The Suicide Marches of Lemmings
Mass death marches of lemmings long have intrigued biologists and psychologists.
The Lapland lemming is a short-tailed animal, related to the meadow mouse, that looks like a miniature rabbit. Through the sub-Arctic winter it lives completely buried under snow through which it burrows in search of mosses and lichens.
It is extremely prolific; females produce two litters of from four to six offspring every year. The numbers soon become far too great to subsist on the sparse supply available in the Scandinavian mountains.
Then, irregularly in periods of from five to ten years, occurs one of the weirdest phenomena of animal life. Acting apparently on a common, sub-conscious, simultaneous impulse, the entire lemming population starts a mass migration out of the mountains to the lowlands. The animals proceed in a straight line, a few feet apart, each usually tracing a shallow furrow in the soil. They are a devouring scourge, stripping the earth of all vegetation in their path. Their progress seems irresistible. No obstacle stops them. If they come across a man they glide between his legs. If they meet with a haystack they gnaw through it. If a rock stands in their way they go around it in a semi-circle and then resume the straight line of their march. When they come to a lake, river or arm of the sea they swim directly across, vast numbers being drowned on the way. If they encounter a boat they climb over it, so as not to be diverted from a straight line. Curiously, they seem to avoid human habitations. They resist fiercely all efforts to stop them. They will bite a stick or hand, crying and barking like little dogs. Multitudes are destroyed every mile of the way. When the migrating horde reaches the sea it moves straight on—to inevitable destruction.
A few linger behind and eventually make their way back to the mountain habitat. Numbers are so reduced that they are seldom observed. Then a new generation starts and builds up for the next migration.
The Ferocity of the Tiger
Symbol of ferocity in the animal world is the tiger. When troops of the American 101st Division entered the German city of Halle in 1945 it probably was considered effective psychological warfare tactics on the part of the Nazis to open the zoo cages and let loose the tigers. So far as known, however, the animals did not attack any Americans.
Whether the reputation of the tiger is entirely justified is debatable. “The tiger”, says Dr. William M. Mann, long-time director of the National Zoological Park in Washington, “is one of the finest animals that lives. In the cage he is the most snobbish of all aristocrats, his contempt for those who jostle in front of his bars being nothing less than magnificent. He is dignity itself. He condescends to no boyish antics to attract attention as does the chimpanzee, to no begging for sweets as do the bear and elephant, to no pacific, philosophic acceptance of fate such as that of the hippopotamus. You cannot win his favor by a stick of candy. He is above rage or gratitude.”
Sometimes adult tigers are captured in traps and sold to circuses. One American circus some years ago had a cage of ten. Their keeper made them perform as another man might spaniels. In the arena they appeared to be a ferocious group. In the menagerie tent, confined in small cages like so many kittens, the keeper could put his hand in their months and rub their teeth. Once he complained bitterly about the tranquility of his charges. “I cannot make a show with ten tame tigers,” he argued. “I must have five mean ones to add to the act.”