Homes Without Hands: Being a Description of the Habitations of Animals, Classed According to Their Principle of Construction
There is, however, another entrance into the keep from below. A passage dips downward from the centre of the chamber, and then, taking a curve upward, opens into one of the larger tunnels, or high roads, as they have been appropriately termed. It is a noteworthy fact, that the high roads, of which there are seven or eight, radiating in different directions, never open into the gallery opposite one of the entrances into the upper gallery. The Mole, therefore, is obliged to turn to the right or left as soon as it enters the domicile, before it can find a passage to the upper gallery.
By continual pressure of the Mole's fur, the walls of the passages and the roof of the central chamber become quite smooth, hard and polished,—so that the earth will not fall in even after the severest storm.
The use of so complicated a series of cells and passages is extremely doubtful, and our total ignorance on the subject affords another reason why the habits of this wonderful animal should be better studied. The only object that can at present be surmised is, that the rightful owner of such a stronghold may rest safely in his middle chamber, tasting the reward of repose which sweetens labor, and that in case of alarm, he might escape through either of the many passages which surround his home. I do not know, however, whether the Mole always retires to his fortress in order to rest, but rather imagine that he contents himself with lying in the high road. Such, at all events, seems to be the opinion of professional mole-catchers, who tell me that the Mole works and rests at regular intervals of three hours, making no distinction whatever between day and night.
Wonderful as is this subterranean habitation, it is not the only one which is constructed by the animal. It may be well adapted to a solitary individual, but it is not at all suited for a family, for whom a more extended nursery must be provided. The nursery is much simpler than the habitation, consisting merely of a large chamber, in which is laid a considerable mass of dried grass, the young blades of corn being sometimes employed for that purpose. The Mole chooses for this purpose the spot where two or more passages intersect each other, so that in case of alarm, the mother and young may escape in the direction which seems farthest removed from danger. This nursery is almost invariably placed at some distance from the fortress.
About the middle of June, or commencement of July, the Moles begin to fall in love, and are as furious in their attachments as in all other phases of their nature. At that time, two male moles can not meet without a mortal jealousy, and they straightway begin to fight, scratching, tearing, and biting with such insane fury, that they seem to be unconscious of every thing but the heat of battle. Not content with fighting in their burrows, they often emerge into the open air, and may then be caught without the least difficulty. A few days before writing this account, I heard that a pair of Moles were thus taken in the fields near Erith, and one of my friends made a similar capture on Shooter's Hill.
Indeed, the whole life of the Mole is one of fury, and he eats like a starving tiger, tearing and rending his prey with claws and teeth, and crunching audibly the body of the worm between the sharp points. Some writers say that the Mole eats snails and other molluscs, but I am disposed to doubt that assertion. I have kept several Moles, and never saw them eat any thing but worms. They even rejected the julus millipede, kicking it aside with utter contempt.
It is also asserted that the Mole skins the worm before he eats it, “stripping the skin from end to end, and squeezing out the contents of the body.” To prove a negative is proverbially a difficult task, and therefore I will not venture to say that the Mole does not trouble himself about stripping off the skin of the worm. I do not see how it could do so, for even with the assistance of knives, scissors and forceps, such a task presents many difficulties, and how the Mole is to succeed in such an undertaking with no tools but his teeth and claws, I can not comprehend. No Mole that I have ever seen, gave the slightest indication of skinning or emptying the worm, but proceeded without the least ceremony to devour its prey, and then looked out for another victim. It is hardly possible to conceive, and quite impossible to describe the fury with which the Mole eats. It hunches its back in a most curious manner, retracts the head between the shoulders, and uses its fore paws to assist it in pushing the worm into its jaws. In this respect there is a singular resemblance between the Mole and the carnivorous chelodines of America. I have kept several of them, and have always noticed that they ate exactly after the fashion employed by the Mole, seizing their food in their jaws, and tearing it to pieces by the aid of the armed fore paws—one foot being applied at each side of the mouth, so as to push the food forward, while the head draws it back.
How the Mole assumes this peculiar attitude I can not conceive. I have often seen it engaged in eating, and have sketched the creature while so employed; but, when the Mole has been dead, I have been unable to place it in the proper attitude, though anxious to do so in order that the artist might be able to make his drawing properly.
From seeing the animal eat, I can readily conceive the fury with which it must be animated when it fights, and can perfectly appreciate the truth of the assertion, that it has been observed to fling itself upon a small bird, to tear its body open, and to devour it while still palpitating with life.
Nothing short of this fiery energy could sustain an animal in the lifelong task of forcing itself through the solid earth; and it may well be imagined that when two male Moles of equal strength happen to meet, the combat must be of the most furious kind.
To those who are accustomed only to look at animals from their own stand-point, these battles may appear too insignificant to attract attention; but to the eye of a naturalist, who instinctively identifies himself with the nature of the animals which he is observing, these combats lose all their insignificance, and even partake in some degree of the sublime. Size is only of relative importance; and, in point of fact, a battle between two Moles is as tremendous as one between two lions, if not more so, because the Mole is more courageous than the lion, and, relatively speaking, is far more powerful and armed with weapons more destructive.
Magnify the Mole to the size of the lion, and you will have a beast more terrible than the world has yet seen. Though nearly blind, and therefore incapable of following prey by sight, it would be active beyond conception, springing this way and that way as it goes along, so as to cover a large amount of space, leaping with lightning quickness upon any animal which it met, rending it to pieces in a moment, thrusting its blood-thirsty snout into the body of its victim, eating the still warm and bleeding flesh, and instantly searching for fresh prey.
Such a creature would, without the least hesitation, devour a serpent twenty feet in length, and so terrible would be its voracity, that it would eat twenty or thirty of such snakes in the course of a day. With one grasp of its teeth and one stroke of its claws it could tear an ox asunder; and if it should happen to enter a fold of sheep or an inclosure of cattle, it would kill them all for the mere lust of slaughter. Let, then, two of such animals meet in combat, and how terrific would be the battle. Fear is a feeling of which a Mole seems to be unconscious; and when fighting with one of his own species, he gives his whole energies to the destruction of his opponent, without seeming to heed the injuries which are inflicted upon himself.
From the foregoing sketch the reader will be able to estimate the extraordinary energies of this animal, as well as the wonderful instincts with which it is endowed.
What a surprising effort of intuitive skill is shown in the fortress, with its central chamber and the circular galleries that surround and defend it. How enormous is the space of ground which a single Mole covers with its network of roads and galleries, driven in every direction from the fortress, and sunk at various depths, according to the state of the ground and the position of the worms. Sometimes it burrows along just at the surface of the ground, its back visible as it passes along, and so making a shallow trench rather than a tunnel. Sometimes, as in very dry weather, it is obliged to dive deeply into the earth before it can find the worms, which detest drought, and can not exist but in damp situations.
How marvelous is the amount of muscular power that is concentrated into so small a space. Every one who has worked at digging a pit is well aware of the labor involved in his undertaking,—even with the aid of crowbar, pickaxe, and spade. If the reader should happen to excavate a cubic yard of earth, he will know by experience the amount of muscular exertion that is required for the task, and will be the better able to appreciate the tremendous powers of the Mole, which is able to drive its tunnels so rapidly through the solid earth, and to throw up at short intervals those well-known mole-hills, which contain as much earth as would make a heap twelve feet in height and twenty feet in diameter, were a man to be the workman instead of the Mole.
On looking over the list of burrowing mammalia, the observer can not but be struck with the wonderful manner in which they emerge from the earth with unsoiled fur. This capability is the more remarkable in the animal now under consideration, because it is continually engaged in making new tunnels, and is not content merely to pass up and down a passage already excavated. The sides of the passages, which are popularly known as the high roads, are by degrees worn quite smooth by the attrition of the Mole's body, so that in them there is little danger of injury accruing to the fur. But that an animal should be able to pass unsoiled through earth of all textures is a really remarkable phenomenon, which is partly to be explained by the character of the hair, and partly by that of the skin.
The hair of the Mole is notable for its velvety aspect, and its want of “set.” The tips of the hairs do not point in any particular direction, but may be pressed equally forward or backward or to either side. The microscope reveals the cause of this peculiarity. The hair is extremely fine at its exit from the skin, and gradually increases in thickness. When it has reached its full width, it again diminishes. This alternation of tenuity and thickness occurs several times in each hair, and gives the peculiar velvet-like texture with which we are all so familiar. There is scarcely any coloring matter in the slender portions of the hair, and the characteristic changeability of the blackish-brown hues is owing to this structure.
Perhaps the reader may not have noticed that when the fur of the Mole has been thoroughly cleansed, it has a strong iridescence in certain lights, assuming various beautiful tints, among which a ruddy copper is the most prevalent.