THEIR MAY MOVING.
THE 1st of May, especially in the Middle States, is moving day. It is then that leases expire, and there is a very general movement among large numbers of persons. The animals also have their moving day, and while it is not necessarily upon the 1st of May, it generally occurs within a few days, or even hours, of a certain time, year after year.
"The animals also have their moving day."
Image
One of the most remarkable illustrations of this is found among fur seals, which are so common on the Pribilof Islands in our Alaskan possessions. When first discovered, their numbers were beyond all computation. They seemed to fairly blacken the shores of the islands of St. Paul, St. George, and others, and the intrepid mariners were amazed at the spectacle. An elaborate account of the discovery was sent to the home government, which ordered an official to report upon the same. To the astonishment of the officer, he failed to find the seals, while the original discoverer, who had accompanied him, could only point to the places where he had seen them, and reaffirm his statement.
The seals had merely moved in a body, and it was many years before it was definitely ascertained where they went. Since the discovery of the fur seals at least three million have been killed, yet a very large herd is still found on the island. But when autumn approaches they move, passing out of Bering Sea, spreading over an area one hundred or two hundred miles in width, and forming in their migration a perfect horseshoe of swimming seals, the extreme southern portion of which reaches nearly to the Santa Barbara Islands off the coast of southern California. This point is reached in midwinter or February, when the seals turn inshore, swimming on the edge of the Japanese current, reaching their rookeries in Bering Sea again in early spring; thus having passed the winter drifting south in the current that sweeps down the Pacific coast of North America. During all this time the seals do not land, living a life in the open sea, and making one of the most remarkable migrations known.
Explorers in the southern ocean have made extraordinary discoveries among the birds of that region. Here is the home of the penguin, that lives in rookeries so vast that men have been lost in them and nearly killed by the concerted attacks of the birds. One breeding ground or rookery contains at certain times thousands of birds which are incapable of flight, and resemble seals in their modes of progression, using their long, narrow wings as fins. A man-of-war once touched at Inaccessible Island in March, and found the rookeries covered with birds; returning in May, the island appeared to be deserted, and to this day where this conspicuous body of birds spends the months of April, May, June, and July is one of the mysteries of the sea. The flock of penguins, which must cover many square miles in its movements, has never been sighted at sea by a vessel. Perhaps the most remarkable feature of this moving is the return of the birds to this rock over the trackless ocean, where there are no landmarks.
A number of years ago I was fortunate in observing a curious migration in the Gulf of Mexico. A small island called Bird Key was visited, and as there was not a bird to be seen, the question why the island was given so misleading a name was asked; to which an islander replied that the following month, or in May, it was a bird key in every sense of the word.
"It was almost impossible to walk without stepping on the speckled eggs."
<!-- image -->This was found to be true. One morning I saw what I supposed was a cloud hovering over the island, but upon approaching the latter the cloud proved to be an enormous flock of birds, that had come from no one could tell where. There were six or seven islands in the group, but the birds alighted upon but two, and when on the ground almost covered it; indeed, it was almost impossible to walk without stepping on the speckled eggs. In a few weeks the birds, which were gulls, mysteriously disappeared. The nearest points were Cuba and Yucatan, but the birds could not be traced to either.
That fishes move on an extended scale is well known. I have observed the effect of the sudden arrival of a vast school of small sharks on the Maine coast. They evidently came in from the deep sea, and were as ravenous as wolves, in a single night completely stopping the fishing. The water was alive with them, so that it was far from safe to fall overboard.
The movements of the shad and salmon are familiar, and on the Pacific vast schools of barracuda and yellowtail move up and down the coast with the coming and going of the seasons. Some migrate to well-defined regions; others mysteriously disappear.
I have observed an interesting movement of a vast swarm of yellow butterflies in southern California. They covered an area three or four miles wide and one hundred or more in length, and were following the general course of the coast, though thirty miles inland. They flew near the ground and quite rapidly, with a peculiar fluttering motion. Extraordinary movements among butterflies are not rare. A swarm mentioned by a South American traveler was ten miles in width, and was a day in crossing a wide river, the mass of insects being so thick that at a distance they resembled smoke blowing from a conflagration.
FISHES OUT OF WATER.
WHETHER it is any more remarkable for a fish to leave its native element and wander around on dry land than for a bird like the ousel to enter the water, fly through it, and walk along the bottom in search of food, I leave my readers to determine; but it is true that certain fishes leave the water to search for food on land, and others go ashore for various reasons.
Some years ago I spent the summer at a little fishing village on the Maine coast. Near the ocean was a lake into which, at high tide, the clear water of the ocean flowed, while at the ebb it ran into the ocean again; so at the flood the lake was a large body of water, and at ebb tide a very insignificant pond, from which bunches of rushes protruded everywhere.
The lake I soon discovered was famous for its eels. One evening it happened that I was on the beach as the water was leaving the lake, and waded out into the little inlet to cross it, when I found that it was black with eels of all sizes. The moment they saw me scores left the water and dashed away over the stones in every direction, making for the ocean, presenting a very extraordinary spectacle. They seemed as much at home on the dry land as in the water, and made remarkable progress over the stones.
That eels leave the water and roam about on the flats is well known. Near any eel pond their trails can be seen, winding away to the ocean, perhaps near at hand—all of which shows how fishes differ in their habits. Thus a shad or a perch would soon die, and could not make a single move for its protection, being utterly helpless on land. So, too, a robin or sparrow would soon drown in the water, while the duck or ousel is apparently in its native element, which shows us that various animals are admirably adapted for different surroundings.
When Americans first visited Australia they found that the natives had many and very singular stories regarding the animals of the great continent. One was that a certain large fish, the ceratodus, came to the surface at night and wandered about on the shore, uttering a noise like that of a bull; in fact, a bellowing sound. Naturally such a fish story was discredited and laid to the superstitious natives, but finally one night a party of surveyors, who were out, heard a singular sound and killed an animal which was moving through the grass, and which was found to be this native fish, that was wriggling its way overland for some purpose. The noise was caused by the expulsion of air from the air bladder of the fish.
A party of English officers upon one occasion were encamped in a certain portion of India, when their attention was attracted by a rustling sound in the grass and leaves. Investigation showed it to be caused by myriads of little fishes which were headed in one direction, moving slowly on by using their side and small fins as feet; now upright, now falling down, squirming, bending, rolling over, regaining their finny feet and again pressing onward. These fishes were the famous climbing perch, about which so much has been said and written, and they were passing over the country to avoid a drought. When the stream in which they have been spending the season dries up they scale the banks, and, directed by some marvelous instinct, crawl to another.
The climbing perch was first observed by a naturalist over a century ago, one having been caught high up a palm tree, where it had gone, it was said, to obtain the moisture that might be found in the crevices of the leaves. This story was doubted by many, but a perch was found in the tree by M. Daldorf, so the circumstance may be placed among the strange facts of natural history.
Climbing Perch.
Image
The most remarkable dryland fish is a little creature about four or five inches long, with a big head, prominent eyes, and side or pectoral fins that are more like legs than anything else. This goby, for that is the family to which it belongs, is a marine fish, and actually goes ashore to obtain a portion of its food. If we were on the watch at low tide in Mauritius, where it is common, we should see, as the rocks become bare, various broad heads popping up here and there, then a big tadpolelike creature jumping from one to another or edging its way up the side. Their object is to catch small mollusks. Some years ago a friend of the writer, an ardent naturalist, was very much interested in these little fishes, and combined sport and collecting in a novel manner. He caught his periophthalmi with a shotgun, picking them off as they hopped along the broad muddy flats.
<!-- image -->In New Zealand the gobies of several species have this habit of leaving the water and scrambling along shore, and are called "running fishes" by the natives on account of this singular feature. At Whampoa a fish called the sunghong is often seen out of the water, while the Chinese have what they call the pakkop, or white frog, that can live for some time out of its native element. These people also speak of the flower fish, or hawaya, as leaving the water.
On our own shores we have a goby that has a somewhat similar habit. An expedition of naturalists to Mexico and Texas found some of the little fishes and confined them in a pail. They remained there for a short time, then, to the astonishment of the observers, several were seen clambering over the side of the pail and quietly dropping down upon the ground, when they proceeded to wriggle their way to the water, not far distant. They used their pectoral and anal fins as legs in this instance, and succeeded in making very good progress. When replaced in the bucket they soon crawled out again, and could be kept in only by placing a plank over the top of their prison.