Deposited in a box with the others, she acted similarly, remaining hidden under the sand and moss, and never showing herself on the surface, as the rest did whenever a hopeful gleam of sunshine tempted them. Just the tip of her little black, shining nose was sometimes visible, as if she were getting a breath of fresh air on the sly.
One of the other slow-worms—already several weeks in my possession—had appeared to be in a similar condition, and was much wilder than the rest, effecting escape and circumventing me in a variety of ways, while her companions were comparatively tame and contented. The green lizard, also, had to be well watched, being exceedingly active, darting away like a flash whenever the cover of the box was removed for an instant. Their cage was necessarily and cruelly small, in anticipation of a journey to London, and that I might have them in my own keeping while on the move, which I expected to be for some weeks. It was covered with a net secured by a strong elastic; but they could easily reach the top, and managed most cleverly to push up this net, and so get out. The way in which one of them called ‘Lizzie’ achieved this, is described in the ensuing chapter. Here we must keep to our subject.
The box was generally close to an open window, in order to catch any chance ray of sunshine; but the truant propensities of the inmates necessitated a frequent investigation, and a raking up of the moss and sand with which they were supplied, much too often for Blackie’s peace of mind. She continued wild and alarmed, defeating search by quick movements below. The ever active lizard, too, had frequently to be hunted out; for whether he had retreated below, or had gone off altogether, could not be ascertained unless the box and its inmates were turned out bodily to count heads—a species of roll-call not tending to tranquillize the unquiet pair. These trifles are mentioned to show the sort of life the poor little captives led for many weeks. They were raked over or turned out literally topsy-turvy every few hours. Only at night had they any peace; for being well disposed reptiles, who kept regular hours and retired early to rest, but not rising betimes in the morning, they could be safely left uncovered until and unless sunshine enticed them upwards.
All ate and drank regularly but Blackie, who, so far as I was able to ascertain, was a total abstainer.
Thus, in their incommodious box, they lived until the middle of October, when (after making visits on the way, and secretly harbouring my ‘snakes’ like stolen booty) I arrived in London. At that time the sun seemed trying to atone for its summer deficiencies, and whenever any of its grateful warmth could be obtained through the London atmosphere the lizards were deposited in a window, but Blackie remained always below. Suddenly she also grew refractory. She got out of the box, and had frequent falls from the table to the floor. So had the other restless one, necessitating still more frequent roll-calls, and bringing troublous times on themselves. I had observed in a former pet, that when the season of hibernation was approaching, Anguis fragilis had exhibited an errant disposition, and I had attributed it to a natural instinct to seek a winter retreat; but in the present case only these two tried to get away, and in both there appeared to be a similar motive.
On one occasion, late in October, Blackie could not be found for several days, and was even given up for lost, when, on removing a number of books that, when unpacked, had been temporarily stacked against the wall, there lay the little black slow-worm in so narrow a space between a quarto volume and the wall that it seemed impossible she could have got there. Strange to tell, the poor little thing no longer struggled to get away, but seemed even glad to be lifted and fondled and restored to her moss.
On the 2nd November, some frosty days having arrived, and no more worms and flies being procurable, I thought it time to put them away for their winter sleep, having been so instructed by Mr. Green, the taxidermist at Bournemouth, of whom I had purchased several. So, having dismissed all idea of an increase in their numbers, I prepared a large deep jar and furnished it with soft hay, moss, and sand, enough for them to burrow into, intending to consign it and them to an attic.
The first thing on the morning of the cold foggy 3rd of November 1879, I went as usual to examine the box and its inmates—as yet in my sitting-room. Lifting the moss to count heads, I saw what on the first glance in that half daylight seemed to be a small tender snail, apparently injured in some way, and crawling extended in a wonderfully thin line from its shell. What presented a snail to my thoughts was because a few days previously—insects being now no more, and other food hard to procure—my maid had brought in some small snails as an offering for the ‘snakes.’ These having been declined, I wondered to see one in the box, but turned away faint-hearted from the unpleasant duty of removing a half-crushed snail, as I took it to be.
After being fortified with a hot breakfast, daylight being now brighter, I began with dainty fingers to remove the moss. Judge of my amazement to find three of the loveliest little tiny scraps of life, wriggling, twisting, diving, and defiantly—let me rather say intelligently, or instinctively—using their tongues like grown-up slow-worms. They were Blackie’s children. Not a doubt about it! Three were free from the shell, one of which was still connected with it by an inch or more of the umbilical cord; and within the shell—a mere membrane—was some yellow yoke and a good deal of glaire, so that the membrane still retained the rounded form. Possibly I had ruptured this egg in disturbing the moss. There was another egg quite perfect, and within that could be discerned the little creature curled up, and presenting those convolutions which in the half light had looked so like a small snail shell. On tenderly taking up this perfect egg, the wee reptile within threw itself into such an agitation that it burst its prison house, and emerged prematurely into the cold, rough world. A yolk as big as a hemp seed and much of the glaire remained behind. It was a precisely similar case to that of a young Typhlops in Jamaica, described by Gosse, where the reptile ‘crawled nimbly out of a ruptured egg, but remained attached to the vitellus.’ In the present instance the umbilical slit was ominously gaping, showing that the poor little creature was not nearly ready to battle with life. In the other that was not yet wholly detached, the slit was less, and in the two which had hatched themselves (no doubt during the night) it was nearly closed.
During the day six more were born, and four of the six in the membranous shell. Anguis fragilis is always considered to be viviparous; but so are vipers, and here in three distinct cases under public observation the young have been produced in a membranous covering.