^'•""■•'1 Wild Life in Tasmania. r59 



stances, the woml:)at's existence must indeed have been a 

 happy one, for, apart from the very light cares of its j^oung, 

 it could have had no worries, and Nature had bountifully 

 provided it with every requirement. Never having had to 

 exercise its wits to make a living, it has come about that its 

 body has developed rather at the expense of its brains. In 

 years gone by it was the prominent feature of the landscape, 

 grazing and gambolling in broad daylight on the open grassy 

 plains, and taking little notice of the occasional human. With 

 the growth of settlement, however, it has become more wary, 

 and its numbers have much diminished. Though still in com- 

 paratively large numbers in areas where the kangaroo trapper 

 is unknown, its constant destruction in game country must 

 lead to further lessening of its numbers. 



The wombat's skin is at present commercially valueless ; 

 but, seeing that it makes a very admirable mat, it seems strange 

 enough that no market for it yet exists. Thousands of these 

 animals are destroyed every year by the trapper of kangaroo 

 and wallaby — not in wantonness, but because of their inter- 

 ference with his snares. A snarer once declared that the best 

 protector of the kangaroo is the wombat, because a wire snare 

 set only about six inches above the ground will frequently be 

 walked into by this animal, with the result that in the endeavour 

 to free itself the snare is rendered useless. For this reason 

 the luckless animal, if caught, is knocked on the head, and 

 where it is numerous the snares are set at least one foot high. 

 These, in most cases, the wombat clears, for in walking along 

 its nose is usually nearer the ground. A snare so set will, 

 however, give the kangaroo a chance to escape. 



The wombat is sometimes so little alive to the approach of 

 danger that he has been known not to budge from his position 

 even when the passer-by has gently reminded him by the 

 toe of his boot that he was in the way, and has continued 

 imconcernedly grazing in spite of the insult. Though none of 

 its senses are acute, its sense of hearing seems to be stronger 

 than that of smell, for it will be aware of one's approach long 

 before it realizes the direction in which one is coming. In 

 such cases it assumes an attitude of expectation — its body will 

 be rigid, the head slightly raised above the ground, with the 

 little ears pricked. When it realizes the nearness of danger 

 it makes a bolt in any direction, cantering much after the 

 fashion of a pig, and should it be attacked by dogs will always 

 seek to escape into the nearest hole, even if this should only 

 afford cover for its head. It is in such places, where its body 

 does not entirely disappear from view underground, or as in 

 a hollow log, that new chums amongst dogs and men alike 

 find, to their sorrow, that the animal's means of defence lie 



