In this way the male polar bear, at any rate, seems able to keep himself in food during the winter, but the female is said to hibernate, and this she does in a very interesting and peculiar way. Where it is all ice and snow, there are no caves for her to retire into, but she makes a cave by utilising the materials around her in the simplest possible way. She simply lies down in a snowstorm, and lets all the rest take care of itself. Her weight presses down the soft snow she is lying on, and she is soon covered up by the flakes falling upon her. She now lies in a little cave, for, by moving and rolling, she presses the snow away from her back and sides, so that she has a comfortable space, and does not feel cramped and confined. If it were earth that had been flung over her, she would be pressed down by its weight and soon suffocated, but it is different with the soft yielding snow. Neither is she cold, for the heat from her body warms the little cave that she lies in, just as if she were a stove; and as the hot breath from her nostrils rises up, it thaws the snow just above them, and makes a hole by which it escapes, and through which she is able to breathe. Here, then, in her little vaulted chamber, with its breathing-hole in the ceiling, the she polar bear lies snugly asleep, all through the cold, dark winter, and when the summer comes and the sun begins to melt the snow, out she gets, with a good appetite, all ready to catch a seal.
I am not sure if the winter sleep of the polar bear is a heavy or a light one, or whether the Esquimaux, who live in these arctic regions, are bold enough to interfere with it if they happen to come upon its sleeping-place. The brown bear of Siberia, however, is sometimes attacked whilst hibernating, and this is a very dangerous thing to do, for this species—unlike the black bear of America—sleeps lightly, and is very fierce when disturbed. The way employed is for one man to descend into the bear’s cave, at the end of a rope, the other end being held by two or three men, who stand at the cave’s mouth. The man who goes in has a torch, or a candle, fixed into his cap—at least I think I have somewhere read this account—so that he can both see before him, and carry his gun in both hands. When he sees the bear lying asleep he creeps cautiously up, and putting the muzzle of his gun against the side of the animal’s head, pulls the trigger. As soon as the men outside hear the roar of the gun in the cave, they pull on the rope, and the assassin starts running at the same time. If he stumbles or falls, he is pulled along the ground, and in this way may avoid the rush of the bear, supposing the shot has not killed it. If the muzzle of the gun has been well placed, it ought, of course, to be a certain thing, but the bear may wake first, or move just at the critical moment, or it may be difficult, in the dark cavern, only dimly illumined by the flickering light of the candle, to see in what position it is lying. All this has to be risked. Still, on the whole, the chances are a good deal against the bear, and if its cavern—or hibernaculum, to use the technical word—is once found, it is pretty sure to be killed, even though it may, sometimes, kill a man or two first. I forget, now, exactly where I have read this account, but it was in a trustworthy book, I feel sure, so I hope it is correct in the main, even though I may have forgotten some of the particulars.
Bears are the largest animals that hibernate, unless some very big crocodiles or alligators may be considered to be larger still; and, perhaps, as these giants attain a length of twenty or even thirty feet, they may weigh as much or more. These creatures generally sleep in holes under the river-bank, but the alligator of tropical America will, sometimes, bury itself in the mud of a swamp, which may then dry up altogether, so that an encampment, or even a hut, may be raised upon it. In time the rains fall, the ground begins to grow moist again, and someone lying in his hammock, or just sitting down to breakfast, may be startled, all at once, by a great alligator rising up beneath him, out of the mud that makes the floor of his hut.
It is not this alligator, but the crocodile of Egypt and the Nile, that has long been famous for its friendship with a little bird, which, when he lies on the shore, may be seen not only running all about his body, but sometimes even inside his mouth, which the reptile holds purposely open for him. One snap of the great jaws, and the bird would never more be seen, but this snap is never made. The reason is that the bird is of great service to the crocodile, by freeing it from certain small animals which fix themselves on its body, or even within its jaws. On the other hand, the bird is very glad to get these creatures to eat, so that the friendship on both sides is based upon utilitarian principles. Herodotus, who visited Egypt over 2,000 years ago, relates as follows concerning this intimacy: “It is blind in the water (!) but very quick-sighted on land; and because it lives for the most part in the water, its mouth is filled with leeches. All other birds and beasts avoid him, but he is at peace with the trochilus because he receives benefit from that bird. For when the crocodile gets out of the water on land, and then opens its jaws, which it does, most commonly, towards the west, the trochilus enters its mouth and swallows the leeches: the crocodile is so well pleased with this service that it never hurts the trochilus.”
CHAPTER XVIII
CROCODILES AND ALLIGATORS—DECEPTIVE APPEARANCES—AN UNFORTUNATE PECCARY—AN AMBUSH BY THE RIVER—LIFE AND DEATH STRUGGLES.
The most interesting thing I know about crocodiles and alligators—and this is a remark which applies to a good many animals—is the way in which they procure their food. This they do mostly, and by preference, in the water, but they have, also, a habit of lying in wait upon the mud of river-banks, until some animal approaches sufficiently near to be within their reach. Lying sunk in the mud, and of the colour of mud themselves, they may well be mistaken for a log or drifted tree-trunk, for they make no movement, and seem to be quite inanimate. Only their eye, if one happens to catch it, proclaims that they draw the breath of life. A wild pig, or some other animal fond of rooting in the mud, sees the long, black, shapeless object, and bestows upon it, at first, a scrutinising glance. “Looks like a log,” is probably its internal comment; “still, from time to time, I’ll keep my eye upon it.” It does so, but as the supposed log is always precisely in the same place and position, it becomes strengthened in its first conclusion, and soon ceases to think anything more about it. By this, in the course of grubbing and grazing—for there may be reed-beds, or other delectable patches, scattered about over the mud—our pig—one of a scattered herd—has got somewhat nearer to the long, dark object, and with occasional deviations and wanderings away into safety, continues, on the whole, to get nearer still. It is by mere chance that he does so. There is no need to, any other direction would do as well, but fate is upon him, he is the foredoomed one, the “one more unfortunate,” the one to “be taken” amidst the many to “be left”—some for another time. Looking up, suddenly, with the fresh-turned mud upon his nose, he is surprised to see the log right beside him, so near that he might jump on the top of it, were he so minded, and—and by the jaguars!—he is so minded. He will do it, he has run down logs before, he rather likes it; sometimes, too, by ripping up the bark one may get at something—that upon a log which he thought, not long ago, in his overwariness, might get at him. The recollection gives piquancy to the situation. He brings all four legs together, and rises in a light, elastic spring. In the very moment of doing so—a second or so before, perhaps, but the motion cannot be arrested now—he notices that a change has come over the supposed log. It has moved; nay, it is moving. One end of it, the longest, thinnest end, the tail end—oh, heavens! the tail—is gliding away in a curve, till now its tip almost touches the further side, not of a log, but of a gigantic alligator, whose head, with grinning jaws, is at the same time raised, and whose greeny, baleful eye, falling, like death, upon the deceived animal, seems to claim him for its own.
What can he do? All too late the fraud is revealed to him; no log, but a cruel saurian that has, all along, been waiting for its prey. What can he do now?—poor miserable, cheated pig, so happy but a moment before, and now—— He would stop himself if he could, but he is in mid-air and cannot check the impetus. On he must; but even so—even in mid-air thought may be active. Our pig’s brain is working. He has escaped from as great a danger. He remembers that time with the jaguar. Courage! even now. Come down on the alligator’s back, that he must do, but the instant he touches it he will spring lightly up again, and far away on the other side. Then—there is hope yet. One more spring, a race, and a scamper, and—— But the tail of the alligator is by this time bent round as tight as it will go—it has not taken long—and suddenly, like a bow when the arrow is loosed, it flies back, and then with a mighty swing comes round in the opposite direction. It meets the flying body of the pig, not directly, but with a tremendous sideway blow; there is a heavy, dull sound, a squeal, choked suddenly as for want of breath, and hurled obliquely from its original course, the luckless and now almost inanimate creature falls in a dead heap, some yards beyond the saurian’s head. Recovery from such a blow would be in any case doubtful, but the pig has no time to recover. With a sudden, swift rush the alligator is upon him, and seizing the body by the skin, which it holds puckered up between its front teeth, it shakes it furiously, as a terrier would a rat, and then half drags, half pushes it before it, as it crawls through the mud, to the water’s edge. The herd, alarmed by the sudden commotion, yet scarcely knowing what has happened, scatter at first, then rush all together and stand still, gazing from a safe distance at the suddenly revealed monster. Then, lowering their heads and whisking their tails in the air, they dash in wild gallop from the scene of the catastrophe.