Homes Without Hands: Being a Description of the Habitations of Animals, Classed According to Their Principle of Construction - Page 8

In like manner the Mink, the Vison, and other weasels of Northern America are in the habit of retiring to holes and crevices, but do not appear to form burrows for themselves. The Honey Ratel (Mellivora Ratel) does, it is true, scrape deep holes in the ground with very great rapidity, but then the creature can not be ranked among the true weasels, and by many authors is thought to approach closely to the bears.

THE exact classification of animal habitations involves a task not easily accomplished, inasmuch as so many of them partake of characteristics which might entitle them to be placed under various categories. The rabbit, for example, might be considered either as a social or a burrowing animal, and the same may be said of the common wasp, the humble bee, and many other insects.

The Prairie Dog (Spermophilus Ludovicianus) may, like the rabbit, be considered equally as a burrower or a social animal, and we will therefore place it in the former of these categories.

This animal is sometimes called the WISH-TON-WISH, but it is usually known by the name of Prairie Dog, though it is a rodent and not a carnivorous animal. The reason of its popular name lies in the short yelping sound which it is fond of uttering, and which bears some resemblance to the bark of a young puppy. Even in captivity it utters this short, impatient yelp, which may generally be extorted from the little animal by placing the hand near the cage. Though so gentle and affectionate to its keeper, it dislikes strangers; and if their fingers approach the bars of its house too closely, it barks at the intruders like an angry squirrel, and scratches smartly at their hands with its sharp and powerful claws.

It is a pretty, and rather curious animal, measuring about sixteen inches in total length. Its general shape is round and flattish, and the head is peculiarly flat, giving to the animal a very remarkable aspect. The fur is grayish-red, with a grizzled effect, produced by the alternate chestnut and gray color of each hair. The disposition of the Prairie Dog is pleasant and sociable, and the little creature is very susceptible of domestication. There are at the present time (July, 1868) two fine specimens of this animal in the Zoological Gardens, and both of them are notable for their tameness. The male (called Charley by the keeper), seems remarkably fond of his master, and loves to be taken up and nestle in his breast. The female is also a very tame animal, and was a great favorite of its late owner, following him about like a dog, and residing chiefly in his coat pocket.

In spite of the formidable foes by which it is attacked, and which take up their residence in the very centre of its habitations, the Prairie Dog is an exceedingly prolific animal, multiplying rapidly, and extending its excavations to vast distances. Indeed, when once the Prairie Dogs settle themselves in a convenient spot, their increase seems to have no bounds, and the little heaps of earth which stand near the mouth of their burrows extend as far as the eye can reach.

The burrows are of considerable dimensions, and evidently run to no small depth, as one of them has been known to absorb five barrels of water without being filled. It is not impossible, however, that there might have been a communication with some other burrow, or that the soil might have been loose and porous, and suffered the water to soak through its substance. They are dug in a sloping direction, forming an angle of about forty-five degrees with the horizon, and after descending for five or six feet, they take a sudden turn, and rise gradually upward. Thousands upon thousands of these burrows are dug in close proximity to each other, and honeycomb the ground to such an extent that it is rendered quite unsafe for horses.

A PRAIRIE DOG "TOWN."

The scene presented by one of these "dog towns" or "villages," as the assemblages of burrows are called, is most curious, and well repays the trouble of approaching without alarming the cautious little animals. Fortunately for the traveler, the Prairie Dog is as inquisitive as it is wary, and the indulgence of its curiosity often costs the little creature its life. Perched on the hillocks which have already been mentioned, the Prairie Dog is able to survey a wide extent of horizon, and as soon as it sees an intruder, it gives a sharp yelp of alarm, and dives into its burrow, its little feet knocking together with a ludicrous flourish as it disappears. In all directions a similar scene is enacted. Warned by the well-known cry, all the Prairie Dogs within reach repeat the call, and leap into their burrows. Their curiosity, however, is irrepressible, and scarcely have their feet vanished from sight, than their heads are seen cautiously protruded from the burrow, and their inquisitive brown eyes sparkle as they examine the cause of the disturbance.

A good marksman will take advantage of this peculiarity, and, by aiming at the eye, will make sure of killing the animal on the spot. It is marvelously tenacious of life, and unless its head be almost knocked to pieces, is sure to escape into its home. A pea-rifle is almost useless in shooting Prairie Dogs, a large bullet being needed to produce instantaneous death.

The Prairie Dog has not the privilege of possessing a home exclusively devoted to its own use, for the Burrowing Owl, sometimes called the Coquimbo Owl (Athene cunicularia), and the terrible rattlesnake, take forcible possession of the burrows, and devour the inmates, thus procuring board and lodging at very easy rates. The rattlesnake at all events does so, the bodies of young Prairie Dogs having been found in its stomach.

On the discovery of owls and rattlesnakes within the burrows of the Prairie Dog, it was generally thought that these incongruous beings associated together in perfect harmony, forming in fact a "Happy Family" below the surface of the ground. The ruthless scalpel of the naturalist, however, effectually dissipated all such romantic notions, and proved that the snake was by no means a welcome guest, but an intruder on the premises, self-billeted on the inmates, like soldiers on obnoxious householders, procuring lodging without permission, and eating the inhabitants by way of board.

The reason for the presence of the owls is not so evident, though it is not impossible that they may also snap up an occasional Prairie Dog in its earliest infancy, while it is very young, small, and tender. These winged and scaled intruders are not found in all the burrows, though many of the habitations are infested by them.

The general aspect of the Prairie Dog is not unlike that of its near relative, the Alpine Marmot, so familiar in this country through the mediumship of Savoyard boys, who carry the animal about in a box, and show it for halfpence.

The Rabbit Warren.

One of the most familiar of the British burrowing rodents is the common RABBIT (Lepus cuniculus), an animal notable for "sporting," as gardeners would say, into a vast number of varieties, some of which are so unlike the original stock that they seem to be species and not varieties, and indeed might have taken rank as species, did they not invariably display a tendency to recede to the ancestral short brown fur and upright ears of the wild Rabbit.

This animal lives, as we all know, in burrows, and is mostly of a social nature, a considerable number of burrows being gathered together and known by the name of a Warren. Whenever the Rabbits find an undisturbed spot, which combines the advantages of a sandy situation with the vicinity of food, they establish themselves forthwith, and sink their multitudinous tunnels into the ground. The favorite locality for the Rabbit is a loose, sandy, or gravelly soil, covered with patches of furze bushes; for the soil is easily excavated, and is very dry, and the young shoots of the furze yield a food equally grateful and nutritious. Moreover, the tangled roots of the furze afford an excellent protection to the burrows, and the overhanging branches, with their prickly verdure, serve admirably to shelter the entrances.

When once they have established themselves, the Rabbits increase with almost incredible rapidity, nearly rivaling the rats and mice in fecundity, and converting the land into a very honeycomb of burrows. Indeed, were not the flesh of the Rabbit marketable, and its fur valuable—were not the stoat, the weasel, the hawk, and other furred and feathered depredators extremely fond of young Rabbits, the animals would spread so fast as to become a positive nuisance. In some places they have increased to such an extent, that the safety of buildings has been greatly endangered by the deep and ramifying tunnels which they have sunk beside the foundations; and I know of a case where they have multiplied so inordinately, that the proprietor of the ground, albeit a most stanch conservator of animal life, has been obliged in self-defense to have them exterminated.

It is not a very easy matter to drive the creatures from any place of which they have already taken possession, and even after employing all the paraphernalia of ferrets, nets, and guns, two or three isolated individuals are apt to escape, and if they should chance to be of opposite sexes, the Rabbit host is marvelously soon reproduced. The creature becomes a parent at a very early age, and by the time that a Rabbit is a year old it may have attained the dignity of a grandparent.

As is the case with most animals, the Rabbit seeks a quiet and retired spot for her little nursery. She does not produce her young in any of the burrows to which the general Rabbit colony has access, but prepares an isolated tunnel, at the end of which she forms her nest. The bed on which the young recline is beautifully soft and fine, being composed chiefly of the downy fur which grows on the mother's breast, and which she plucks off with her teeth in tufts of considerable size. Any one who keeps tame Rabbits may see the female preparing her cradle with this soft fur, and note how perseveringly she denudes her breast of its covering.

Much stress has been laid on the self-sacrifice exhibited by the animal, but I can not believe that there is any sacrifice in the case. We know that if we were to pull out handfuls of our hair, we should suffer exceeding pain, and should, moreover, feel very uncomfortable for want of the locks which we had torn away. But the case of the Rabbit has no real analogy with such a proceeding, for the fur of the animal is at that time so loosely attached to the skin that it falls off as easily as the hairs of a cat in summer, and its evulsion produces no such disastrous effects as would follow the forcible plucking out of human hair. No raw and bleeding surface is seen when the fur of the Rabbit is removed, and scarcely a sign of inflammation is visible upon the skin. The act is a purely instinctive one, involving no more self-sacrifice than is occasioned by any other instinctive act; and perhaps we should not be very far wrong if we were to say that the animal would experience more self-sacrifice in omitting than in committing the act in question.

The incubation of the eider duck presents similar features, the parent birds stripping themselves of their down in order to form a warm bed for their young. Yet, I do not think that there is any self-sacrifice in the case, and fully believe that the creature experiences a feeling of gratification rather than of inconvenience when it plucks away the down and arranges it for the reception of the eggs. And, even if we grant that the Rabbit or eider duck did find that they were less comfortable after they had denuded themselves than before, and, moreover, that they knew beforehand what would be the effect of the operation, we are met by the fact that they are obeying an impulse which they can not resist, and that the idea of self-sacrifice is therefore untenable. A sacrifice it may be, but not a self-sacrifice as we understand that phrase at the present day.

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