Now is not that a picture of cheery cosiness and comfort! I trust the lady will pardon her separation from other artists and their pets, in consideration of the pleasant glow her open studio door lets shine upon the Odd Set.
Helix Desertorum
Who would ever think of a snail becoming famous? Such is the case, however; and in the Museum of Natural History, at South Kensington, the very hero may be seen of whom we write. Also his portrait, together with his story, enlivens the pages of Dr. Woodward’s Manual of the Mollusca, under the heading of Helix Desertorum. He was brought with other specimens, in 1846, from Egypt; and having so withdrawn into his shelly house that it seemed empty, was gummed to a piece of cardboard, numbered, named, and placed in the museum. Here he lay for four years, in a kind of Rip Van Winkle slumber, his very existence unknown, until in 1850 he woke, and tried to walk off from the card. But to do this, he must have abandoned his well-gummed house, and such a sacrifice was not to be thought of. So he snoozed again, until an inquisitive scientist noticed his footprints, immersed him in warm water, and thus at length released him from “durance vile.” His picture was drawn, his history noted, and then—no higher distinction being possible for a snail—he was disposed of, let us say. He ceased to be, and only his shell remains.
A yet more wonderful pet has lately died in Edinburgh at the age of certainly sixty years, and very possibly more. Its name was Granny, and it was a sea-anemone. Found on the wild Berwickshire coast, in Scotland, in 1828, it remained with its discoverer until 1854, and then passed into the care of Prof. Flemming. By him it was placed in the Botanic Garden of Edinburgh, and there lived a peaceful if monotonous life. Every two weeks it was given half a mussel, which was the only food it required. But lack of incident was no drawback to fame; and, like “Helix desertorum,” Granny was sketched, described, and visited. More wonderful yet, it possessed an album, wherein famous visitors inscribed their names, and whose autographic treasures will long commemorate the tranquil fascinations of Granny!
With these odd characters may be counted Sir John Lubbock’s wasp. We usually think of wasps, in the language of a modern humorist, as little creatures, very inflammable in their nature, and hasty in their conclusions, or end. The wasp in question seems to have been gentler-tempered or milder-mannered than the majority of her race; and came to be on sociable terms with her scientific friend. Like so many pets, she was short-lived. “In her last hours,” says Sir John, “she would take no food, though she still moved her legs, wings and abdomen. The following day, I offered her food for the last time, but both head and thorax were dead or paralyzed; she could but wag her tail. So far as I could judge, her death was quite painless, and she now occupies a place in the British Museum.”
The quaintest, most pathetic pet in history, I take it, was the fly, which set out—very gaily, no doubt—with other flies, in a ship bound to Spitzbergen. One by one, with the increasing cold, his companions perished, until at last he was left alone. It was no great comfort that the sailors cherished him as never fly was cherished before; and erelong, despite the tenderest care, he turned over on his back and died. He was honored with burial, and even with tears, as the last frail link, at home’s antipodes, with home.
To conclude this Odd Set, there can hardly be anything odder than the story of a toad with which formerly I was well acquainted. His summer residence was the shady, cool brick floor of a kitchen porch, with a cistern conveniently set in one corner. He was a portly, contemplative fellow, and had no objection to receiving flies from the human race. It was his habit to come out from retirement towards evening, and sitting on the well-curb, imbibe the evening air and insects. On one of these occasions he was seen by a grave college professor and a student of strong experimental bias who—noticing the June fireflies sparkling all around—were seized with the desire to give him a light meal.
It was quite to his taste, and he swallowed a number of flies. But even his capacious stomach had a limit, and when it could accommodate no more, he sat motionless and pensive on the curb. And then there was a curious sight. He had absorbed the fireflies so rapidly, that though imprisoned, they were still alive; and, beginning to glow, they turned their captor into a kind of Chinese lantern. Actually, he was lit up from within, and a soft luminousness shone through his thin membranous throat. Erelong the glow ceased—the “slaves of the lamp” were dead. It was an uncanny, goblin-like sight; but my own sympathies, I confess, were rather with the lights than the lantern.