Intelligence in Plants and Animals / Being a New Edition of the Author's Privately Issued "Soul and Immortality."

That the lower animals are in possession of all the characters of the mind or soul that are either the inherited or acquired properties of man, some evidence will now be adduced. Foremost among these qualities is Reason. Much vagueness of idea exists as to what constitutes reason, the general tendency being to confound it with instinct, and to wonder where the one ends and the other begins. Hundreds of anecdotes, too familiar for mention, might be instanced, which have been described as wonderful examples of instinct, but which, upon careful examination, have been shown to be undoubted proofs of reason. That disposition of mind by which, independent of all instruction or experience, animals are unerringly directed to do spontaneously whatever is necessary for the preservation of the individual or the continuation of the species, is instinct. It is instinct that teaches the newly-born child to breathe, or to seek its mother’s breast and obtain its nourishment by suction. Instinct teaches the bird how to make its nest after the manner of its kind, but it is reason that leads it to construct a fabric radically different from the typical form. Taking the case of insects, there can be no doubt that it is instinct that teaches the caterpillar to make its cocoon, to remain there until it has developed into an imago, and then to force its entrance into the world. Ducks, though hatched under a hen, instinctively make their way to the water, while chickens, though hatched under a duck, instinctively keep away from it. Man, as well as the lower animals, has his instincts, but very few of them are apparent, for he is able to bring the most of them under subjection by the power of his reason. Some, however, remain and assert themselves throughout the entire period of his life.

There is the widest possible difference between reason and instinct, the former being an exercise of the will, while the latter is independent thereof. Instinct comes in at birth, but reason is an after-growth of the mind. No exercise of thought does instinct require, but when the mind reasons some conclusion is deduced from the premises which it has assumed. All animals, in common with ourselves, possess the power of reasoning, although in a less degree. It is by the superiority of our reason over theirs that we maintain our supremacy. False premises often lead to wrong deductions, but their process is still one of pure reason. With them, as well as with ourselves, reason, especially in the case of domestic animals, often conquers instinct, and so by contact with a higher order of reason, that of man’s, their own is more fully developed. They, in a sense, become civilized. Let a hungry dog and a cat be left in a room where food is unguarded, and their instincts will urge them to jump upon the table and help themselves. But if they have been trained, their reason restrains their instinct, and, no matter how hungry they may be, they will not touch the food until it is given to them. Some few years ago a matronly lady and her dog, a beautiful pug, were accustomed to take their dinner at a saloon which the writer daily visited. The dog was given a chair on the side opposite his mistress. He was a well-mannered animal, and never during his many visits to the place did he ever violate the laws of good manners. Patiently he would wait until the food was put upon his plate, and not even then would he take it, for he had been taught that it was something that should not be hastily seized and eaten. The idea that food cost money was distinctly impressed upon his mind, and this the owner did by thrice repeating, “This cost money.” It was evident that the dog understood what was said from the thoughtful look he gave her. In a little while he was given the command to eat, but, like the cultured he was, everything was done orderly and decently. Almost any animal can be thus trained to subject its natural instincts to its reason.

Fishes are not known to possess much reason. There is not an angler, nevertheless, that will not tell you that he has had the powers of his mind taxed to the utmost in his efforts to induce an old and wary trout to take the bait, and even when he has succeeded in hooking him, it has greatly tried his genius for planning to prevent the fish from breaking his line. Natural instinct teaches a fish to fly from man, and even one’s shadow on the water will frighten away the fish and destroy an angler’s hopes of success. Yet we have seen a pond full of gold-fish which were quite tame, and which, when they saw a human being at the side of the pond, would come forward instead of showing alarm. They were so perfectly confiding that they would take a piece of bread or biscuit out of his hand. Here, then, is an example of the instinct, which urges them to flee from man, being overcome by the reason, which tells them to approach him.

Animals of burden may often be seen attending to prescribed work without any supervision. Dray-horses, as is well known, sometimes take pleasure in their work. I knew of a horse of the kind that was as much interested, apparently, his work as his owner. He never had to be told when to move, for all the while the dray was loading he was observant of everything, and, knowing the capacity thereof, was ready when the look from the master told him to proceed. Horses have sometimes shown a knowledge of the amount of work they are supposed to perform in a day. A case has been cited of a horse by Mr. Wood that was capable of doing his work without a driver. He belonged to the owner of an American mine. As soon as his cart was filled with ore, at a given signal he went off to the spot where the ore was to be dumped, waited until the cart was unloaded, and then returned for another load. So many loads had to be carried daily, and, strange to relate, the animal knew when his task was finished as well as any of the men. When the last load for the day was deposited, he could be seen trotting off in the direction of home, where he knew he would receive a kind reception from his mistress.

Enough has been said to show that animals have and do exercise powers of reason. That they have the means of transmitting ideas to their fellows is not to be questioned. Language is the means of transmission. Not only are they able to interchange thoughts with each other, but with man also when they are brought into contact with him. They must possess a language of some kind, whereby they can understand each other, can comprehend human language, and make themselves intelligible to man. All these conditions are fulfilled in the lower animals, but there is one distinction between the capability of understanding their own language and that of man, and that is, that they are born with the one and have to learn the other. Newly-hatched chickens, although they have only entered the world an hour or so ago, understand perfectly well their mother. They know what to do when she calls them to find what food she has unearthed, and they know what to do when she warns them of danger. Who has not heard them talk to her? But how different are their tones under various circumstances. The little piping notes of content when all is going on well can never be confounded with the cry of alarm when they have lost their way or are otherwise frightened.

Wasps, as everybody knows who has studied these insects, carry out one of the first principles of military art. They always have the gate of their fortress guarded by a sentinel. Should danger be imminent, the alarm is given by the sentinel, and out rush the inhabitants to wreak vengeance upon the offender. Out of a full-sized nest, consisting of many hundred wasps, it is evident that the individual who is to act as sentinel must be selected, and its task appointed. How the selection is made, no one knows. But that such is done, there can be no question, for the rest of the community acknowledge their sentinel, trust to it for guarding the approaches of the nest, while they busy themselves with the usual task of collecting food for the young and new material for the nest.

Nearly related to wasps are the ants. Some of their performances are truly astonishing. They have armies commanded by officers, who issue orders, insist on obedience, and will not permit, while on the march, any of the privates to stray from the ranks. There are other ants which till the ground, weed it, plant the particular grain on which they feed, cut it when ripe, and store it in their subterranean granaries. Arrant slaveholders are others, who make systematic raids upon neighboring species, carry off their yet unhatched cocoons, and rear them in their own nests to be their servants. Somewhat recent discoveries show that there are ants which bury their dead. Two pairs of bearers are chosen to carry the corpse, one pair relieving the other when tired, while the main body, often several hundred in number, follow behind. So much could be said about ants, so closely do their performances resemble the customs of human civilization, that the subject could never grow uninteresting, but we must, for the present, forbear. All these various performances could not be possible were there not some way by which communication, or interchange of ideas, could be carried on among the individual members of the same community. Sometimes one species of ant is capable of carrying on a conversation, so to speak, with another. Bees, wasps and ants are the best linguists of the insect race, their language being chiefly conducted by means of their antennæ.

Who has not often observed two dogs, members of the same household, holding sweet converse with each other? Pug and Gyp were two animals that belonged to the family where I spent a summer vacation. They thought much of each other when romping together in the yard, or in foraging the neighboring woods and fields for rabbits and ground-hogs. Never would they start out on an expedition for game without having previously laid their plans. It was interesting and amusing to watch them. They would bring their heads into close contiguity, remaining in this position for two or three minutes, when, by mutual consent, they would separate, look each other in the eyes, and then start off in different directions for the scene of their projected enterprise. Times out of number I have observed such behavior and have always discovered that they meant something of the kind. There were no audible utterances, no visible gestures, yet there was an interchange of ideas. Through the medium of the eye were the thoughts conveyed. It was spirit speaking directly to spirit, conveying by a single glance of the eye thoughts which whole volumes would fail to express.

Each species of animal has its own dialect. Yet there is another language, a sort of animal lingua franca, which is common to all. A cry of warning, no matter from what bird or animal it emanates, is understood by them all, as is well known to many a sportsman who has lost his only chance of a shot by reason of an impertinent crow, jay or magpie which has espied him, and has given its cry of alarm. There is not a bird of garden or orchard, or a fowl of the barnyard or doorside, that does not understand the peculiar cry of the rooster when a hawk is seen careering overhead, or perched upon the summit of a near-by tree. With one accord they flee to their coverts, and there remain until the danger is past.

No more quarrelsome and pugnacious species of bird exists than the English sparrow. He appropriates every available locality for nesting purposes, and our native species are driven to the necessity of fighting for their rights, or of seeking quarters in the rural districts which these birds do not infect. Thus it is that many a useful robin, bluebird or martin is driven from our midst. Many have witnessed encounters between these birds and the robins. The author once saw a contest between a pair of sparrows and a pair of robins for the possession of a certain tree that grew in his yard. Now the robin, single-handed, is more than a match for a sparrow. In the engagement referred to, the robins were getting the better of the sparrows, which the latter were not slow in perceiving. Instantly the sparrows set up the wild, ear-piercing harangue for which they are peculiarly noted, when more than a score of friends from the immediate vicinity gathered to their assistance. But the war-cry which they sounded not only summoned help to their standard, but it was equally understood by all the other birds of the neighborhood, who flocked to the defence of their brethren against the alien. The battle waged warm and fiercely for some minutes, when the sparrows were forced to seek safety in retreat.

Not only can crows and rooks assemble, hold council and agree to act on the result of their deliberations, but other birds are known to do the same things. Birds are able to communicate their thoughts to each other by means of a language, but it is not likely that in their language, or the language of animals in general, there are any principles of construction such as are possessed by all human languages. But the same effect may be produced by different means, and the reader will see that in the above instance no human language, however perfect its construction, could have served its purpose better than did the inarticulate language of the sparrows. They told their friends that their territory was usurped by an intruder too strong to be ejected by them, and implored their assistance. But while it told them this, it did still more, for it conveyed the report to their numerous foes, who winged their way to the support of their opponents. In fact, whenever animals of any kind form alliances and act simultaneously for one common purpose, it is evident that language of some sort must be employed.

That beasts possess a language, which enables them to communicate their ideas to each other, has been clearly shown. It is just as apparent that they can act upon the ideas so conveyed. We have now to see whether they can convey their ideas to man, and so bridge over the gulf between the higher and the lower beings. Were there no means of communicating ideas between man and animals, domestication, it is true, would be impossible. Every one who has possessed and cared for some favorite animal must have observed that they can do so. Their own language becomes in many instances intelligible to man. Just as a child, that is unable to pronounce words, can express its meaning by intimation, so a dog can do the same by its different modes of barking. There is the bark of joy or welcome, when the animal sees its master, or anticipates a walk with him; the furious bark of anger, if the dog suspects that anyone is likely to injure himself or his master, and the bark of terror when the dog is suddenly frightened at something which it cannot understand. Supposing, now, that its master could not see the dog, but could only hear its bark, would he not know perfectly well the ideas which were passing through the animal’s mind? Most certainly he would. There is a difference between the mew of distress and the ordinary conversation, the purr of pleasure, of a cat. A pet canary always knows how to call its mistress, and when it sees her will give a glad chirrup of recognition quite distinct from its ordinary call. Bees and wasps have quite a different sound in their wings when angry than when in the discharge of their ordinary work. Any one conversant with their ways understands the expression of anger and makes the best of his way off.

All the foregoing are but examples of sound-language. The gesture-language of animals, however, is wonderfully extensive and expressive. A cat, could it say in plain words, “Please open the door for me,” could not convey its ideas more intelligently than it does by going to the door, uttering a plaintive mew to show that it wants help, and then patting the door. Dogs, or, in fact, all animals that are accustomed to live in the house, will act after a similar fashion. There, then, we perceive that the lower animals can form connected ideas, and can convey them to man, so that the same ideas are passing at the same moment through the minds of man and beast, evidencing that they possess the same faculties, though of different extent.

Some few examples must suffice to show the power of gesture-language in the lower animals. I once owned a dog, a variety of hound, which was as companionable as any animal could possibly be. He was never happy unless he was on the go. So fond was he of travel and sight-seeing, that I gave him the name of Rover. My occupation calling me from home every day of the week, except Saturday and Sunday, but giving me a few hours of each day before the shadows began to settle round, Rover was forced to spend his time during my absence as best he could. He was no ordinary dog. Little he cared for the dogs of the neighborhood. His was a superior nature, and rather than associate with his neighbors when my companionship could not be had, he would perform his journeys alone, sometimes being gone nearly the entire day. But he managed to keep a pretty fair record of the time, for he was always on hand to greet me on my return home. His joy at my coming knew no bounds. He would rub up against my side, caper around me, assuming a hundred different attitudes, leap up into my face, which he would caress with his tongue. I shall never forget the barks of delight, nor the smile, as I would call it, for it verily seemed a smile to me, which lit up his intelligent face. Then he would slowly meander his way to the gate. Reaching it, he would place his right front paw upon the latch, spring it, and, taking hold of the top with his mouth, fling it wide open. He was then a very happy fellow. That he appreciated the favor I was about to show him, there could be no question, as he plainly showed it in his look, gesture and speech. Sometimes it was not convenient for me to take a walk with him, or I was not in the physical or mental condition to do so. It was not necessary for me to tell him in so many words that the pleasure would have to be foregone for the present, for his keen, discerning mind could read it in my looks. I never liked to disappoint him, for the grief which he manifested was piteous in the extreme. He would prostrate himself to the ground, place his head between his front paws, and look the very picture of inconsolable distress. The low, sorrowful moan which he would emit, when the disappointment was the keenest, was so heart-rending, that many a time I would reverse my purpose and say, “Come, Rover, master will not deny so good a creature the pleasure of his company for an hour or so in the woods.” Instantly his whole expression would change, and there would be exhibited a joy as intense as the grief which had depressed him to the earth. Rover was no hypocrite. His sorrow was not assumed, but as real and poignant a sorrow as ever possessed a human breast. I have known him to grieve for hours, and even to refuse the daintiest food when he has been disappointed. Were he dissembling, seeing that it availed him not, he would not be likely to have kept it up so long, and to his sore discomfort and detriment. Examples of animals making their language intelligible to man could be multiplied ad infinitum, but we must pass on to say something about their capability of understanding the language of man.

That many of the lower animals understand something of human language is a familiar fact. All the domesticated animals, notably the dog and the horse, can comprehend an order that is given to them, though, perhaps, they may not be able in all instances to understand the precise words which are used. There are many occasions, however, when it is evident that the knowledge of human language does extend to the signification of particular words. Parrots, as is well known, are well acquainted with the meanings of the words which they speak. Examples have been known to the writer of parrots that were able to speak in two languages, and, when addressed, always replied in the language used by their interlocutors, speaking English or Spanish, as the case might be. “Go, bring up the cows,” was an order that was daily given to Lion, a large black dog, with a shaggy head, that belonged to my maternal grandfather, an old-time farmer who lived way back in the fifties. So well did he understand the significance of these words, and the labor, worry and responsibility which they implied, that he did not have to be told a second time, nor have to have their import conveyed to him by sign or by action of the farm lad whose business it was to see that the animals were brought to the barn-yard at milking time. Obedient to orders, he would trot to the pasture-ground, nearly a quarter-mile distant, open the bars between the lane and the field with his mouth, and then start on his business with a full sense of its requirements. His coming was well known to the cattle. While the most of them would take their way in a quiet, orderly manner to the lane, yet there were some unruly ones among them who gave Lion a great deal of trouble, but he always succeeded in overruling their contrary tendencies. When there was a tumult in the hennery, accompanied by loud noises, the command, “Go, see what the trouble is!” was performed to the very letter, and the trouble, if any, was speedily announced by a series of loud, sharp, quick barks, which soon brought some one or more members of the family to the scene of disorder. If nothing unusual was happening, Lion would return to the house in a slow, leisurely way, and by his looks convey, as clearly as man could do it, the utter needlessness of the command.

Not only is the dog capable of understanding many things that are said to him, but is even capable of forestalling one’s wishes. Part of one of the writer’s vacations was spent in a small country town not very remote from Philadelphia. There was in the family with whom he boarded a dog called Prince. He was a very great favorite, and was once noted for his lively, vivacious disposition and jolly manners. But at the time of my introduction to him, he seemed to be suffering from some bodily affliction, which had not only taken away his appetite for food, but the very animus of his being. Upon inquiry I learned that the master of the house, to whom Prince was so deeply attached, had died the year before, and that the dog had taken his death so completely to heart that he had lost all of his former vivacity. He refused all food, often going for days without taking a single mouthful. Life seemed to have lost for him all its charms. Sad and dejected he would lie upon the porch-floor or ground, seemingly unconscious of everything and everybody. That he was slowly dying seemed evident to all. But a change from our first interview appeared to come over the animal. From some cause or other, he had taken quite a fancy to me. He would greet me with considerable friendliness when I would come down in the morning, and always seemed glad to be in my presence. My first business, on coming downstairs, was to go for the newspaper, which was always to be found inside the yard, some thirty steps from the house. I would then sit down upon the porch and read it, but Prince was always close-by, a willing spectator. One morning, however, instead of going to the gate for the paper as was my custom, I stood debating in my mind whether to go or not, when, to my utmost surprise, the dog, after watching me for a while, walked very soberly down to the gate, picked up the paper in his mouth, and brought it to me, not laying it down at my feet, but placing it in my hands. I thanked him for his kindness, gave him a few gentle pats upon the head, and he walked away as pleased as a child would have been who had received a few pennies for a similar service. The dog had evidently read in my looks the debate that was going on in my mind, and knowing that I always read the paper when I came down from my room, anticipated my wishes by bringing it to me.

There is in the two interesting stories just related a singular aggregation of faculties which are held in man to belong to the immortal, and not to the mortal part of his being. Reason, or the deduction of a conclusion from premises, is strikingly exhibited. Then there is the power of forming ideas and communicating them to man, and the capability of understanding man’s language, and even of anticipating the wishes of human friends. And lastly, there is the intense love for the master, combined with the power of self-sacrifice, which enabled Lion and Prince to act as they did, while instinct was urging them to take their exercise in the open air, or in the enjoyment of luxurious ease.

No faculty of the mind gives greater trouble to materialists than Memory. It is that which survives when every particle of the material brain has been repeatedly changed. It is that which more or less deeply receives impressions and retains them through a long series of years. And even when they are apparently forgotten, hidden as it were behind a temporary veil, a passing odor, a dimly-heard sound or a nodding flower may rend the veil asunder in the twinkling of an eye, and scenes long forgotten are reproduced before the memory as vividly as though time had been annihilated. Nothing is omitted. There comes up to view a minute and instantaneous insight into every detail, and for a moment we break loose from our fleshy tabernacle, and see and hear with our spiritual and not with our material eyes and ears. Man expects that he shall retain his memory and carry it into the next world. He also expects to recognize in the spiritual world those whom he has loved in this temporal sphere. Memory, therefore, must be spiritual and eternal; and wherever it can be found, there exists an immortal spirit. No stronger evidence, apart from Revelation, exists of a future life of man than memory. And if we apply this proof to ourselves, then, in pure justice, we should apply it wherever memory is found.

But some have claimed that memory is a mere emanation from the brain. That an inferior brain is coupled with an inferior intellect, and that if the brain be slightly or seriously injured, the powers of thought will be weakened or utterly held in abeyance, are arguments that have been made to prove that thought is the creation of the brain. The facts in themselves are true, but the conclusion is false. The brain is but the organ or instrument of the thought-power, and stands in the same relation to it that a tool does to a carpenter. However good an artisan a carpenter may be, it is but common-sense to say that he cannot turn out good work with a blunt instrument, or any work at all with a broken one. So it is with the brain. It is but the tool of the spirit, and, if it be damaged in any way, the keenest intellect will not be able to work with it. Memory, moreover, exists in creatures which are devoid of brain. No real brain, but only a succession of nervous ganglia running the entire length of the body, is found in insects, and indeed in many of them the faculty of memory is very strongly developed.

Then there is the moner, a mere speck of formless protoplasm, that has not the slightest trace of a specialized nervous system, yet it has the power of throwing out arms and of retracting them into the general body-mass, of opening out mouths where a particle of food strikes it, of digesting its food, and of circulating its fluid without the necessity of canals. But how are these movements effected? Certainly a nervous influence is the prime mover of all its actions. Nerve-matter, mayhap, constitutes its entire body-mass, or it may be all brain as well as all muscle. Though the lowest and simplest of all animal life, yet it possesses an innate consciousness and intelligence. Memory is not wanting as a faculty of the mind of this all-brain animal, which I have thought fit to characterize it, as some actions of it already described under the head of “Slime Animals” seem very clearly to indicate.

Some fifteen years ago I mentioned in an article, entitled “Insect Pets,” a pair of flies, the common Musca domestica of our houses, which had been closely observed by Mr. Forestel, the gentleman who at that time had charge of the distributing department of the Philadelphia Record. This position necessitates nocturnal employment. While taking his midnight lunch, Mr. Forestel’s attention was directed to a pair of these insects that had located themselves upon his plate. Had it been in the summer when flies were plentiful, the event would hardly have been noticed; but being in the winter, a season notable for their great scarcity, they could not but impress his mind with something out of the ordinary. Night after night these self-invited and curious guests presented themselves at the same place, and it was a long time before he observed the regularity of their visits. At first he was disposed to view the alighting of two flies upon his plate as a mere coincidence, but he at length became so deeply interested in the affair, that he resolved to watch their actions very closely. It was not long before he became convinced that they always waited for the commencement of the meal, when they would deliberately fly down for their regular lunch. So closely did he watch them, that he was soon able to discriminate between the two, and to discover beyond a doubt that it was not a series of two flies, but always the same pair. As time progressed, Mr. Forestel and the flies grew to be famous friends. They in time became so friendly, that they would permit themselves to be handled. Although at first they would only appear when Mr. Forestel was alone, yet they soon became accustomed to strangers. On the nights when their friend was not on duty, others have spread their lunches on the table used by him, but the flies were not slow in making the discovery, and, instead of alighting, would quickly hasten away without their accustomed meal. Who can deny the possession of memory to these two flies? Had the discovery of the food been an accidental occurrence the first time, could it have been so the second and all the succeeding times? Then, again, the flies always came at the right time, showing that they had some idea of the passing moments. Even admitting that this latter thought is out of the range of probability, there can be no doubt that they were not observant creatures, else how would they know when to come, or whether or not the man that sat at the table was the same that had shown them so much kindness on their previous visits. That they did know these things, there cannot be the slightest doubt. But how did they know them? There is only one answer to the query. They knew them through the exercise of memory, these creatures impressing on their minds the appearance of the objects near the table, the form and color of the table itself, the look, manner and dress of the man who sat by it, and acting on the result of these impressions. Human beings act in just the same way in traversing for the first time a locality through which they will have to return. And yet, as has already been stated, these insects have no true brains.

Considerably removed from insects are the vermes, or worms. Man, in his overweening opinion of self, would hardly credit the earth-worm with the possession of any mental qualities; yet it has been shown that it can reason, and can communicate after its fashion with its fellows. It is now my intention to prove that it has the power of memory. Has the reader ever seen an earth-worm trying to carry into its burrow a pair of pine-needles joined at their bases? It knows just where to seize the pair. This it determines by feeling, or moving its head along the needles, the sense of touch being very acute in this portion of its body. Hardly ever is a mistake made by seizing the free or apical extremities. Once it has discovered where to act, this position is fixed in memory, and the animal exercises the latter power in dealing with objects of the kind in all subsequent operations.

Almost any living being can by means of the faculty of memory be taught by man. But were it absent, no teaching would be of the slightest avail. In most cases where an animal is ferocious, I firmly believe that fear, and not ill-temper, is the real cause of its conduct. Let a little kindness be shown, and the animal will never forget it. Such acts, repeatedly performed, assure it that your intentions are well-meant, and it soon learns to recognize in you a friend. The memory of your goodness will often be recollected after long years of separation, and the most joyous feelings be manifested at the sight of your presence upon returning home. Everyone who has had personal experience of domesticated animals must have remarked the great strength and endurance of their powers of memory. The dog, the cat, the horse and the ass afford so many familiar anecdotes in point, that I shall be obliged to pass them over and restrict my illustrations to a few animals about which little has been said.

For obstinacy of opinion no animal can excel the pig. He is a creature whom few, on account of his uncleanly person and disgusting habits, would care to caress. Yet there is no animal under man’s care that enjoys such treatment better than he does. He will stand for hours while you rub his head and back, the very impersonation of contentment, never failing to express his thanks and appreciation by occasional monosyllabic grunts. A friend of ours, living in Northern Indiana, had a fine fellow, whom he had raised from infancy. When he was quite young, he began to show him considerable attention, picking him up in his arms, and fondling him in the most affectionate manner. The choicest food was always reserved for him, and the cosiest bed of straw provided for his nightly rest. In process of time the animal grew to great size, but he never forgot these early attentions. He expected them all the same. When denied what he deemed were his lawful rights, he would set up an unearthly squealing, enough to split the ears of the groundlings, and refuse to be comforted until his demands were satisfied. Never was the master, when out of the house, safe from his intrusions. He would besiege him in the presence of company, command his attention, and cry in his own peculiar fashion if he thought himself ignored. Many a rough-and-tumble game, which reminded me of boys in my childhood days, would they have together, and it was really amusing to see them. They enjoyed these tussles, which were always of the most friendly character.

Stupid as the life of a cow may seem to be, yet there has been known to the writer some cows which were far from being dull and prosaic. Our same Hoosier friend had such an animal, whom he called Daisy. She was very docile and affectionate, and would come, even when grazing in the most delightful pasture of clover, whenever her name happened to be mentioned. Daisy was a pretty creature, and very exemplary in her conduct. When her companions would break into a field of corn, where they had no right to be, she would not follow their wicked example, but remained where her master had placed her and the rest of the herd, showing them, as it were, that she did not approve of such wilful waywardness. No member of the bovine family of animals ever showed a greater fondness for love than Daisy. The master could put his arms around her neck, and lay his face against the side of her own. That she approved of such familiarity was evident, for she would show that she did by placing her lips against his in true lover-like fashion. But there came a time when this attachment to the master became dissolved. On account of the bad behavior of the herd in general, and to make it a law-abiding community, it was resolved that each member should have its horns sawn off close up to the skull. This, it was thought, would improve the temper of the herd, and make it less troublesome to manage. No fear was entertained, however, for Daisy, who was already as good as she could be, but Daisy must undergo the same cruel punishment for the sake of uniformity in this particular in the herd. It had, however, the opposite effect upon Daisy from what it had upon the rest of the herd, for it made her sullen and morose, and from that time she resented all familiarity upon the part of the master. She seemed to view him as her worst enemy. All attempts to settle her grievances were viewed in a suspicious manner, and the matter of reconciliation had at length to be abandoned.

Beasts, there is no doubt, were intended to be the servants of man, and there is nothing in his hands half so powerful in the accomplishment of this end as thoughtful kindness. Inflexible decision, combined with gentleness and sympathy, are irresistible weapons in his power, and no animal exists, I firmly believe, which cannot be subdued if the right man undertakes the task. By this mixture of firmness and kindness many a wild beast of a horse has been in a half-hour rendered gentle and subservient by Rarey, obeying the least sign of his conqueror, and permitting himself to be freely handled without displaying the slightest resentment.

That there is something more in memory than a mere production of a material brain must seem probable from the examples given. In several cases the animals were without any brains at all, but in others, where a brain did exist, its material particles must have been repeatedly changed, while the ideas impressed upon the memory still remained in full force.

Perhaps no attribute of the mind is better fitted to follow that which has just been treated than Generosity. But whether we accept it in the sense of liberality or magnanimity, it is certainly a very lofty quality, and one which infinitely ennobles the character of those who possess it. Taken in the former sense, it is an attribute of Deity, who gives us freely all that we have, and so sets us an example of generosity to our fellow-creatures. Now, if it be admitted that the possession of generosity ennobles man’s character, while the lack of that quality debases it, then the inference is undeniable that when we find a beast possessing generosity, and a man devoid of it, the beast is in that particular the superior of the man. And that generosity, being a divine attribute, belongs to the spirit and not to the body, no believer in Christianity is likely to deny. Therefore, wherever we find this characteristic developed, we must admit the presence of an immortal spirit.

That the lower animals do possess generosity in the sense of Liberality will now be proved from circumstances that have occurred within my own observation. My first proof is a very interesting one, and is drawn from the life of a dog that was the companion of my school-boy days. Sport was the name of the animal. He was not a greedy, selfish creature, but a generous, noble fellow. Many an act of self-sacrifice had he been known to perform, and he was never happier than when he was doing some good to his fellows. It was not unlike him, when he would meet a poor, strange and hungry animal of his own kind by the roadway, to bring him to his master’s house, and at the meal-hour divide with the unfortunate his noon-day allowance. Between him and a certain cat, called Blackey, which was also a member of the same household, there existed a very strong friendship. Any injury done the cat was most summarily resented by Sport. He would share his meals with her, and never seemed satisfied unless she would consent to take the choicest bits. But the generosity was not all on his side, for the cat certainly rivalled him in the exercise of this noble trait, which all acknowledge to be one of the noblest characteristics of the human mind. When Blackey was sick, and unable to be around, much of the time of the dog would be spent in her presence. He would caress her with his paw, smooth her silken, jet-black fur with his tongue, and seek by every means in his power to raise her drooping spirits and alleviate her miseries. No animal, not even man himself, could show more real sympathy for a fellow in distress than Sport did for Blackey.

No bird, it would seem, could be expected to manifest so little of generosity as the sparrow. As a rule, sparrows are remarkable for their ability to take care of themselves. Theirs is a nature which is based upon self. They are an avaricious species, and little they reck for their neighbors. As the eagle is known to treat the osprey, and the skua-gull its weaker brethren, so the sparrow has been known to act towards its neighbors. But exceptions exist to every rule, and we are pleased to record an honorable one in the case of this most detested species. Close by a maple-tree, which a pair of sparrows had appropriated and made the support for their home, dwelt a sturdy robin with his mate. Their home, a mud-lined domicile, was placed in the crotch of a small tree. Three children appeared in process of time to bless the happy couple. Everything went along smoothly and pleasantly with the robins, the sparrows being too much engrossed with their own affairs to think of giving them any trouble. But a tragedy soon happened which, sad to relate, foreboded evil and consequent death to the nest-full of young robins. Father and mother had, while searching for food for the little ones, been cruelly killed by a conscienceless sportsman. But the fledglings, which seemed doomed to die the death of starvation, were spared by some good genius who put it into the heart of the sparrows to pass that way, and thus was their sad and pitiable condition brought to the light of day. Their heart-rending appeals for food, combined with their orphaned situation, struck a sympathetic chord in the breast of the sparrows, and day after day these birds, whose chief concern naturally seems for self, might be seen acting the part of the good Samaritan towards these unfortunate of God’s children.

But let us now pass to that form of generosity which has been called Magnanimity. Few qualities in human nature are more noble than the capability of foregoing revenge when the offender is powerless to resist. This unwillingness to resent an injury, even though the power to do so is present in the individual, is what is implied by magnanimity. When we find those beings whom we designate brutes rising to a moral grandeur which few men can attain, disdaining to avail themselves of the opportunity of vengeance, and even rewarding evil with good, it does seem an utter absurdity to affirm that they are not acting under the inspiration of Him who gave us the celestial maxim, “Love your enemies.” By their actions they show themselves worthy of everlasting life, and what they deserve they will assuredly receive at the hands of Him who is Justice and Truth. Consciously, or unconsciously, the feeling of magnanimity is acknowledged among mankind. Even in the lowest stratum of society it is recognized. As with man, so with the lower animals; and there are many instances on record where the strong have disdained, no matter what the offence had been, to make reprisals upon the weak.

Bus and Jack are two dogs whose acquaintance I made three years ago. The one is a beagle, and the other a pug. No one that has seen these animals in their frolics and plays, would ever suspect that any differences could arise between them. But when such disagreements do occur, and there is hardly a day that does not witness a dozen or more, it is always Bus that is the instigator. The most trifling act upon the part of Jack will be made the cause of offence, and an excuse for the precipitation of a quarrel. In a rage, Bus will fly into the face of Jack, but the latter will coolly shake him off and walk leisurely away. No provocation will induce him to resent an insult or an injury, especially where Pug or a dog smaller than himself is concerned. It is not that he is afraid of Pug, for, when once aroused in the presence of equal or even superior strength, he becomes a terror. He is too magnanimous to avenge a wrong done him by one less powerful than himself. The look which he would give Pug, after one of these attacks had been made, was one of pure contempt, and said, as plainly as words could have said, “Your assaults are mere child’s play, and are unworthy of recognition by one who is so much your superior in feats of valor.” That Pug felt the meaning and force of the look was apparent, for he would always slink away abashed to some corner, where he would remain for an hour or two without showing himself. Over and over again has Jack allowed little dogs to bite him without troubling himself to retaliate; but if a big dog ventured upon an insult, that dog had to run or pay the penalty for his temerity. No dog could give a more disdainful look than Jack, and that look always gave him an easy and uninterrupted passage wherever he chose to go.

Other anecdotes of a similar nature might be given to show that animals can act magnanimously towards each other. That they are as capable of displaying the magnanimity of their nature towards men whom they hated has frequently been observed. The manager of a mill in Fifeshire, Scotland, was, according to Rev. J. G. Wood, very much disliked by the watch-dog, probably from some harsh treatment which the animal had received from his hands. One very dark night the manager had strayed from his path and fell over the dog. Seeing the mistake he had made, and finding that he could not recover himself, he gave himself up as lost, for the dog was a very powerful animal. But the dog was magnanimous enough to spare a helpless enemy, and to lay aside old grievances. Instead of seizing the prostrate man by the throat, as a brute would be expected to do, the dog only licked his face and exhibited his sympathy. Ever afterward the man and the dog were fast friends.

Just as there are animals capable of exercising great self-denial by giving to others what belongs to themselves, and even manifesting a generosity which would put human nature to the blush, so there are animals which can cheat like accomplished swindlers. As all Cheatery requires the use of the intellect, it is therefore evident that the most intellectual animals will be the most accomplished cheats. Dogs have shown themselves to be considerable adepts in cheating, and this we would naturally expect. Some curious and rather ludicrous instances of cheatery upon the part of the dog are noticed. We once knew a pair of dogs, a spaniel and a pug, that were inmates of the same house. They were very jealous of each other so far as the master was concerned, and neither could endure to see the other caressed. It happened that the spaniel was taken quite ill, and was in consequence very much cared for and petted. His companion, seeing the attention and sympathy that were bestowed upon him, pretended to be sick herself, and, going to a corner of the room, lay down upon the floor and looked the very picture of misery and distress. A cat and a dog, that for many years were members of the writer’s family, had taken a fancy to the same spot, a soft cushion at the head of a sofa. While they were the best of friends, yet a difference of opinion would occasionally arise, and a slight loss of temper would be the result. When the cat would be in the possession of the cushion, the dog would torment her in every possible way with the view of causing her to abandon the pet spot. He would pull at the cushion, seeking to drag it to the floor, or, seizing the occupant by the ear or tail, endeavor to dislodge her by force. But the cat, seemingly unmindful of what was going on, and the very impersonation of patience all the while, would refuse to give up so comfortable a couch. At last the dog hit upon a ruse which he knew would bring the cat down from the sofa. He rushed out into the kitchen, and began acting as though in pursuit of a mouse. He and puss had often engaged in such diverting business. This was more than the latter could stand. She was down from her cozy bed in an instant, and was soon by the side of the dog. But as soon as puss, all ablaze with excitement, had her head in a corner and was straining her eyes to get a glimpse of the supposed mouse, the dog ran to the sofa at full speed, jumped on the cushion, curled himself round, and was happy. Poor puss, perceiving that the dog had left her, was not slow to discern that she had been imposed upon by the latter, and that it was only a trick that had been played upon her by her shrewd companion, that he might get possession of the soft spot upon the sofa. She, however, bore it good-naturedly and decorously, and was ever afterward on the alert for these little tricks of her canine friend.

Birds can be as capable of cheating, not only each other, but other animals. A crow, belonging to John Smedley, a resident of Lima, Pa., was an adept in the business. When dinner was preparing, he would fly around the corner of the house, set up a terrific cawing as though in great distress, and when the mistress of the house, with whom he was a great favorite, would come out on a tour of investigation, the rascally bird would elude her and manage to steal round to the table in the opposite direction and seize what food suited him the best, which he would carry to the top of the house, where he would eat it at his leisure. No persuasions would induce him to come down, for he knew that such action was a breach of the peace, and he was fearful of the punishment, that of confinement to a cage, which would follow. When, however, he felt assured that his mistress had forgiven the wrong-doing, he would fly down to the porch, and do his utmost to convince her that he was a well-meaning bird, and that he was thoroughly ashamed of his actions. But there was one member of the family that utterly detested the bird. It was the dog Rover. Many a trick had the bird practised upon the latter, especially at meal time. Poor Rover was not allowed to eat in peace. When he would be wholly absorbed in his dinner, the crow would approach him in the rear, give him a severe twirl of the tail, and then in a twinkling fly to one side, looking the very picture of innocence. But ere the dog had recovered his self-possession and was ready to resume his feeding again, the bird had captured the daintiest morsel, and was off to the tree-top. Discomfited and outwitted, the dog would rush to the base of the tree, bark his growls of anger and defiance, while the crow would look quizzically down from above, and chuckle with delight.

Many of my readers may, perhaps, remember the story of the two dogs that used to hunt the hare in concert, the one starting the hare and driving it toward the spot where his accomplice lay concealed. I recall an instance where a somewhat similar arrangement was made, only the two contracting parties, instead of being two dogs, were a dog and a hawk, the latter making use of his wings in driving the prey out of the copse into the open ground. Innumerous examples of such alliances are known, and in all of them there is manifest the curious fact that two animals can arrange a mode of cheating a third. One of the principal stratagems used in war, that is the ambuscade, whereby the enemy is induced to believe that danger is imminent in one direction, when it really lies in the opposite and unsuspecting direction, is employed. No one would admit that a general who contrived to draw the enemy into an ambuscade acted by instinct. The act would be construed as proof of the possession of reasoning powers surpassing those of the adversary. And if this be the case with the man, why not with the dog, or with the raven or hawk, when the deception is carried out by precisely the same line of reasoning?

Beasts possess, in common with man, the sense of Humor. This is developed in many ways. Generally it assumes the phase of teasing or annoying others, and thus deriving pleasure or amusement from their discomfort. Sometimes, both with man and beast, it takes the form of bodily torture, the struggles of the victim being highly amusing to the torturer. Civilized man has now learned to regard the infliction of pain upon a fellow as anything but an amusement, and would rather suffer the agony than inflict it upon another. But with the savage it is otherwise, for there is no entertainment so fascinating as the infliction of bodily pain upon a human being. Among our Indian tribes, torture is a solemn usage of war, which every warrior expects for himself if captured, and which he is certain to inflict upon any prisoner whom he may happen to take. The tortures which he inflicts are absolutely fiendish, and yet a whole tribe will assemble around the stake, and gloat upon the agonies which are being borne by a fellow-creature. Similarly the African savage inflicts the most excruciating sufferings upon the man or woman accused of witchcraft, employing means too horrible to be mentioned. But in all these cases the cruelty seems to be in a great measure owing to obtuseness of perception. Yet the savage who binds his victim to a stake, and perforates the sensitive parts of his body with burning pine-splinters, behaves very much like a child who amuses itself by catching flies, pulling off their wings and legs, and watching their unavailing efforts to escape.

Many years ago cockchafers were publicly sold in Paris for children to torture to death. The amusement consisted in running a hooked pin through the insect’s tail, fastening a thread thereto, and watching the poor creature spin in the air. After the poor beetle was too enfeebled to expand its wings, it was slowly dismembered, the child being greatly amused at its endeavors to crawl, as leg after leg was pulled from the body. A similar custom, though in a more cruel form, prevails in Italy, the creatures which are tortured by way of sport being more capable of feeling pain than are insects. Birds are employed in this country for the amusement of children. A string is tied to the leg of the bird, and the unfortunate creature, after its powers of flight are exhausted, is generally plucked alive and dismembered. The idea of cruelty does not seem to enter at all in these practices, but they are done from the sheer incapacity of understanding that a bird or a beast can be a fellow-creature. Italians are notorious for their cruel treatment of animals, and if remonstrated with become very much astonished and reply, “Non è Cristiano,” that is to say, “It is not a Christian.” Englishmen have little to boast of on this score. Bear-baiting was abolished by the Puritans, not because it gave pain to the bear, but because it gave pleasure to the spectators. Even at the present day, both in England and in this country, there is a latent hankering after similar scenes, and dog-fighting, rat-killing and cock-fighting, even though they are now contrary to law, are still practised in secret. Similarly the sense of humor is developed in the lower animals by causing pain or annoyance to some other creature, and the animal acts in precisely the same manner as a savage or a child.

Sparrows, as might be expected from their character, will gratify their feelings of aversion by banding together for the purpose of mobbing some creature to which they have an objection. In Hardwicke’s Science Gossip for December, 1872, there is a short account of a number of sparrows mobbing a cat. Evidently the cat had intended making a meal on one of the birds, but was greatly mistaken, for the sparrows dashed upon him so fiercely, that he soon turned tail and ran into the house, one of the sparrows actually pursuing him into the house. The poor cat ran up-stairs, and was found crouching in terror under one of the beds. This happened in London, where the sparrows are less numerous now than they used to be.

No bird of my knowledge possesses a larger amount of humor than the crow. I have known him to feign an attack upon a distant part of a field of newly-sprouted corn, which was being guarded by a farmer with his gun. When the latter would be drawn to that part of the field where the attack was to be made, the sagacious bird would manage to outwit him, slip around to the other side, drop down into the field and obtain a few tender sprouts before the farmer hardly knew what was going on. But he was always up and away at the opportune moment, and, perched upon a fence-rail, beyond the range of the gun, would enjoy one of his rollicking cawing laughs at the farmer’s expense. Crows that are tame have the sense of humor more keenly developed than their wild brethren of the fields and the woods. I once knew a tame crow that took great pleasure in annoying a dog that lived in the same family. Carlo, as the dog was called, was never so contented as when allowed to sleep the hours of the morning away, after a night’s carousal, in a quiet, sunny spot in the backyard. When the dog had become fast wrapped in the arms of the god of slumber, the crow would steal to his side, give his ear a sharp pull, and when the dog would awake and look around the crow would be busy in gleaning, the most unconcerned creature in the whole yard. Again and again would she annoy the poor animal, and always with the same evident sense of delight, which I could always read in the mischievous twinkle that lurked in her eyes, till the dog, bewildered and unable to account for such mysterious actions, would silently skulk away to other parts, where he hoped to be free from all intrusion. Even the mistress of the house was not exempt from her annoyance. She would carry off everything she could lay hold of, and always hid them away in one place, that is, in a large crevice on the top of the house between the peak of the roof and the chimney. One day the mistress’s spectacles disappeared. Search was instituted everywhere, but without effect. None knew better than the bird what the trouble was. While the search was going on, she busied herself in looking around, and seemed as desirous of finding the missing glasses as any member of the household. The look which the bird gave showed that she enjoyed the situation of affairs immensely, and considered it a fine joke that she had played upon her mistress. After a few days the lost spectacles were restored to their accustomed place, but no one ever positively knew how they came thither.

Domestic birds, as a rule, are remarkable for the generosity which the master-bird shows to his inferiors. He will scratch the ground, unearth some food, and then, instead of eating it himself, will call some of his favorites, and give them the delicacy for which he labored. But I have met with a few cases where the cock scratched as usual, called his wives, and, when they had gathered round him, ate the morsel himself. It was but a practical joke that he had perpetrated upon them, and that they felt it as such their looks only too strongly testified. There was a relish of delight in it for the cock, for the cackle, which he immediately gave, assured me of this fact as much as the laugh of a man could have done who had played such a joke upon one of his fellows.

Parrots are much given to practical joking, after the ways of mankind. A parrot, belonging to an aunt, had a bad habit of whistling for a dog, and then enjoying the animal’s bewilderment and discomfiture. She would call the cat, as her mistress was accustomed to do, and when puss would come, expecting some dainty article of food, she would call out in her severest tone, “Be off, you hussy!” and the cat would make all possible speed for a place of security, greatly to the amusement of the parrot from her perch in the cage. There have been known parrots that would play practical jokes upon human beings, but dogs and cats seem to be the principal victims of the parrot’s sense of humor.

Animals not only show their playfulness in such tricks as have been mentioned, but many of them are able to appreciate and take part in the games played by children. When I was a boy I knew a dog, a species of greyhound, which was an accomplished player at the well-known game called tag, or touch. Quite as much enthusiasm was displayed by the animal as by any of the human players. He would dart away from the boy who happened to be “touch” with an anxiety that almost appeared terror. It was an impossibility to touch the clever canine player; but he was a generous creature, with a strong sense of justice, and so, when he thought that his turn ought to come, he would stand still and wait quietly to be touched. His manner of touching his play-fellows was always by grasping the end of their trousers with his teeth, and as it was impossible for the boy to stop when so seized in full course, the dog was often jerked along the ground for some little distance.

Hide-and-seek is a game which is often learned and enjoyed by many animals. I have often been an interested spectator of the play in which two dogs were the participants. It was as exciting as such a diversion could possibly be between two children. For an hour at a time I have watched the fun, and the players seemed not to abate the least jot or tittle from their ardor and enthusiasm. They were apparently as fresh then as at the beginning. In due time the game ceased as if by mutual consent, but the animals did not seek some cool, quiet spot for comfort and rest, but started off to the woods for some further diversion, from which their voices were soon heard, telling that they were in pursuit of a rabbit or the ignoble ground-hog.

We have far from exhausted the list of examples at hand to show that the lower animals possess a sense of humor. But what use, it may be asked, can the capacity of humor subserve in the next world? Much the same, I presume, that it subserves in this. There are some in this world in whom the sense of humor is absolutely wanting. Estimable as they may be in character, they are just solemn prigs, and I should be very sorry to resemble them in the world, whither, it is hoped, all life tendeth.

Pride, Jealousy, Anger, Revenge and Tyranny, while not very pleasing characteristics, belong, as such, to the immaterial, and not to the material, part of man. That the lower animals possess these qualities will be seen from what follows. Hence the inference to be drawn from that fact must be quite obvious.

Taking these characteristics in order, Pride, or Self-esteem, is developed as fully in many animals as in the proudest of the human race. Most conspicuously is this shown in animals which herd together. There is always one leader at the head, who will not permit any movement to be made without his order, and who resents the least interference with his authority. This is particularly the case with the deer, the horse and the ox. Even when these animals are domesticated, and the habits of their feral life have materially changed, the feeling of pride exists to the fullest extent.

Whoever has carefully watched and studied the inhabitants of a farm-yard cannot fail to have observed that the cows have their laws of precedence and etiquette as clearly defined as those of any European Court. Every cow knows her own place and keeps it. She will never condescend to take a lower, nor would she be allowed to assume a higher. A new-comer in a farm-yard has about as much chance of approaching the rack at feeding-time as a new boy at school has of getting near the fire on a cold winter day. But as the young calf increases in growth, and is nearing maturity, she is allowed to mingle with her companions on tolerably equal terms. Should, however, a younger animal than herself be admitted, it is amusing to see with what gratification she bullies the new-comer, and how much higher she ranks in her own estimation when she finds she is no longer the junior.

But should the fates be propitious, and she should arrive at the dignity of being senior cow, she never fails to assert that dignity on every occasion. When the cattle are taken out of the yard to their pasture in the morning, and when they are returned to it in the evening, she will not allow any except herself to take the lead. An instance is recorded where the man in charge of a herd of cows would not permit the “ganger,” as the head cow is often called, to go out first. The result was that she refused to go out at all. Therefore, to get her to go out of the yard, the man had to drive all the other cows back again, so that she might take her proper place at the head of the herd.

Few people know much about the real disposition of the mule. Judging from popular ideas respecting the animal, one would think that it had no pride in its composition. It is in reality a very proud animal, and fond of good society. One of his most striking characteristics is his aversion to the ass, and the pride which he takes in his relation to the horse. An ass would be hardly safe in a drove of mules, for he would, in all probability, be kicked and lamed by his proud relatives; whereas a horse, on the contrary, takes a distinguished position, the mules not only crowding around him and following his movements, but exhibiting a violent jealousy, each striving to get the nearest to their distinguished relative.