Four officers sitting in a bungalow in India were deep in a game of whist. Suddenly one of them, turning deadly pale, made signs that no one should move or speak. In a hushed voice he exclaimed, ‘Keep still, for God’s sake! I feel a cobra crawling about my legs!’ He knew that timidity was one of the strongest characteristics of this snake, and that if not disturbed or alarmed, it would in due time depart of its own accord. All present were accustomed to the stealthy intruders, and did not, happily, lose their presence of mind. They very noiselessly bent down so as to take a survey beneath the table, when, sure enough, there was the unwelcome visitor, a full-sized cobra, twining and gliding about the legs of their hapless friend. Literally death was at his feet! A movement, a noise, even an agitated tremble might have been fatal.
Luckily one of the four was acquainted with the milk-loving habit of the cobra, and rising from his seat with quiet and cautious movements, not daring to hasten, yet dreading delay, he managed to steal from the room, while he signed the rest to remain motionless. Quickly he crept back with a saucer of milk in his hand, and still with noiseless movements set the saucer under the table as close to the terrible reptile as it was safe to venture.
That fearful strain on their nerves was happily of not long duration, for presently they were relieved by seeing the creature gradually untwine itself and go to the milk.
Never before or since did that officer leap from his seat as he did then, the moment he felt himself free from the coils of the cobra, and read in the faces of his comrades that he was saved. Short thrift, however, had Mr. Cobra, for sticks and whip-handles were freely administered, even before the saucer was reached.
The enemy got rid of, the game was resumed; and it is worth the while of those in India to bear this narrow escape in mind, and bring milk to the rescue in case of similar danger.
That snakes drink, and occasionally drink milk, is sufficiently established. Modern authorities now affirm it decidedly. Says Dr. Günther in his great work, published by the Ray Society,[27] ‘All snakes drink, and die when deprived of water.’ Dr. Edward Nicholson, another of our practical ophiologists, speaking of one of his pet snakes, a Tropidonotus, says ‘the offer of a drink of water will at once gain its heart.’ In watching snakes drinking, he has frequently counted one hundred gulps before the drinker is satisfied.[28] If Anguis fragilis, the common blindworm, from its snake-like form, may be cited here, I may mention one of my own, which, after being shut up in a box for safety during my absence from home for some days, drank for such a long while when first released from captivity, that I was really tired of waiting to watch her. She almost immediately went to a flower-pot saucer of water, with which she was familiar, and which I placed near her. For some time I watched the tongue thrown out and withdrawn, till I began to wonder how much longer she would remain dipping that little bifid organ. I then began to count, and she dipped it seventy-five times more, after drinking at least as long as that previously. Then she moved away, and explored among the books on the table, but soon returned to the saucer and dipped her tongue again upwards of seventy times. How much more I cannot affirm, as I could not remain any longer waiting for her, and left her still drinking. (‘Lizzie,’ thus named from her lizard nature, must claim a chapter to herself in this book, for she greatly distinguished herself in lacertine doings.)
While puzzling over this drinking question, I find a favourite author, P. H. Gosse, affirm, ‘Snakes drink by suction, not by lapping,’ and that ‘serpents are said to lap up fluids with their forked tongue, which, however, seems to be ill suited to such an operation.’[29]
Then one naturally turns to the encyclopedias, where we grow still more perplexed, for no two agree precisely on all points.
‘The use of the tongue in serpents is not exactly known.’[30] And again, ‘It is believed that serpents never drink.’[31] It is true that the compiler of the article Reptilia quotes Schlegel a good deal; but unfortunately that is the very point on which Schlegel speaks doubtfully. Nor do we presume to include the learned Schlegel as one of the inaccurately informed individuals, though he does discredit the milk-drinkers. Of him Dumeril thus writes, or of his work rather, which he pronounced to be ‘le plus detaillé et le plus complet qui ait paru jusqu’ici (1844), et auquel nous serons sans cesse obligé d’avoir recours.’ Schlegel is also quoted by Cantor, 1841; by Dr. J. E. Gray, 1849; by Dr. A. Günther, 1864; and, in fact, by most scientific ophiologists. Natural history is an ever-advancing science, more so, perhaps, than any other. Linnæus and Cuvier were great in their day, but their systems obtain no longer.