belongs to the tundra, body and soul. Over the immense glacier and the quivering crust of the unfathomable morass, over the boulder-heaps and the matted tops of the dwarf-birches or over the mossy hillocks, over rivers and lakes he runs or swims with his broad-hoofed, shovel-like, extraordinarily mobile feet, which crackle at every step. In the deepest snow he uses his foot to dig for food. He is protected against the deadly cold of the long northern night by his thick skin, which the arrows of winter cannot pierce, against the pangs of hunger by the indiscriminateness of his appetite. From the wolf, which invariably follows close on his heels, he is, in some measure at least, saved by the acuteness of his senses, by his speed and endurance. He passes the summer on the clear heights of the tundra, where, on the slopes just beside the glaciers, the soil, belted over with reindeer-moss, also brings forth juicy, delicate alpine plants; in winter he ranges through the low tundra from hill to hill seeking spots from which the snow has been cleared off by the wind.[12] Shortly before this, having attained to his full strength and fully grown his branching antlers, he had in passionate violence engaged in deadly combat with like-minded rivals as strong as himself until the still tundra resounded with the clashing of their horns. Now, worn out with fighting and with love, he ranges peacefully through his territory with others of his kind, associated in large herds, seeking only to maintain the struggle with winter. The reindeer is certainly far behind the stag in beauty and nobility, but when one sees the great herds, unhampered by the fetters of slavery, on the mountains of their native tundra, in vivid contrast to the blue of the sky and the whiteness of the snowy carpet, one must acknowledge that he, too, takes rank among noble wild beasts, and that he has more power than is usually supposed to quicken the beating of the sportsman’s heart.
The tundra also possesses many characteristic birds. Whoever has traversed the northern desert must have met one, at least, of these, the ptarmigan:
“In summer gay from top to toe,
In winter whiter than the snow”.
I do not allude to the ptarmigan of our mountains, which is here also restricted to the glacier region, but to the much more abundant willow-grouse. Wherever the dwarf-birch thrives it is to be found, and it is always visible, but especially when the silence of night has fallen upon the tundra, even though the sun be shining overhead. It never entirely forsakes its haunts, but, at the most, descends from the heights to the low grounds in winter. It is lively and nimble, pert and self-possessed, jealous and quarrelsome towards its rivals, affectionate and devoted towards its mate and young. Its life resembles that of our partridge, but its general behaviour has a much greater charm. It is the embodiment of life in the desert. Its challenging call rings out through the still summer night, and the coveys enliven the wintry tundra, forsaken by almost all other birds. Its presence gladdens and charms naturalist and sportsman alike.
During summer the golden plover, which also must be described as a faithful child of the tundra, is to be met almost everywhere. As the swift ostrich to the desert, the sand-grouse to the steppes, the rock-partridge to the mountains, the lark to the corn-fields, so the golden plover belongs to the tundra. Gay as its dress may be, they are the colours of the tundra which it wears; its melancholy cry is the sound most in keeping with this dreary region. Much as we like to see it in our own country, we greet it without pleasure here, for its cry uttered day and night makes us as sad as the tundra itself.
With much greater pleasure does one listen to the voice of another summer guest of the region. I do not refer to the tender melodies of the blue-throated warbler, which is here one of the commonest of brooding birds and justly named the “hundred-tongued singer”, nor to the ringing notes of the fieldfare, which also extends to the tundra, nor to the short song of the snow bunting, nor to the shrill cries of the peregrine falcon or the rough-legged buzzard, nor to the exultant hooting of the sea-eagle or the similar cry of the snowy owl, nor to the resounding trumpet-call of the musical swan or the plaintive bugle-like note of the Arctic duck, but to the pairing and love cry of one or other of the divers—a wild, unregulated, unrestrained, yet sonorous and tuneful, resonant and ringing northern melody, comparable to the roar of the surge or to the thunder of a waterfall as it rushes to the deep. Wherever a lake rich in fish is to be found, with a secret place in the reeds thick enough to conceal a floating nest, we find these children of the tundra and the sea, these soberly-joyous fishers in the calm fresh waters and fearless divers in the northern sea. Thence they have come to the tundra to brood, and back thither they will lead their young as soon as these are able, like themselves, to master the waves. Over the whole extent of the tundra they visit its waters, but they prefer to the broad inland lakes the little ponds on the hills along the coast, whence they can daily plunge, with their wildly jubilant sea song, into the heaving, bountiful ocean, which is their home.
From the sea come other two birds very characteristic of the tundra. The eye follows every movement of the robber-gulls with real delight, of the phalarope with actual rapture. Both breed in the tundra: the one on open mossy moors, the other on the banks of the most hidden ponds and pools among the sallows. If other gulls be the “ravens of the sea” the skuas may well be called the “sea-falcons”. With full justice do they bear the names of robber and parasitic gulls, for they are excellent birds of prey when there is no opportunity for parasitism, and they become parasites when their own hunting has been unsuccessful. Falcon-like they fly in summer through the tundra, in winter along the coast regions of the North Sea; they hover over land or sea to find their prey, then swoop down skilfully and gracefully and seize without fail the victim they have sighted. But even these capable hunters do not scruple, under some circumstances, to become bold beggars. Woe to the gull or other sea-bird which seizes its prey within sight of a skua! With arrow-like swiftness he follows the fortunate possessor uttering barking cries, dances, as if playfully, round him on all sides, cunningly prevents any attempt at flight, resists all defence, and untiringly and ceaselessly teases him till he gives up his prize, even though it has to be regurgitated from his crop. The life and habits of the Arctic skua, its skill and agility, its courage and impudence, untiring watchfulness and irresistible importunity are extraordinarily fascinating; even its begging can be excused, so great are its charms. Yet the phalarope is still more attractive. It is a shore bird, which unites in itself the qualities of its own order and those of the swimming birds, living, as it does, partly on land, partly in the water, even in the sea. Buoyant and agile, surpassing all other swimming birds in grace of motion, it glides upon the waves; quickly and nimbly it runs along the shore; with the speed of a snipe it wings its zigzag flight through the air. Confidently and without fear it allows itself to be observed quite closely, and in its anxiety for the safety of its brood usually betrays its own nest, with the four pear-shaped eggs, however carefully it has been concealed among the reeds. It is perhaps the most pleasing of all the birds of the tundra.[13]
Fig. 9.—Skuas, Phalarope, and Golden Plovers.
Likewise characteristic of the tundra are the birds of prey, or, at least, their manner of life there is characteristic. For it is only on the southern boundary of the region or among the heights that there are trees or rocks on which they can build their eyries, and they are perforce obliged to brood on the ground. Among the winding branches of the dwarf-birch is the nest of the marsh-owl, on its crown that of the rough-legged buzzard; on the bare ground lie the eggs of the snowy-owl and the peregrine falcon, though the latter chooses a place as near as possible to the edge of a gully, as though he would deceive himself by vainly attempting to make up for the lack of heights. That it and all the others are fully conscious of the insecurity of their nesting-place is shown by their behaviour on the approach of man. From a distance the traveller is watched suspiciously and is greeted with loud cries; the nearer he approaches the greater grows the fear of the anxious parents. Hitherto they have been circling at a safe distance, about twice as far as a shot would carry, over the unfamiliar but dreaded enemy; now they swoop boldly down, and fly so closely past his head that he distinctly hears the sharp whirr of their wings, sometimes indeed he has reason to fear that he will be actually attacked. Meanwhile the young birds, which are visible even from a distance as white balls, bend timidly down and await the approach of this enemy,—suspected at least, if not known as such,—sitting so still in their chosen, or perhaps forced position that one can sketch them without fear of being disturbed by a single movement—a charming picture!
Many other animals might be enumerated if I thought them necessary to a picture of the tundra. At least one more is characteristic—the mosquito. To call it the most important living creature of the tundra would be scarcely an exaggeration. It enables not a few of the higher animals, especially birds and fishes, to live; it forces others, like man, to periodic wanderings; and it is in itself enough to make the tundra uninhabitable in summer by civilized beings. Its numbers are beyond all conception; its power conquers man and beast; the torture it causes beggars description.
It is well known that the eggs of all mosquitoes are laid in the water, and that the larvæ which creep forth in a few days remain in the water till their metamorphosis is accomplished. This explains why the tundra is more favourable than any other region to their development, and to their occurrence in enormous numbers. As soon as the sun, once more ascending, has thawed the snow, the ice, and the upper crust of the earth, the life of the mosquito, latent in winter but not extinguished, begins to stir again. The larvæ escape from the eggs which have been buried, but not destroyed, in the frozen mud; in a few days these larvæ become pupæ, the pupæ become winged insects, and generation follows generation in quick succession. The heyday of the terrible pests lasts from before the beginning of the summer solstice until the middle of August.
During the whole of this time they are present on the heights as in the low grounds, on the mountains or hills as in the valleys, among the dwarf-birches and sallow bushes as on the banks of rivers and lakes. Every grass-stalk, every moss-blade, every twig, every branch, every little leaf sends forth hundreds and thousands of them all day long. The mosquitoes of tropical countries, of the forests and marshes of South America, the interior of Africa, India, and the Sunda islands, so much dreaded by travellers, swarm only at night; the mosquitoes of the tundra fly for ten weeks, for six of these actually without interruption. They form swarms which look like thick black smoke; they surround, as with a fog, every creature which ventures into their domains; they fill the air in such numbers that one hardly dares to breathe; they baffle every attempt to drive them off; they transform the strongest man into an irresolute weakling, his anger into fear, his curses into groans.
As soon as the traveller sets foot on the tundra their buzzing is heard, now like the singing of a tea-kettle, now like the sound of a vibrating metal rod, and, a few minutes later, he is surrounded by thousands and thousands. A cloud of them swarms round head and shoulders, body and limbs, follows his steps, however quickly he moves, and cannot possibly be dispersed. If he remain standing, the cloud thickens; if he move on, it draws itself out; if he run as quickly as possible, it stretches into a long train, but does not remain behind. If a moderate wind is blowing against them, the insects hasten their flight to make headway against the current of air; when the wind is more violent all the members of the swarm strain themselves to the utmost so as not to lose their victim, and pounce like pricking hailstones on head and neck. Before he knows, he is covered from head to foot with mosquitoes. In a dense swarm, blackening gray clothes, giving dark ones a strange spotted appearance, they settle down and creep slowly about, looking for an unappropriated spot from which to suck blood. They creep noiselessly and without being felt to the unprotected face and neck, the bare hands and the feet covered only with stockings, and a moment later they slowly sink their sting into the skin, and pour the irritant poison into the wound. Furiously the victim beats the blood-sucker to a pulp, but while the chastising hand still moves, three, four, ten other gnats fasten on it, while others begin work on the face, neck, and feet, ready to do exactly as the slain ones had done. For when blood has once flowed, when several insects have met their death on the same place, all the rest seek out that very spot, even though the surface becomes gradually covered with bodies. Specially favourite points of attack are the temples, the forehead just under the hat-brim, the neck and the wrist, places, in short, which can be least well protected.
If an observer can so far restrain himself as to watch them at their work of blood, without driving them away or disturbing them, he notices that neither their settling nor their moving about is felt in the least. Immediately after alighting they set to work. Leisurely they walk up and down on the skin, carefully feeling it with their proboscis; suddenly they stand still and with surprising ease pierce the skin. While they suck, they lift one of the hind-legs and wave it with evident satisfaction backwards and forwards, the more emphatically the more the translucent body becomes filled with blood. As soon as they have tasted blood they pay no heed to anything else, and seem scarcely to feel though they are molested and tortured. If one draws the proboscis out of the wound with forceps, they feel about for a moment, and then bore again in the same or a new place; if one cuts the proboscis quickly through with sharp scissors, they usually remain still as if they must think for a minute, then pass the forelegs gently over the remaining portion and make a prolonged examination to assure themselves that the organ is no longer present; if one suddenly cuts off one of their hind-legs, they go on sucking as if nothing had happened and continue to move the stump; if one cuts the blood-filled body in half, they proceed like Münchausen’s horse at the well, but at length they withdraw the proboscis from the wound, fly staggeringly away and die within a few minutes.
Careful observation of their habits places it beyond doubt that, in the discovery of their victim, they are guided less by sight than by smell, or perhaps, more correctly, by a sense which unites smell and tactile sensitiveness.[14] It can be observed with certainty that, if a human being approach within five yards of their resting-place, they rise and fly to their prey without hesitating or diverging. If anyone crosses a bare sand-bank usually free from them he can observe how they gather about their victim. Apparently half carried by the wind, half moving by their own exertions, but at any rate wandering aimlessly, some float continually over even this place of pilgrimage, and a few thus reach the neighbourhood of the observer. At once their seeming inactivity is at an end. Abruptly they alter their course, and make straight for the happily-found object of their longing. Others soon join them, and before five minutes have passed, the martyr is again surrounded by a nimbus. They find their way less easily through different strata of air. While observing them on a high dune I had been followed and tormented for some time by thousands, so I led the swarm to the edge of the steep slope, let it thicken there, and then sprang suddenly to the foot. With much satisfaction I saw that I had shaken off the greater number of my tormentors. They swarmed in bewildered confusion on the top of the dune, forming a dense cloud for some time over the place from which I had leaped. A few hundreds had, however, followed me to the lower ground.
Though the naturalist knows that it is only the female mosquitoes which suck blood, and that their activity in this respect is indubitably connected with reproduction, and is probably necessary to the ripening of the fertilized eggs, yet even he is finally overcome by the tortures caused by these demons of the tundra, though he be the most equable philosopher under the sun. It is not the pain caused by the sting, or still more, by the resulting swelling; it is the continual annoyance, the everlastingly recurring discomfort under which one suffers. One can endure the pain of the sting without complaint even at first, still more easily when the skin has become less sensitive to the repeatedly instilled poison; thus one can hold out for a long time. But sooner or later every man is bound to confess himself conquered and beaten by these terrible torturing spirits of the tundra. All resistance is gradually paralysed by the innumerable, omnipresent armies always ready for combat. The foot refuses its duty; the mind receives no impressions; the tundra becomes a hell, and its pests an unutterable torture. Not winter with its snows, not the ice with its cold, not poverty, not inhospitality, but the mosquitoes are the curse of the tundra.[15]
During the height of their season the mosquitoes fly almost uninterruptedly, during sunshine and calm weather with evident satisfaction, in a moderate wind quite comfortably, in slightly warm weather gaily, before threatening rain most boisterously of all, in cool weather very little, in cold, not at all. A violent storm banishes them to the bushes and moss, but, as soon as it moderates, they are once more lively and active, and in all places sheltered from the wind they are ready for attack even while the storm is raging. A night of hoar-frost plays obvious havoc among them, but does not rid us of them; cold damp days thin their armies, but succeeding warmth brings hosts of newly developed individuals on the field. The autumn fogs finally bring deliverance for that year.
Autumn in the tundra comes on as quickly as spring came slowly. A single cold night, generally in August, or at the latest in September, puts an end to its summer life. The berries, which, in the middle of August, looked as if they would scarcely ripen at all, have become as juicy and sweet as possible by the end of the month; a few damp, cold nights, which lightly cover the hills with snow, hasten their ripening more than the sun, which is already clouded over all day long. The leaves of the dwarf-birch become a pale but brilliant lake-red on the upper surface, a bright yellow beneath; all the other bushes and shrubs undergo a similar transformation: and the gloomy brown-green of the tundra becomes such a vivid brown-red that even the yellow-green of the reindeer-moss is no longer conspicuous. The winged summer guests fly southwards or towards the sea, the fishes of the tundra swim down the rivers. From the hills the reindeer, followed by the wolf, comes down to the low grounds; the ptarmigan, now congregated in flocks of thousands, fly up to the heights to remain until winter again drives them down to the low tundra.
After a few days this winter, as much dreaded by us as by the migratory birds, yet longed for by the human inhabitants of the tundra, sets in on the inhospitable land, to maintain its supremacy longer, much longer than spring, summer, and autumn together. For days and weeks in succession snow falls, sometimes coming down lightly in sharp-cornered crystals, or sometimes in large flakes, driven by a raging storm. Hills and valleys, rivers and lakes are gradually shrouded in the same winter dress. A brief ray of sunshine still gleams occasionally at mid-day over the snowy expanse; but soon only a pale brightness in the south proclaims that there the sunny day is half-gone. The long night of winter has begun. For months only the faint reflection of the stars twinkles in the snow, only the moon gives tidings of the vitalizing centre of our system. But when the sun has quite disappeared from the tundra another light rises radiant: far up in the north there flickers and flashes “Soweidud”, the fire of God, the flaming Northern Light.