Jill was soon provided with a collar and chain, and tied to the same tree; and so they met again. Exactly what they said, I cannot pretend to tell; but what I think they said, as I watched them from my window, was this:
"Did you come down to find me, Jill?"
"Yes, and I was caught in a trap," was Jill's answer.
"So was I," Jack must have said, for he held up his paw and groaned dismally.
"Ah! if you had not made such a secret of it—if you had been generous and told me about the ranch, I could have gone with you, and we should not have been here," was what Jill had to say next. "You were going to eat that chicken alone, Jack. You know you were."
"Did you bite that man, coming down?" asked Jack, probably being quite willing to change the subject.
"No," Jill replied.
Though Jack had been very savage at first, Jack and Jill grew tamer each day, and never attempted to bite their mistress. They ate from her hand, and permitted her to stroke their glossy fur and brushes. Occasionally there was a little trouble. Mouse and Dinah, two pet greyhounds, grew jealous of the attention of their mistress. To stand by and see a fox—or, worse, two foxes—have a whole chop, and then be offered the bones, was too much to bear; so, as soon as their mistress was out of sight, Mouse and Dinah would draw near, and while one attracted the foxes' attention, the other would attempt to steal the chop. This went on for some time, and Jack had almost made up his mind to bite some one—in fact, he did give his mistress one little nip before the reason was discovered.
Jack and Jill grew fatter every day, and I often saw them looking in the direction of the little stream with ears up, evidently listening for the sound of waters that came from their mountain home.
As a rule they were taken to the stable at night. Once, however, they were forgotten, and a coyote roamed up through the grove, and undoubtedly would have made a late supper; but here a curious trick of southern California foxes came into play and saved them. They both climbed the tree, and from the top branches looked down on Don Coyote, who could but stand upon his hind legs and give utterance to his weird, laughing bark. How Jack and Jill gained the top of the tree might be a mystery to people in the East, for foxes there, as a rule, do not climb trees; but this pair "shinned up" in a way well known to active boys. In fox hunting here, I have known the sly Reynards to leap into a tree, climb, and reach from its branches the limbs of a tall sycamore, and, by following the masses of vines which interlace the arroyo, travel for some distance without touching the ground, to the confusion of the foxhounds, who sought in vain for the scent.
Jack and Jill soon regained their spirits, and when the lame paws were cured they were as bright foxes as ever stole a chicken; and as they were so attractive, it was decided that they must have their pictures taken. So one day a very patient photographer succeeded in making a picture of them.
"Jack and Jill Reynard."
<!-- image -->Now, whether they thought that the photograph might be used in identifying them in case of an escape, I do not know; but neither fox would look up when placed on the piazza railing, and it took three grown persons, besides boys and dogs, to keep their attention; then, just as the photographer was ready, Jack would look down again, and Jill would follow suit. Finally, the photographer imitated the cries of dogs, cats, and various animals, the boys shouted, I snapped the whip and threatened them with the pack of foxhounds (only too willing to dine upon them), their mistress waved a white banner from the balcony above, until, amid a perfect pandemonium, Jack and Jill looked up, the camera clicked and the picture was taken.
But one day Jack escaped. Whether frightened by the photographer, or overcome by homesickness, no one knows; but one morning he was gone, and the truth of history requires the statement that soon "Jill went tumbling after."
SOME CURIOUS FISHERMEN.
A NATURALIST was wandering along one of the many small lakes which form a characteristic feature of certain portions of England, when he saw a large goose fluttering toward him, creating a great disturbance on the smooth water. When he first observed the bird it was some distance from shore, but by the time he reached the water it came fluttering and hissing up the bank, continuing its flight over the grass, and, to the astonishment of the observer, dragging a pike, that danced about as if objecting decidedly to such an unceremonious landing. The gentleman was about to follow the pair, when a party of boys appeared, flushed from a hard run, and claimed the goose and fish, on the ground that the goose was their property and had been fishing for them.
"We use her to catch pike," said the spokesman of the party, "and it's very easy when you know how. You see," he continued, "we first catch the goose, and that's the hardest part, and then we take a fish line about eight feet long, fasten a baited hook or a spoon to it, and tie it to the leg of the goose and let her go. She takes to the water, you see, and drags the line, and in a few moments, if it's the right time, you'll see her coming in, just as you did now. You see, the pike gets hooked, jerks her leg, and of course she starts for the shore, and drags the pike up on the green."
This curious and laughable method of catching fish is not confined to geese or to England, certain birds in various parts of the world being utilized in a similar way. Some years ago I had an acquaintance on the shores of the Gulf of Mexico, near Yucatan, who, not averse to having life made as easy as possible, bethought him that the pelican could be used to reduce the time expended in what he termed "labor." It so happened that he had several tame pelicans, long-necked, huge-pouched, asthmatic-voiced fellows, and one of these, named Jack, he selected to experiment with. He had nailed a piece of plank to his cabin, so that it extended out six or seven feet, and on this the tame pelicans roosted at night, and clapped their bills during the day, and every morning at about six they could be seen flying away to the adjoining reef to obtain their breakfast, which consisted of small sardines.
Image
It happened that these little fishes, also called "hardheads," were very choice bait, and much esteemed by my acquaintance, but difficult to catch, so he devised the following plan to obtain bait and make the pelicans earn their own living. Overnight he fastened about the narrow neck of the pelican Jack a leather strap, and arose early the next morning to watch the success of his ruse. The birds started out as usual, and soon Jack dived into the water, and a moment later rose triumphant, with his pouch filled with struggling sardines. The bird tossed his head to swallow, but the strap prevented. Again and again the puzzled bird essayed to enjoy the results of his capture, but finally gave it up and flew ashore, and alighted on his roost, still carrying the burden, which was now secured by the owner.
When the first Europeans went among the natives of the islands about Cuba, they found a remarkable method of turtle-catching in vogue. This consisted in using a fish known as the remora, or sucking fish, from a remarkable disk or sucking plate upon the head. Upon examination, it resembles somewhat the Venetian blind, consisting of a series of seeming slats. I have often seen the fish make use of its sucker on a shark, and its sole purpose seemed to be to enable the fish to rest. The remoras are social in their habits, and are always found following some larger fish. Usually they swim along, their dark forms presenting a striking contrast against the dun-colored shark; but if tired, or if the shark is hooked, they immediately reverse sides, and fasten their disk upon their great companion, and are thus towed along without the slightest exertion on their part.
When a native turtler went out fishing, he took, instead of the peg in use on the Florida reef, a pail of remoras, each of which had a leather ring about its tail. To this was fastened a long line about as stout as an ordinary cod line. The canoe or boat was slowly and carefully sculled along until a sleeping turtle was espied upon the bottom, upon which the remoras, two or three, depending upon the size of the turtle, were dropped overboard.
Image
At first they would perhaps swim wildly about, at loss without some protector; but very soon they would discover the turtle, dart toward it, and fasten their plates to its shell. Perhaps this would not awaken it, as it is a very quiet operation; but a tug at the strings would surely arouse it, and with a rush it was at the surface, where it took a quick breath, then, catching a glimpse of the canoe, it was off like an arrow. The natives would now throw over the line, gradually putting a strain upon it, and in a very few moments the canoe would be rushing along through the water, towed by the great turtle, with the remoras as traces. The chase depended upon the size of the turtle, and sometimes lasted nearly an hour, the fishes never releasing their hold until their victim was hauled alongside and lifted in, when they were forcibly taken off and placed in a pail to await the appearance of another victim.
"Fishing with the Remora."
Curiously, in nature we find some fishermen whose methods show a remarkable similarity to human devices. An interesting example is seen in a common American fish, the angler. In appearance it is a hideous object, literally a great fleshy bag two or three feet in length, with an enormous mouth. It can flatten out to an astonishing degree, and when it goes fishing, if it does, according to popular belief, we can imagine it lying flat on the bottom, looking like a mossy rock, as in its color it is almost a perfect mimic of its surroundings. Not only this, but nearly the entire family are provided with a marvelous assortment of fleshy barbels, which hang from under the mouth and various parts of the body, in shape and color almost like the local seaweed; and as they wave to and fro, the deception is remarkable, and the fisherman is as completely disguised as occasion demands. But where, you will ask, is the rod and line? Surely fishes do not have such conveniences?
The rod of the angler is the first spine of its dorsal fin, and the second and third can also be used in some cases. In one that I examined, the first rod was about eight or ten inches in length, slender and pliable, and of the exact color of the fish. The base or butt was fastened to a slender opal-hued bone, exactly as a staple is to the hook that holds it, of course being hidden beneath the skin, flesh, and muscles. Some fishermen, particularly young folks, do away with hooks, especially when the bait is very good, and this is said to be the case with the angler. It has no hook, or even line. The so-called bait, a fleshy, shining, often highly colored bit of membrane, dangles at the very tip of the rod, and when the great fisherman is nicely hidden in the weeds, it is supposed to be gently lowered or bent forward, so that the bait hangs just in front of the cavernous mouth with its rows of movable teeth. Perhaps the bait dangles like a worm in the current, and soon some unsuspecting small fry spies it, darts ahead, and the bait moves away. The rod is gradually being lifted, and finally the victim is hovering just over the mouth. Then perhaps the green eyes of the Lophius twinkle with satisfaction, the rod is jerked back, a great cavern opens below the inquisitive fish, and into the capacious cavity it is drawn, and down comes the rod, ready for another bite. This is the popular belief regarding the use of the fin, or fishing rod, but it is only just to say that no naturalist has ever observed the act.