Surely no animal could be more uncivilised or cannibalistic in its desires than man! Spinoza believed, however, that benevolence in animals consisted only in their kindliness and friendly feeling for each other and that we should expect nothing more of them. A good cow, so he thought, was one that was kind to her calf, however ferocious she might be toward human children. But we do not accept this standard of goodness, nor believe that animals' kindness extends only to their own tribes. Their lowest standard of life is no worse than the cannibalism existing among the lower tribes of uncivilised man, which is one of the highest ideals of tribal life. The greatest hero among our savages is the one that can put the most enemies to death.
Many animals seem to have a social instinct and a moral sentiment toward man. They try to break the old bonds of distrust between their master and themselves. This is especially true of the puma, second to the largest of the big cats of the Americas, which seems to love the society of man, and seeks not only to be near him, but to protect him from the attacks of the much-dreaded jaguar. A civil engineer tells the story of an experience he had while journeying up one of the big South American rivers by boat. At their nightly encampments one of the passengers on board was an old miner who insisted on sleeping in a hammock suspended between two small trees. His weight was sufficient to bring the hammock almost to the ground at its lowest curve. One morning, his friends inquired how he had slept, and he complained that "the frogs and small animals had made so much noise under the hammock that he could not sleep." One of the Indian servants roared with laughter, as he said, "Uh, 'tiger' sleep with old man last night. He watch him!"—tiger being the Indian term for the puma. Careful searching revealed the footprints of an immense puma, and that he had evidently lain directly under the hammock. The noise which had kept the old man from sleeping was the purring of the animal, pleased over the privilege of sleeping so near a man. These Guiana Indians know the ways of the forests, and have a special liking for wild animals. This entire absence of fear in the puma is the same as exhibited by the tame house cat.
Many animals seem fond of human companionship, and are easily tamed. My sister raised a small red deer in Texas, and he became so perfectly tame that he would follow her wherever she went, and would even take food from her hand. In Yellowstone Park the deer are so tame they will come into the yards to get food, while the brown bears approach the hotels like tramps, and many of the smaller animals are perfectly fearless. At the Bronx Zoological Gardens, and the London Zoo, the animals have lost all fear. They seem to realise that they have no power to escape and depend entirely upon man for their daily food. But, of course, their conditions are artificial, hence such conclusions as we may draw as to their normal attitude toward man do not necessarily indicate the innate character of their wild kinsmen. We occasionally find, for instance, that in unsettled regions like parts of Mexico and South America, where animals are plentiful and man's influence largely absent, they are found to be particularly ferocious, yet even then lions and leopards rarely attack men unless disturbed in some unusual way.
Quite a few naturalists and scientists believe that the animals' love for man was acquired and not natural. But if this be true, how did the very early tribes of men escape destruction at the hands of the wild beasts which were far more numerous than at present? The animal kingdom was evidently impressed by the power of man at a very early stage of its development, but in just what manner or what period of time this came to pass is not known.
If we regard the conflict as merely between two great groups of animals, surely the animals should have won, and man would have disappeared from the face of the earth. The fact that he did not, and that he became master of the animals, is presumptive evidence that man exceeded the animals in intelligence.
Primitive man could have lived in no other way than by "his wits." For he was not nearly so well equipped for defence as are the monkeys of to-day. Their greatest power is in the ability to use their arms and hands in swinging rapidly from branch to branch. This gives them an advantage over all tree-climbing cats. They are very proficient in throwing stones and other missiles. This is dumbfounding to other animals. Of course, their intelligent and quick-witted methods of defence, menace, guard-duty, and loyalty to tribe makes them great warriors, and enables them to survive even the onslaughts of their greatest enemy and nightmare of every non-carnivorous animal—the harpy eagle!
Through the necessary adjustments growing out of the close relationships of men to animals, the mental faculties of both have been greatly stimulated and advanced. The least developed races seem to be in such places as Tierra del Fuego, where there are no savage animals, and, therefore, no inducement for man to arm and defend himself. The Pygmies of Central Africa are mighty hunters, otherwise they could not survive. Even the Esquimaux are masters of the great polar bears and other northern animals.
In the wilds of Africa, where animals have had a terrible struggle for existence, not only against disagreeable climatic conditions, but all kinds of fellow-foes as well, we find the nkengos have attained a civilisation that almost equals that of our savage brothers. And these pale-faced little beings, with their wrinkled, care-worn, parchment-like skins, remind one of ill-treated, white, human-dwarfs. Their name, nkengo, means wild animal-men, and when tamed they actually make excellent family servants for men.
These closest allies of man live in tall bamboo trees, and are so curiously human that when seen walking around hunting berries, nuts, and fruits, talking in guttural, chattering tones, like old fisher-women, no one could doubt even their kinship to man.
Their children assemble in groups to romp and play under the guardianship of either one of their mothers or grandmothers; while the men forage for food, and watch for enemies. It is not uncommon to see an aged, half-decrepit nkengo lying on a bed of sticks in a tall tree. Here he eats only green leaves and bits of fruit brought him by some kind friend, being far too weak to hunt for food himself, and furthermore, fearing an attack from his mortal enemy, the leopard.