Natural Wonders

by Edwin Tenney Brewster

Some day, perhaps, the chick will happen to walk into the water, not seeing any reason why one should not walk on water just as well as on land. Then he will think how very wet and unpleasant water is, and out he will scramble as fast as possible. But if the chick were a duck, tho he would not know anything more about water when he saw it than a chick does, yet as soon as he felt the water on his legs, that feeling would start up his swimming instinct, and away he would go, swimming the first time he tried as well as ever he will. Yet a duckling would sit on the edge of a pond till he grew up to be an old duck before ever the sight of the water would make him want to swim in it. The instinct starts up only when the duck gets its legs wet. Either a duckling or a chick would sit down beside a dish of water till they died of thirst, before they would try to drink, if they did not make a start by pecking at something in the water or on the bottom.

So you see the instinct does not tell the animal anything, it merely starts him to doing something, from which he can learn more for himself. It is just the same with us. We have an instinct to creep, and after that to walk; these take us about so that we can see things for ourselves. We have an instinct to climb; but we have to learn for ourselves how much a branch will bear, and the difference between poplar tree wood which will snap off and spill us out on our heads, and apple tree wood which will not.

So you see that what animals know by instinct is always how to do something. It may be how to swim, or how to fly, or how to build a nest, or how to bite some other creature in the neck. Usually it is some very simple act, that will simply give the creature a start in life.

Did you ever see a kitten play with a mouse? The kitten’s instinct is to chase any small object which is moving away from it—spool, string, tail, ball, mouse, indifferently. The kitten sees the mouse and runs after it. But the kitten will not hurt the mouse as long as the mouse keeps still. You could put the mouse on the kitten’s head and let it go to sleep there, and the kitten would never touch it, so long as the mouse did not try to run away. But the minute the mouse runs, away goes the kitten after it.

We say it is cruel of the kitten to torment the mouse as it does; to let the poor frightened mouse think it has a chance to get away, and when it tries to run, swooping down on it again. But the kitten isn’t cruel. The kitten chases the mouse because it runs; plays with it a few moments; then forgets all about it till it starts to run again. But of course, the kitten is so large and rough compared with a mouse, that sooner or later it is pretty certain to scratch the little creature. Then for the first time, the kitten discovers that there is meat inside the mouse, and that what it thought only an amusing plaything is also good to eat. After that, the kitten becomes a mouser.

It is something the same way with a dog. His instinct is to pursue and bite large things that run away. If, therefore, you run from a dog, he will run after you; and having started running, he is pretty likely to bite. But if you pay no attention to the dog, move only slowly, and do nothing to start up his run-after-something-large-and-bite-it-in-the-legs instinct, the dog will bark, but will not touch you.

One might go on at considerable length describing one after another of the curious instincts of the various creatures we know. Many of these, however, you can see for yourselves, just by watching young animals, kittens, puppies, chicks, babies and the rest, and noticing what they do all of their own accord, without ever being taught.

Of all these curious instincts, I know of nothing more curious than the way in which the instincts of our common nesting birds play hide and seek with one another thru the changing seasons of the year. Each in turn comes to the fore, governs the birds’ conduct for a few weeks, then dies down to give place to the next; but only to reappear once more in its proper place during the following year.

When our song birds come north in the spring, one of the first things they do is to pick out mates, and get to work building their nests. We may be very sure that no young bird, hatched out the year before and building her nest for the first time, has the remotest idea why she is building it. She finds a spot in thicket, hollow tree, or barn, which somehow looks right to her. Then she finds that bits of string, hair, moss, wood, and the like, which she has never bothered her head about before, suddenly become the most interesting and attractive things in the world, and before she knows it, she is building a nest; the same sort of nest that other birds of her sort are building, tho it may be that she was brought up as a pet in the house and has never seen a nest in her life before. When she is older, and has built a great many nests, she will perhaps build the least little bit better than she did the first time; but it will take a pretty sharp eye to tell the difference. The bird who has never seen a nest will always build the right size and kind at the first trial, and build it almost as well as she ever will.

By and by there are eggs in the nest. I don’t suppose the bird knows how they got there, and I am quite sure she doesn’t spend any time wondering about it. The thing she cares for now is to sit on those eggs; and the bits of string, hair, moss, and wood which once seemed so valuable interest her no more.