We have seen the pride of rank and love of precedence in cows, and the pride of ancestry in mules. There is, however, a pride that takes the form of sensitiveness to ridicule. Nothing is so galling to a proud man as to find himself the object of ridicule. The same trait of character is to be found in many animals, and especially in those that have been domesticated, for it is in these that we have the most opportunities for observation. All high-bred dogs are exceedingly sensitive to ridicule. We knew of a cat that was quite conscious if spoken of in a disparaging manner, and testified his disapprobation by arching his tail, holding himself very stiff indeed, and marching slowly out of the room.

There is, however, another form of pride which is often to be seen among the lower animals, but more especially among birds notable for gaudy or abundant plumage. This is the pride which manifests itself in personal appearance. Vanity is the name which is currently applied to this form of pride. Those who have observed a peacock in all the glory of his starry train will recognize the intense pride he feels at his own splendor. This display of his magnificent train is not for the purpose of attracting the homage of his plainly-attired mates solely, but seems to be intended to evoke the admiration of human beings as well. Not even the homage of birds, whom he regards his inferiors, is to be despised.

We have seen him, with his train fully spread, displaying his grandeur around a dozen or more barn-yard fowls, and apparently as satisfied with the effect he produced, as he stalked majestically among them, as if he had been surrounded by his own kith and kin. Then there is the turkey. No movements are more grotesque than his. See him as he struts about in his nuptial plumage, and yet no bird, notwithstanding the ludicrousness of his behavior, surveys himself with greater complacency. The whidah-bird, or widow-bird, as it is often called, exhibits this trait of character in its highest development. He is wonderfully proud of his beautiful tail, and, as long as he wears it, loses no opportunity of displaying it to every person who visits his cage. But when the moulting season has arrived, and he has taken on the plain, tailless attire of his mate, a change as great has come over his manner, and, instead of exhibiting himself in all his pride and glory, he mopes listlessly and stupidly about, and seemingly ashamed of his mean condition. In all these instances the character of pride in personal appearance is as strongly developed as it is possible for it to be in any human being.

That peculiar uneasiness, which arises from the fear that a rival will dispossess us of the affection of one whom we love, or the suspicion that he has already done so, is termed jealousy. There are two forms of this passion, one connected with the love of some other being, and the other dependent on the love of self. But it is the former, whose definition begins the present paragraph, with which we shall exclusively deal. It is evident from the meaning of jealousy, as given above, that the power of reasoning is implied, and that any creature by which it is manifested must be able to deduce a conclusion from premises. No matter if the conclusion drawn by the animal be wrong, the process, however incorrect it may be, is, it cannot be denied, still one of reasoning. All who have possessed pet animals must be familiar with the exceeding jealousy displayed by most of them. Most strongly is this feeling manifested when an animal has been the only pet and another is introduced into the house. Where there are two or more dogs in the same family, one is often amused at the boundless jealousy displayed toward each other while engaged in the service of the master, although at other times they were on the most excellent terms. Bus is the name of a favorite dog belonging to a friend. No more affectionate dog ever lived. Beagle was his companion. When they were by themselves, life was a round of frolics and rambles. No matter how rough and exciting their plays were, they never got cross, but endured everything with patience and forgiveness of spirit. Beagle was a clever animal, and very fond of the chase. Many a ground-hog would he dislodge from its burrow and fight to the death, while Bus would look on with wonder and admiration. But let the slightest attention be shown by the master to Beagle, and Bus’s jealousy and anger became unbounded. He would fly at his friend in the most infuriated manner, rending him with tooth and claw, while Beagle would quietly slip around the corner of the house to get out of the reach of his companion’s temper. Beagle, being a large and powerful dog, had in him the ability to give Bus a very sound whipping, but he was too noble and magnanimous a creature to take advantage of one younger and smaller than himself. He would always allow Bus to have his own way, knowing that the passion which was lacerating the bosom of his young companion and playmate would soon spend itself, and the latter, ashamed and abashed, would be soon seeking forgiveness and reconciliation.

Even in such rarely tamed animals as the common mouse the feeling of jealousy has been known to be so intense as to lead to murder. A young lady, one of Rev. J. G. Wood’s correspondents, had succeeded in taming a common brown mouse so completely that it would eat out of her hand and suffer itself to be taken off the floor. She had also a tame white mouse in a cage. One morning when she went to feed the white mouse, as was her usual custom, she found it lying dead on the bottom of the cage, and beside it was its murderer, the brown mouse. The cage being opened, the latter made its escape, as though fearful of the consequences that might ensue, but how it had managed to gain admission was always a mystery.

Instances are on record where the jealousy of a rival has been restrained for long years through fear, and has ultimately broken out when the cause of the fear has been removed. A case of the kind came under our notice some few years ago. There were two cocks, belonging to different breeds, whom fate had placed as denizens of the same family. One was a magnificent dunghill cock, and the other a Malay, a cowardly caitiff, that was kept in fear and subjection by the former. In the course of events the dunghill cock suddenly died. His rival, coming by chance on his dead body, and perceiving that the time had come to wreak out the mixture of hatred and revenge that had lain smouldering in his bosom for years, instantly sprang upon it, kicked, spurred and trampled upon the lifeless bird, and, standing upon the corpse, flapped his wings in triumph, as it were, and crowed himself hoarse with the most disgusting energy. He immediately took possession of the harem, but he was far from being the noble, generous and unselfish creature that his predecessor had been. Again, comparing man with beast, it is at once apparent that the bird in this instance acted exactly as a savage does when his enemy has fallen, for the savage not only exults over the dead body of an enemy, especially if the latter has been very formidable in life, but also mutilates in futile and silly revenge the form which he feared when alive.

Tyranny, or the oppression of the weak by the strong, is another of the many traits of character common to man and the lower animals. But whether or not that strength belongs to the body or the mind, it is tyranny all the same. Taken in its most obvious form, it not only manifests itself in many of the animals in the oppression of the weak by the strong, but also in the killing and the eating of the same, even though they be of the same species. Human cannibals act in just the same manner, eating their enemies after they have killed them. There is hardly an animal in which the milder forms of tyranny may not be found. Insects, especially, manifest it in a light manner when they drive away their fellows from some morsel of food which they desire to keep to themselves. Among gregarious animals, the herd or flock is always under the command of an individual who has fought his way to the front, and who will rule with imperious sway until he has become old and in turn has been supplanted by a younger and more vigorous rival. In the poultry-yards the same form of tyranny is manifest, one cock invariably assuming the leadership, no matter how many may be the number of birds.

There is a curious analogy between these birds and human beings, especially those of the East, whether at the present day or in more ancient times. Many petty chieftains are found in Eastern countries, but there is always to be met with one among them who is more mighty than the rest, and who holds his place by superior force, either of intellect or military power. Challenged by one of the inferior chiefs and victorious, he retains his post, but if vanquished, his conqueror takes his place, his property and his wives. But curious to relate, with men as with birds, the members of the harem seem to trouble themselves very little, if any, about the change of master. The Scriptures are full of allusions to the invariable custom that the conqueror takes the possession of the harem belonging to the vanquished. David did so with regard to the women of Saul’s household, and when Nabal died, who had defied the authority of David, so the latter, as a matter of course, took possession of his wife, together with the rest of his property. And when Absalom rebelled against David, he publicly took possession of his father’s harem, which was a sign that he had assumed the kingdom.

Where a number of creatures are confined in the same place, a very curious sort of tyranny is sometimes manifested. Mandarin ducks, according to Mr. Bennett, when confined to an aviary, show a very querulous disposition at feeding-time. The males of one and the same kind of a different species endeavor to grasp all the nourishment for themselves, unmindful of the wants of others, and will not even permit their companions to perform their ablutions without molestation, although they may themselves have completed what they required. Often the mandarin ducks have been observed to excite the drakes to assail other males or females of the same species, and other kinds of birds in the aviary, against whom the ladies, from some cause or other, have taken a dislike. One pair of these ducks are always to be noticed that exercise a tyranny over the others, not allowing them to wash, eat or drink, unless at their pleasure and approval.

But, of all tyrants, none can be compared to a spoiled dog, who is even worse than a spoiled child. Obedience is a stranger to his nature. Does his master want him to go out for a walk, and he prefers to stay at home, he stays at home, and his master is compelled to go out without him. But if he wants to go for a walk, he makes his master go with him, and even to take the direction he prefers. Duchie is the name of a Skye terrier whose history is given in a work on the latter breed of dogs by Dr. J. Brown. So completely had this little animal domineered over her mistress, that the latter could not even choose her own dinner, but was obliged to have whatever the dog preferred. It is related that for a half of a winter’s night she was kept out of bed, because Duchie had got into the middle and refused to move. Certainly, no better example of tyranny could be adduced.

That so-called brutes possess, in common with ourselves, a Conscience, that is, a sense of Moral Responsibility, and a capability of distinguishing between right and wrong, may seem a very strange assertion to be made, especially to those who have never studied the ways of the lower animals. Animals which are placed under the rule of man, and those, like the dog, which belong to his household and are made his companions more particularly, would naturally be expected to show the strongest development of the principle. Conscience, in their dealings with man, constitutes their religion, and they often exercise it in a way which would put many a human being to the blush. This feeling it is that induces the dog to make himself the guardian of his master’s property, and often to defend that property at the risk of his life. However hungry may be the dog that is placed in charge of his master’s dinner, nothing would, as a rule, tempt him to touch a morsel of the food, for he would rather die of starvation than eat the food which belongs to his master. Often have we seen field-laborers at work at one end of a large field, while their coats and their dinner were at the other end, guarded by a dog. Not the least uneasiness did they seem to manifest about the safety of their property, for well they knew that the faithful animal would never allow any one to touch either the clothes or the provisions.

There could hardly be a stronger instance of moral responsibility than the one which I shall now relate, which is substantially the same as appears in Wood’s “Man and Beasts Here and Hereafter.” Living in an unprotected part of Scotland was a poor woman, who unexpectedly became possessed of a large sum of money. She would have taken it to the bank, could she have left the house, but lack of bodily health prevented her from so doing. At last she asked the advice of a butcher of her acquaintance, telling him that she was afraid to live in the house with so much money about her. “Never fear,” said the butcher, “I will leave my dog with you, and I’ll warrant you that no one will dare to enter your house.” Towards the close of the day the dog was brought, and chained up close to the place where the money was deposited. That very night a robber made his way into the house and was proceeding to carry off the money, when he was seized by the dog, who held him a prisoner until assistance arrived. The thief turned out to be the butcher himself, who thought he had made sure of the money, but he had not considered that his dog was a better moralist than himself, for who would, rather than betray a defenceless woman, take her part against his own master. Kindly pardoned by the woman, the intending robber made his way home, and it is to be hoped that for the future he learned a lesson from his own dog and amended the evil of his ways.

Not only does the dog guard the property which is intrusted to its charge, but frequently goes a little further and assumes a charge on its own account. When the writer was a boy living in the country, where much of the spring and summer of the year was spent in working upon a farm, he became on very excellent terms with a little bull-terrier, named Tip, that belonged to a certain farmer by whom he was employed. Upon my first introduction to Tip, I felt a sort of aversion towards him. This grew out of the mysterious actions of the animal. He was always around when I was busy at work and seemed to be eying me in a suspicious sort of manner, which at times made me feel very unpleasant. After the lapse of a few days I discovered that I was not so closely watched as before, and that I was treated by him as he was accustomed to treat the other members of the family. Upon inquiry I learned that he always acted in this way toward people whom he did not know intimately, and that, after a time, he had confidence in their honesty and left them alone. While in many instances Tip was entirely wrong in his surmises, yet cases are recalled where the dog was right and acted in a manner that would have been creditable to a human being. One of the men employed upon the place, presuming upon the friendship of the dog, sought to carry away under cover of darkness something belonging to the farmer, but he was immediately beset by the animal, who was an eye-witness of the proceeding, and compelled to desist from the intended theft. From that time the man was under the closest surveillance by the dog. Unable to effect a reconciliation, and chafing under the look of suspicion with which he was always greeted, the man soon took his departure, much to the delight and satisfaction of the faithful canine, and was never afterwards seen.

Quite a common form of conscience among the lower animals is that which may be defined as a recognition of having done wrong, and acknowledgment that punishment is deserved. Animals have in their way very pronounced ideas as to right and wrong. When they have committed an act which they know will offend their master, they display as keen a conscience as any human being self-convicted of sin could exhibit. In many instances, the offence in not merely acknowledged, but the creature remains miserable until forgiveness has been granted. This condition of mind, if manifested by man, is called Penitence, and, assuredly, it cannot be known by any other name when manifested by animals that are lower down in the scale of life. My little dog Frisky, about whom mention has already been made, affords a very fine illustration of this phase of conscience. Whenever he did wrong, the severest punishment that could be meted out to him was to ignore his presence and decline his offered paw. For hours the poor fellow would moan and cry, and even refuse food, when he thought I was angry with him. But a word or a look of forgiveness was sufficient to change his sadness into joy. A shaking of hands, so to speak, would then follow, and master and dog would be good friends again. No love could be more intense than his, and this was especially shown when I would return from a short absence, when the little fellow would almost overwhelm me by his affectionate caresses.

No loftier characteristic adorns humanity than Love. But how far it is shared by the lower animals it is now our purpose to inquire. That there are many phases of development cannot be doubted. Sympathy, or that capacity of feeling for the sufferings of another, is the first phase. Many, and perhaps all, living creatures possess the capacity of sympathy. In the majority of cases it is not restricted to their own species, but is extended to those beings which appear to have very little in common with each other. Ordinarily, however, it is exhibited between animals of the same species, and it is often seen in the dog, as, for example, where a dog, having been cured of an injury, has been observed to take a fellow-sufferer to his benefactor. Such sympathy, it need hardly be remarked, could not be carried out unless the animals possessed a language adequately defined to enable them to transmit ideas from one to the other. Cats are often kind to each other, sympathizing under difficulties, and helping their friends who require assistance. A cat, belonging to a friend, has been known, when oppressed with the cares of a family, to employ a half-grown kitten to take charge of the young while she went for a ramble. Between the cat and the dog an enmity exists that is hereditary, and yet, when in good hands, they are sure to become very loving friends, and even to show considerable sympathy towards each other. Such an exhibition of good feeling was observed by the writer a few years ago. The dog, a large black Newfoundland, had contracted a warm and devoted friendship for a gray cat that was an inmate of the same family. When the cat was assailed by one of her kind, or by a strange dog, the Newfoundland would pick her up in his mouth and carry her to the house out of reach of danger, the cat maintaining all the while the most perfect serenity of composure, knowing that she was in the care of one who meant her no ill. When the same cat would become sick, the Newfoundland would lie down by her side, caress her with his tongue, and show in every way possible that he was sorry that she was sick.

Many examples are recorded of birds feeling sympathy with the lost or deserted young of other species, and that have taken upon themselves the task of feeding the starving children. A pair of robins had constructed a nest near to the writer’s home in the country, where in due season a family of four children was raised. Disaster soon came to the little ones, for both parents were slain by some wicked boys of the neighborhood. There dwelt in the same locality a pair of bluebirds, but between the two families there had never been apparent the least interchange of friendship. Each family kept to itself, and attended to its own business. But when the cry of the young robins in their piteous demands for food rent the air, the bluebirds came over to their home to discover what the trouble was. They were not slow to perceive the sad state of things. Their sympathies were at once aroused, and their energies soon bent in the direction of relieving the sufferings of the little orphaned robins. For the next two weeks they had all they could do in providing meat for their own and the robins’ young.

While capable of showing sympathy for near as well as distant kin, the lower animals have also the capacity to sympathize with human beings in distress. Cats occasionally manifest a sympathy for suffering humanity. As for sympathy displayed by dogs, there is no need to cite examples. No human being, I am safe in saying, was ever free from troubles of some kind, and I am equally sure that no one who had a companionable dog felt that he was without sympathy. Full well does the dog know when his master is suffering pain or sorrow, and his nose pushed into his master’s hand, or laid affectionately upon his knee, is a sign of sympathy worth possessing, even though it exists only in the heart of a dog. From that moment there has been established a bond between the soul of the master and the dog, and certainly no one can believe that the bond can ever be severed by the death of the material body, whether of the man or the animal.

That Friendship, which is another branch of love, exists among animals, is a well-known fact. But it is among the domesticated animals that it most frequently exhibits itself. Horses, as every one knows, which have been accustomed to draw the same carriage are usually sure to be great friends, and if one be exchanged the other becomes quite miserable for want of his companion and seems unable to throw any spirit into his work. Dogs, too, are very apt to strike up friendships with each other. Among animals it is not confined to one species, but is occasionally found to exhibit itself in those which might be supposed to be peculiarly incongruous in their nature. That cows and sheep live, as a rule, on good terms with each other in the same pasture is a familiar experience, though sometimes the former are a little prone to domineer over the latter. But a very strong affection sometimes exists between animals so different, and when once they have accustomed themselves to each other’s society neither can be happy without the other. The goat and the horse frequently become friends, and a peculiarly vicious horse has been known to allow a goat to take undue liberties with him without the least manifestation of resentment. In many places the stable-cat is quite an institution. Its usual place of repose is upon the back of the horse, and the latter has been known to grow very uneasy if left for any length of time without the companionship of his little friend. A very singular instance of friendship occurred at the rural home of a near relative. He had a fine mastiff which had taken a fancy to a brood of young chickens, and which acted as their protector. They were not at all unwilling to accept him in this capacity, as they followed him about just as though he had been their mother. Quite an interesting sight it was to watch the dog and the chickens as they would take their siesta. The dog used to lie on his side, and the chickens would nestle all about him, though one chicken in particular would invariably scramble upon the dog’s head, and another just over his eye, but both parties appeared equally satisfied with this remarkable arrangement.

Already have we referred to the intense yearning which is felt by many of the lower animals for human society. This yearning is indeed but the aspiration of the lower spirit developed by contact with the higher in domesticated animals or those which are in perpetual contact with man. This feeling is a matter of no great surprise. But that it should be exhibited in feral animals and birds, and even in insects, is a fact well worth considering, as it furnishes a clew to some of the many problems of life which are as yet unsolved. That power of attraction exercised by the spirit of man upon that of the lower creation is well exemplified in many wild animals, who are known to forsake the society of their own kind for the companionship of the being whom they feel to be higher than themselves.

Perhaps one of the wariest of wild animals is the squirrel. He is horribly afraid of human beings, and if a man, woman or child come to the windward of him, the little animal is sure to scamper off at his fleetest pace, scuttle up the nearest tree, and conceal himself behind some branch. Yet, wild as he may be, he is peculiarly susceptible to the influence of the human spirit, and for the sake of human society will utterly abandon that of his own kind. I once knew a pet gray squirrel by the name of Charley. He had been taken from the nest when very young. His home for awhile was one of those whirl-about cages. Charley did not like his cage, but preferred to be outside in the unrestrained enjoyment of the dictates of his own free will. So it was difficult to keep him behind the bars. When awake he loved to follow his own devices; but when tired he usually slept on a soft cushion on the sofa, or found his way into some bed-room where he would nestle under a pillow. Nothing was more to his satisfaction and pleasure than a share of the bed of his mistress, but he was always a troublesome nest-fellow. Charley had, as must be obvious, perfect freedom. He was allowed to go as he pleased. There was no coercion in his case. Had he wished to escape, there was nothing to prevent, and nothing bound him to his mistress but an “ever-lengthening chain” of love and aspirations which none but a human being could satisfy. The sparrow, one of the most independent and self-reliant of birds, has been known to abandon its kind for the sake of human beings. Wood cites a case of a bird of this species that had been rescued from some boys who had been robbing the nest. The bird was brought home, but was never confined in a cage, but was permitted to fly freely about the house. As there was a cat about the house, she had to be closely watched lest she might do the bird some injury. On Sundays, when the family went to church and no one remained to keep an eye on the cat, the sparrow was turned into the garden, where it flew about until the family’s return. The opening of the dining-room window by its mistress, and the display of her ungloved hands, was the signal for its entry. But if the mistress stood by the window with her gloves on, then the bird showed not the slightest disposition to enter.

Such is the intensity of the love which the lower animals sometimes entertain toward man that they have been known to grieve themselves to death on account of his loss. A dog by the name of Prince, who lived in the family where the writer spent a few weeks of a summer, is a case in point. He had a good master, and one to whom he was strongly attached. The year before the master sickened and died, and Prince felt the loss so keenly that he refused to take any food, and even to notice the surviving members of the family. He was pitiable to behold. Life had lost all attractions to him, and he showed that he was slowly but surely grieving his life away. Some few weeks after the writer’s departure, the poor animal breathed his last, and his spirit, it is to be hoped, went to join that of his master, while his ashes became mingled with the dust of the earth as his master’s had been.

What a wonderful power do some animals have of returning to their beloved master, even though they have been conveyed to a considerable distance. This is especially true of the dog. So many examples of such feats are on record that I refrain from mentioning them, but will give but a single example. Rover, a pet greyhound that belonged to the writer, had become such an annoyance to the neighborhood where he lived, that the master determined to provide him a home in the country some fifty miles away. He was conveyed to his destination in a covered wagon, and after his new master had reached home, the poor animal was placed in a stable for several days, where he was daily visited and fed, and every effort possible made to attach him to the place and family. On the fourth day of his arrival he was given his freedom. With a long, loud wail he saluted the neighborhood, and the next moment was off at full speed across the country, all efforts to stop him being unavailing. In less than a week from his leaving he was at home again, hungry and jaded out with fatigue and travel, but not too tired nor too hungry to express the great joy he felt for the old master. How he ever accomplished the journey, and what vicissitudes and difficulties he encountered on the way, no one will ever know. After this I had not the heart to send him away again, but put up with his capers and tricks as best I could, and when complaints were preferred against him endeavored to excuse them as a parent is prone to do in the case of a spoiled and wayward child. But a day arrived when Rover to me was no more. What had become of him I was never able to discover, but I always blamed a near-by neighbor, a man who had neither love nor charity in his soul, for his sudden disappearance.

That cats are selfish animals, attaching themselves to localities and not to individuals, I do not believe. This idea has, perhaps, some ground of truth, for the nature of a cat is not so easy to understand as that of a dog. But when a cat is not understood, it is very probable that she cares less for the inhabitants of the house than for the house itself. Frequent instances are known by the writer where cats have been in the habit of moving about with their owners, and have been as much unconcerned as dogs would have been. True they have, like women, a curious and prying disposition. I have seen them in new and strange quarters go sniffing about every room of a house, and at last settle down in some cozy, comfortable place, well satisfied with their tour of investigation. Where the house fell short of their expectations, if they have been cats that have received due consideration from their mistresses or masters, they have tried to live down their objections and to learn to be happy and contented with their lot. Only cats that have not been much thought of are inclined to show their disapproval to changes of residence which they deemed unsuitable by refusing to stay with their masters. Blackie, a favorite cat of ours, never seemed to care where her home was, so long as her friends were there to pet, caress and pamper her with choice dainties.

All animals, so far as can be learned, have not only a capacity for the society of man, but an absolute yearning for it. This feeling may be in abeyance, from not having received any development at the hands of man, but it nevertheless exists, and only awaits to be educed by some one capable of appreciating the character of the animal. Tigers, as is well known, are not generally considered the friends of mankind, and yet the Indian fakirs will travel over the country with tame tigers, which they simply lead about with a slight string, and which will permit small children to caress them with their hands without evincing the least disposition to hurt them.

When we survey the examples of love displayed by animals towards human beings, which we have just detailed, and recall the hundreds that we know and have read about, is it possible to believe that such love can perish? We apprehend not. Unselfish love as this, which survives ingratitude and ill-treatment, belongs to the spirit and not to the body, and all beings capable of feeling such love must possess immortal spirits. All may not have an opportunity of manifesting it, but all possess the capacity and would, were the conditions favorable, manifest it openly.

Few animals, as may easily be imagined, manifest Conjugal Love. Most species have no particular mates, but merely meet by chance, and seemingly never trouble themselves about each other again. No real conjugal love, therefore, can exist, and it is rather curious that in such animals a durable friendship is frequently formed between two individuals of the same sex. But when we come to polygamous animals, such as the stag among mammals and the domestic poultry among birds, we meet with a decided advance towards conjugal love, although as in the case of polygamous man, that love must necessarily be of an inferior character. There is seen, at all events, a sense of appropriation on either side. Take the example of the barn-yard fowl, as has already been mentioned in that part of the chapter which deals with jealousy, where it is shown that the proprietor of the harem resents any attempt on the part of another male to infringe on his privileges.

This brings us to the consideration of birds, where the many are mated for the nesting-season, but subsequently do not seem to care more for each other than they do for their broods of children. If one of the pair be killed at the nesting-time the survivor, after a brief lamentation, consoles itself in a few hours or days with another partner, for there really appears to be a supply of spare partners of both sexes always at hand. And now we come to those creatures which are mated for life, and often we find among them a conjugal love as strong and as sincere as among monogamous mankind. Prominent among them are the eagle, the raven and the dove. And while we praise the turtle-dove for its conjugal fidelity, and credit it with the possession of all that is sweet, and good, and gentle, how remarkable is it that we forget to accredit with the same virtue the eagle and the raven, that are the types of all that is violent, and dark, and cunning. There are many examples in existence of the conjugal love among such birds, but they are so well known that reference to them is unnecessary. The case of the mandarin duck, already narrated, affords a strong instance of conjugal love wherein the lady was faithful and the husband avenged himself on the destruction of his domestic peace.

So numerous as are the instances of love shown by parents among the lower animals towards their offspring, yet it is a very singular fact that few, if any, trustworthy accounts of Filial Love, or the love of children toward their parents, are to be found. But we must look to man if we would understand the lower animals. Even human nature must attain a high state of development before filial love can find any place in the affections. In savages it barely exists at all, and certainly does not survive into mature years. It is the glory of the North American Indian boy, at as early an age as possible, to despise his mother and defy his father. And the women are just as bad as the men. Rejoicing in the pride of youth and strength, they utterly despise the elder and feeble women, even though they be their own mothers, and will tear from their hands the food they are about to eat, on the plea that old women are of no use, and that the food would be much better employed in giving nourishment to the young and strong. The Fijians have not the least scruple in burying a father alive when he becomes infirm, and assist in strangling a mother that she may keep him company in the land of spirits. Both the Bosjesmen of South Africa and the Australian seem to have not the least idea that any duty is owing to a parent from a child, nor have they much notion of duty from a parent toward the child. If the father be angry with any one for any reason, he has a way of relieving his feelings by driving his spear through the body of his wife or child, whichever one of the two happens to be the nearer. Even the mother treats her child with less consideration than a cow does her calf, and leaves the little creature to shift for itself at an age when the children of civilized parents are hardly thought fit to be left alone for a few minutes. This being the case with parental love, it may be readily imagined that filial affection can have not the slightest chance for development, and it is very much to be questioned whether in the savage it can really be said to exist at all in the sense understood by enlightened peoples. Therefore, as in the lower human races, we find that filial love either is very trifling, or is absolutely non-existent, need we wonder that in the lower animals such few, if any, indications of its presence should be found?

Now, as to the subject of Parental Love, and the various ways in which it manifests itself. There are many writers who claim that parental love in the lower animals is not identical with that of man. They affirm that it is only a blind instinct, and, in order to mark more strongly the distinction between man and beast, call the parental love of the latter by the name of storgë. Speaking for myself, I must declare that I am unable to perceive any distinction between the two, save that in civilized man the parental love is better regulated than among the lower animals. But, as has been seen, it is not regulated at all among the uncivilized races, and, in truth, many of the beasts are far better parents than most savages. Nor can I understand why the word storgë should be applied to parental love among the lower animals and not to the same feeling in man. Among Greek writers the word, together with the verb from which it is derived, is applied to the love between human parents and children. It is so applied by Plato, and in the same sense by Sophocles and others. One argument adduced by those who deny the identity of the feeling in both cases is that parental love endures throughout life in man, while it expires with the adolescence of the young in the lower animals. This is doubtless true, as a rule, with civilized man, but in the case of the savage, as has previously been shown, it does not last longer than that of a bird, a cat or a dog, taking into consideration the relative duration of life. And the reason is identical in both cases. Were this love to exist through life in the savage, the beast or the bird, the race would become extinct, for neither race is able to support its children longer than their time of helplessness. The beast and the bird cannot, and the savage will not, provide for the future. It is therefore evident that if the young had to depend upon their parents for subsistence, they would soon perish from lack of food. Exceptions there are to this general rule, and always, as far as can be determined, in the case of domesticated animals whose means of subsistence are already insured.

Several of such cases have come to my notice. I shall instance but one. A friend of mine has two terriers, a mother and a daughter. The strongest bond of love and fellowship unites them. They always sit close together, and the mother playfully pinches her daughter all over. Should they by chance become separated, even for a very short time, the daughter comes up wagging her tail, and then licks her mother’s nose and mouth. When hunting together, they always act in concert, each one taking a hole, and one keeping watch while the other scrapes away the earth. The meaning of each other’s whine or bark is perfectly understood, and no two persons could understand their own language better than do these dogs theirs, nor be more comprehensible to each other.

Self-abnegation is perhaps one of the most beautiful characteristics which parental love can give. This is particularly shown when the young are in danger. A human mother in charge of her child will defy a danger before which she would shrink if alone, and in its defence would dare deeds of which most strong men would be incapable, for during the time her selfhood is extinguished, and her being is sunk into that of her child. Such abnegation becomes a true mother, for if she would not consent to do and dare for the sake of her offspring, she would degrade herself below the beasts and the birds, who hesitate not in performing that duty to their children, though savants do declare that they possess only storgë, whatever they may mean by it, and not parental love.

Everyone who has paid even a passing attention to the habits of birds must have noticed the vigilance a pair of catbirds exercise over their nest when containing young birds. Neither parent, when the other is absent, relaxes this vigilance, for they consider no labor, no care, no watchfulness, too great or too exacting where their offspring are to be benefited. Let an enemy approach, even if it be man himself, and they are beside themselves with anger and resentment, flying into the very face of the audacious intruder, as though they would pluck his eyes out as a just punishment for his presumption and temerity. I have seen the nest of a catbird attacked by a black snake, and crushed within the folds of the hideous serpent the father-bird, but the disaster did not cause the mother-bird to desist from the attack, for, utterly oblivious of all else but her offspring and the snake, she fought on until the latter was forced to glide away into the bushes to escape her infuriated assaults. But no species of bird is more courageous in defence of its nest than the little ruby-throated humming-bird. It is really dangerous to visit the nest when with eggs or young. I would as soon attempt to assail the dome-shaped nest of our common hornet as that of this humming-bird. It is as much as one can do to protect his eyes from the lightning-like attacks of these birds, so swiftly and so unerringly do they direct their blows at these points.

So great is the affection and solicitude of the red-eyed vireo for her young, that she will scarcely leave the nest when the hand is stretched out a few inches over the mouth of the structure. And then when she does leave, it is not in a hurried, precipitate manner, but with a quiet, deliberate movement that excites one’s admiration and makes one vow never to abuse such simple, childlike confidence. I have even placed my hand upon the sitting-bird without disturbing the current of her brooding thoughts, or the peaceful serenity of her soul. A rough dash at the nest tends to frighten her away instanter, but when the hand is reached out to it slowly and silently the bird seems to act as though it had nothing to fear, and remains calm and self-possessed.

Who is not familiar with the proverbial skill of the Carolina dove in feigning lameness when her nest is being approached? Without a cry, and with scarcely a rustle of her feathers, she slips out of her nest upon the ground, and by a series of manœuvres, as if desperately wounded, grovels along on her belly in the dust till she has led her enemy a long journey from the site of the nest, when she will take to wing and fly away into a coppice or a clump of brushwood.

That birds should manifest a love for the young which they hatch has always seemed a strange problem to me. I can see how that, in the case of a mammal, the mother should feel a love for the creature who is absolutely a part of herself—whose very life-blood is drawn from her veins. But this is not necessarily the case with birds. If, as often happens with poultry, the eggs of several hens are placed under one bird for hatching, the hen that hatches them knows no difference between the chickens that come from her own eggs and those which proceed from eggs laid by others. Even where the eggs belong to birds of different species, as to the common Muscovy-duck for example, the hen displays as much affection for the young ducklings, despite the disparity of instinct and habit, as she does had they proceeded from her own eggs. May it not be that parental love has different channels of transmission, and that in such a case as this the emanation from the sitting-hen may be the vehicle of parental love toward the young which are to be hatched? Certain it is that a sitting-hen, as many of us have observed, is altogether a changed being, both in attitude and expression. She is entirely absorbed in the eggs when she is incubating, and, though she may not have the intellect to distinguish a mere lump of chalk from one of her own eggs, yet love is altogether independent of intellect, and may exist in all its vigor, and yet may be wasted on an unworthy object.

Fishes, as is generally known, are not particularly emotional beings, and are not likely to entertain a lasting love for anything. Indeed, in some instances, parental love would be absolutely useless, as in the case of the cod-fish, which could be hardly expected to entertain a special love for each of the countless thousands of young it produces every year. The life of the mother would be an unenviable one, if her lot were to look after her young as soon as they are hatched, especially when the varied foes that beset her eggs as soon as they are produced, are considered. Just as there are fishes that possess conjugal love, so there are fishes that possess parental love, and prominent among these are the sticklebacks. But in the case of these fishes the most curious part is that parental love is shown by the father, and not by the mother, the latter having nothing to do but to lay the eggs, and leaving to the former the exclusive labor of providing for the young.

Enough of instances of true parental love among the lower animals could be given to fill this entire book, but a sufficient number have been adduced to show that the feeling is the same in man as in them, although, of course, the mode of manifesting it is different. We have shown the fallacy of the theory that parental love is life-enduring in man and very brief among the animals, and have seen that, in proportion to the duration of life, it is quite as brief among the savages as among the animals. And, again, we have seen where it has been lost and then restored, and also where it was never lost; where in animals, as in man, it has caused complete abnegation of self, the parents living for their children, and not for themselves, and where it has given strength to the weak and courage to the timid. Even the very fishes have been shown to be amenable to the same influences as man, and could we have carried our illustrations still lower down the scale we would have found the same influences existing among much humbler forms of animal existences. In conclusion, there is no resisting the fact that parental love, one of the highest and holiest feelings of which a loving and immortal soul can be capable, is shared equally by man and beast, according to their respective capacities.