Snakes: Curiosities and Wonders of Serpent Life

by Catherine Cooper Hopley

The first time I watched the process was with the celebrated Hamadryad soon after it was installed as a distinguished inmate at the Zoological Gardens. The interest attached to this Ophiophagus or snake-eater had caused me to observe it on all possible occasions; and as the whole front of its cage was clear glass at that time, the spectator could easily see all that occurred within.

Will the reader once more accompany me in imagination to the Gardens, and see how a snake performs its toilet? I have watched many since then, and have observed the same proceeding in them all, those in good health and able to assist themselves; in others it is a literal desquamation or peeling off of scales or fragments in a dry state. Encouraged by the very recent statement in a highly scientific journal, that no one is supposed ever to have witnessed the sloughing of snakes, I venture to again describe what I saw, having already done so in the Dublin University Magazine in Dec. 1875, and in Aunt Judy’s Magazine (Sept. 1874), and elsewhere.

We stand before the cage of the interesting Hamadryad (Ophiophagus elaps). His name at once tells us that he is fond of trees as well as of snakes; but, alas! there is no tree in his cage, not even an old bough on which to exercise his climbing propensities. He is wonderfully restless to-day, crawling ceaselessly about as if in search of something. This, however, cannot be his object; for his head is not raised in observation, but is close to the shingle, as if too heavy to lift. He seems to be pushing it before him in a very strange manner, and is evidently suffering discomfort of some sort. All round his cage he goes, against the edge of the tank, still pushing and rubbing his head, now under his blanket, or against any projecting surface, under again, close to the floor, restlessly on and on in these untiring perambulations; what can be the cause? After a tedious while ‘Ophio’—as his admirers call him—varies his movements, but only to turn the chin upwards and push his head sideways over the shingle. Now the other side he pushes along: the action is like that of a cat rubbing her head against your chair. Now he turns his head completely over, so that the top of it may come in for its share of rubbing; and such for a considerable time are his persistent movements, while we watch him wonderingly, and at length point him out to the keeper inquiringly.

‘Going to change,’ said Holland. ‘That’s the way they always do.’

To you and me, dear reader, the sight is novel and interesting; so let us continue to watch, glad that nothing more serious is the matter with this rare and valuable snake than doffing an old coat.

And soon we see the skin separating at the lips, where, no doubt, it has caused irritation and induced that incessant rubbing. Now the entire upper lip is free, and the loose portion laps back as Ophio pursues his course. Next we see the skin of the under lip detaching itself; and that is also reversed, the two portions above and below the jaw increasing every moment and folding farther and farther back with the ceaseless friction until they look like a cape or hood round Ophio’s neck, from which his clean bright head emerges. Hitherto the process has been tedious, but now the ribs are reached, and they take part in the work and facilitate matters greatly. The snake has no longer to rub himself so vigorously, but simply to keep moving; and at every step, so to speak—that is, with every pair of ribs in succession beginning at the neck—the large ventral scale belonging to that pair is shoved off, carrying with it the complete circle of scales. With an almost imperceptible nudge each pair of ribs eases off a portion, which continually lengthening as it is vacated, and reversed of course, folds back more and more, till Ophio looks as if he were crawling out of a silken tube. As he thus proceeds, now very rapidly, he emerges bright and beautiful—six inches, a foot, two feet; and all the while each pair of ribs successively performs its part with that nudging sort of action, like elbowing off a coat sleeve. If we had begun to count from the very first pair, and if he had not gone under his blanket during the process, we could have told the precise number of pairs of ribs which he has to assist his toilet. He had two yards and a half of old coat to walk out of, but this he achieves in far less time than it took him to get his head clear. In his native tree or jungle he would have found leaves and underbrush to aid the operation; and it would be a great kindness to snakes in captivity to provide them with wisps of straw, when sloughing, or some rough rubbish in their cages. Soft blankets and smooth wood-work do not offer sufficient resistance for them.

The constricting snakes are less at a loss. From their pliancy of motion, and their habits of coiling—from the fact of their ‘whole body being a hand,’ as we have already seen, they can assist themselves by their own coils passing through them, and so helping to drag off the slough.

Those who have kept snakes tell us that the tame ones will even leave the slough in the hand, if you hold them during the process, and permit them to pass gently through the closed fingers. Owen, in his Anatomy of the Vertebrates, mentions as a not unfrequent action, that when the head is free from the slough the snake brings forward the tail, and coils it transversely round the head, then pushes itself through the coil, threading its body through this caudal ring.

But we have left our captive with still about a foot and a half of garment to get rid of and this is not much less difficult to accomplish than the head-gear. He has arrived at the last pair of ribs, and now, without such agency to free the tail cuticle, he more than ever needs some opposing obstacle. He has only his blanket, however, to pass under; and at last, by dragging himself along, the process is completed, the extreme few inches sliding off unreversed.