Professor Owen, in describing the bony structure of the Ophidia, and in allusion to the scriptural text—‘Upon thy belly shalt thou go’—affirms that so far from the reptiles being degraded from a higher type, their whole organization demonstrates how exquisitely their parts are adapted to their necessities, and thus proceeds: ‘They can outclimb the monkey, outswim the fish, outleap the jerboa, and suddenly loosing the coils of their crouching spiral, they can spring into the air and seize the bird upon its wing.’
The active snakes can always ‘leap’ their own length, whether upwards to seize a bird, or horizontally, and, as in the case of the Jamaica boa (described p. 186), can leap much farther from a similar impetus when the direction is downwards. Indeed, they can let themselves fall from a certain elevation with an additional impetus to progress, as a boy first runs in order to leap a ditch.
‘With neither hands nor talons, they can out-wrestle the athlete, and crush their prey in the embrace of their ponderous, overlapping folds.... Instead of licking up its food as it glides along, the serpent uplifts its crushed prey, and presents it grasped in its death-like coil, as in a hand, to its gaping mouth.’[66]
A similarly graphic account is given by Rymer Jones, p. 718 of his work,[67] that will be read with interest by those who wish to pursue the study scientifically.
In watching the larger constricting snakes while feeding, you see how dexterously they manage.—(One may use this word here, because those above quoted, ‘as in a hand,’ are literally, scientifically true; therefore we may suppose fingers as well as a hand, and say how dexterously the creatures bring their coils to their aid.)
They have quickly strangled and begun to eat, say an opossum or a turkey buzzard, when a part of the prey not swallowed offers some impediment to the expanded jaws; the wings or legs may be inconveniently extended, or have become wedged between some immoveable obstacles—a log, a narrow space, or under a portion of themselves. Their mouth, the only apparent grasping agent, is already occupied, and a strain sufficiently powerful, while the jaws are thus retaining the prey, would be painful to the feeder, might even drag back the food, to the injury of the engaged teeth. How does the reptile proceed in this emergency? With the lightness and deftness of enormous strength, it applies two folds of its body, two loops of its own coils, and with them drags forth, lifts up, or otherwise adjusts its prey in a more convenient position—in fact, ‘presents it as in a hand’ to its own mouth.
A very remarkable instance of a constricting snake thus using its coils is related by Dr. Elliott Coues, of the United States army, late surgeon and naturalist to the United States Northern Boundary Commission. He witnessed one of those frequent combats between the Racer and the Rattlesnake, in which the former—and in far less time than it takes to read one line of this page—threw two folds or coils round his adversary, one coil of the anterior portion of his own body round one part, and a second coil of the posterior portion of his own body round another part, and then, by a sudden extension of himself, tore the rattlesnake in halves. And this was done with greater ease and swiftness than we could snap a thread which we must first secure round the fingers of our two hands. As if indeed possessed of two hands, the constrictor snapped his foe in twain. This is Lawson’s ‘Whipster,’ p. 182.
The coiling of the constricting snakes is like lightning; you cannot follow the movements. In this case death must have been instantaneous, and indeed it is doubtful whether any beast or bird of prey puts his victim to a more speedy and less torturing death than the constrictors when following their own instincts.
Repairing to the Zoological Gardens in the hope of witnessing the wonderful adaptation of coils to manual uses, after reading what Roget and Owen had affirmed, one soon had a favourable opportunity in watching a python. It was, I think, in June 1874, and the poor python had a ruptured side. In spite of which—as my zoological notes record—‘it helped by the folds of its body to get the wings of the duck down flat and close, so as to swallow it more easily. With reason does Roget say, “Its whole body is a hand,” for it used its loops to hold and to push and to flatten in a manner truly intelligent.’