Were not this story apparently well attested we might doubt some of the details, as our own experience has shown that, while frogs are easily tamed, and may be taught quite readily to perform such simple feats as leaping, clinging to a string while swinging, and the like, they yet seem to possess no aptitude for learning any more elaborate feats. Some of our readers may, perhaps, be as successful as this gentleman was, and in that case we should be pleased to have them let us know of it.
It may easily be imagined that the capture and training of fleas would require a patience almost rivaling Job’s, and a skill which, in its particular way, might almost be called a triumph of genius. Yet that has been done, and some years ago a man gave exhibitions of what he termed “educated fleas,” which were quite popular and successful. This man was a German, who, at the time we speak of, was somewhat more than sixty years of age, and had been, with true Teutonic steadfastness, about twenty years engaged in his strange vocation. Fortunately he was endowed with a sharp pair of eyes, which not only enabled him to keep track of his little performers, over three score in number, but also to make the minute “properties” used in the exhibition.
This “artist in fleas” took considerable pains to secure choice specimens for his collection, and had arrangements whereby they were forwarded to him by mail, carefully packed in cotton, from localities noted for their superior breeds. When not in use the fleas are packed away in pill-boxes between layers of cotton. They are fed twice each day; the manner of feeding being to allow each to suck one drop of blood from the trainer’s bare arm. This would be an ordeal few of our readers would probably care to submit to, but the hero of the sixty fleas had become so accustomed to it that he didn’t mind it in the least, and, for aught we know, rather enjoyed it.
The intelligence of fleas is not of a very high order, and their “education” is really very limited; the seeming marvels they perform being mainly clever management on the part of their exhibitor. When first received they are secured with a halter of the finest imaginable silk to prevent escape. The first thing they are taught is not to jump. For this purpose the end of the halter is secured to a pin in the table, and each jump naturally results in the prisoner being upset with a sudden jerk, with, no doubt, a rather unpleasant sensation about the neck. Sometimes a sharp pressure upon certain muscles is resorted to for checking this jumping propensity. Being well fed and well treated, when it behaves itself, even a flea will become tame. Punishment, too, for rebellious conduct is also practiced. As fleas are not well adapted for being flogged a new device is resorted to, a piece of burning charcoal, or heated wire, is held over them until they are subdued.
The usual performances consist in little coaches being drawn about by fleas harnessed up, while others of the troupe personate riders, coachmen and footmen. Then there is the ball-room scene, where fleas waltz around to the imaginary music of an orchestra of fleas, furnished with minute imitations of various instruments. There are also quite a variety of other tricks, but they are all pretty much the same in principle. The main secret in these performances is a piece of very thin wire, some ten or so inches in length, which the exhibitor holds in his hand during the entertainment. The end of this wire is greased with butter, which appears to possess a strong influence upon the fleas, for they will eagerly follow the wire in whatever direction it is moved. The audience, ignorant of this fact, attach no importance to the exhibitor’s directing with it the movement of his performers, and may even consider their following it a proof of superior training. By this means the fleas may easily be made to go through the desired movements.
Where the fleas occupy a stationary position a trick is resorted to which if on a large scale would be clumsy, but which in this instance defies the sharpest eyes to detect. The insects are fastened in their positions. Aided by the costumes with which they are encumbered, this is not difficult to accomplish. Natural movements are also made to pass for seemingly wonderful effects. Thus the performance of the musicians is nothing but the customary wriggling of the fleas. Any insect in a confined position will seize hold of a light article whether it be shaped like a fiddle or not, and twirl it about. With the fleas it is impossible for the spectator to distinguish exactly what the motion is—it is so rapid and everything is so small—and imagination makes up for a good many deficiencies.
We have seen boys amusing themselves impaling a fly, belly upward, upon the point of a pin, the head of which was inserted in a cork standard, and giving him a little dumb-bell composed of pieces of cork connected by a piece of hog’s bristle. The fly would grasp this in his agony, and his convulsive movements would have a very exact resemblance to a dumb-bell performance, and be irresistibly ludicrous, however much one might sympathise with the victim’s suffering. It almost rivaled the professor and his fleas.
Once upon a time this troupe of fleas were exhibited at Berlin before the king and queen. The professor was suddenly seen to exhibit signs of great consternation. “What is the matter, Herr Professor?” inquired his majesty, on seeing that the performance had come to a stand still. “Sire, I perceive that one of my very, best performers, the great Napoleon, has got loose and disappeared.” “Let search be made at once for the great Napoleon,” replied the king, good humoredly. “Ladies and gentlemen, let the Herr Professor have your best help in recapturing the great Napoleon. In what direction, Herr Professor, do you imagine the runaway to have gone?” “If I may venture, sire, to reply frankly,” returned that personage, “I suspect the great Napoleon to have secreted himself about the person of her serene highness, the Princess F——.” The “highness” thus named, feeling anything but “serene” at the thought of affording quarters to such an intruder, made a hasty retirement to her own apartments, whence, after a brief retirement with her cameriste, she smilingly returned to the royal presence, bringing some object held delicately between her thumb and finger, which she cautiously made over to the professor. “Alas! sire,” exclaimed the latter, after a moment’s glance at what he thought was his discovered treasure, “this is a wild flea and not the great Napoleon!” And the exhibition was brought to an ignominious conclusion.
We once heard of a performance somewhat akin to our professor’s. At a certain boarding school that we attended years ago, we noticed our room-mate one morning examining the bed in a manner to indicate beyond doubt that he was in search of an insect which is not usually a subject of conversation in polite society. Fortunately for the credit of the school he found none. In answer to our expression of surprise at his evident disappointment at there being none, he explained that he wanted to show us a splendid trick he had invented at home; and he went on to describe how he had often amused himself by gluing one end of a string to the back of an unfortunate bug, while to the other end was hitched a miniature model of a cart, made of paper. This, he said, was capital sport, especially when he made two of these teams race, and pricked the steeds with a needle to make them lively. This is the only example of bed-bug training we are able to record.
A very useful thing for farmers is the power of handling bees without liability to be stung. Many persons imagine this to be some gift or mysterious influence possessed by the successful operator, while others suppose it to be derived from some wonderful secret possessed by him. Though this “secret” is really quite a simple matter, the fact that a speculator has been selling it to bee keepers at the modest price of ten dollars, shows that it is an interesting subject, and we propose to give it to the reader without exacting any fee.