FORE ST f AND S TREAM,* 
[Oct. Jg, 104. 
Some Animals I Have Studied* 
L 
XI.— Birds with Odd Characters. 
Not only does the hen possess an eloquent language, 
but she is quick to learn the signification of many sounds 
among her near associates, both biped and quadruped, and 
especially the most familiar human words. On the farm 
the greedy creature eagerly comes whenever any other 
grain-eating animal is called, no matter what sound is 
used. Any noise that is used to signal the hogs, cattle or 
horses, or a# loud din that habitually accompanies their 
feeding, is s/Bon learned by this truly versatile bird. .And 
she eventually loses all fear of any animal with which she 
is daily associated. A good dog finds that after a time 
he can no longer drive her away from the hogs without 
actual injury to her; she can't be "bluffed," and he quits 
in unmistakable disgust. Literally, to the hen, does 
"familiarity breed contempt." She will poke her head into 
a hog's mouth after the corn he is chewing, unless he 
tosses her aside with his snout; and if he happens to be a 
habitual "chicken eater" and has just beheaded one, she 
will still defy him, after cackling a little at the other hen's 
flapping. She would do the same with a lion, and also 
with the largest owl, hawk or eagle, if it had been walk- 
ing about on the ground before her, day after day, for a 
week. After numerous retreats from a vigorous dog (who 
may be such a good actor that even a man — if a stranger — 
would feel sure he meant to demolish the hen), she con- 
cludes that surrender is better than flight, so she will sim- 
ply sit down and humbly wait to be seized, instead of 
wildly flying. If some nervous woman is near and scolds 
the dog for "mussing" the hen at this juncture — though 
she, perhaps, had previously ordered him to drive the 
]bea~he will likely sneak off and refuse thereafter to have 
anything to do with hens — at least unless in the effort to 
please some other person. That woman will have lost his 
respect, if he is a proud dog, and great care will be 
needed to win it back. 
The right way is never to ask a dog to drive any animal 
that is likely either to resist or balk, unless you are will- 
ing to allow him to conquer the culprit at any cost. For 
the sake of his future usefulness, and for your own self- 
respect, never allow any brute to conquer him when he 
is serving you. 
But the hen is remarkable in other ways than merely 
learning sounds. While at times one of the most greedy, 
heedless and unrestrained of all things, she can be taught 
just the opposite qualities. She may be easily trained to 
affect an utter disregard for food ; to appear patient and 
submissive; and to exhibit a degree of self-control that 
might well shame man or dog. All this, too, while in 
perfect health. When a boy I had a fat, lively hen so 
educated that at my bidding she would lie on her back and 
slide head first down an inclined plane two or three feet 
in length without the slightest effort to turn upright or 
stop herself; and at the bottom she would remain just as 
she landed until I touched her or spoke to her — unless 
interfered with by some other person or animal. Incredi- 
ble as this may seem, it is a trick easily taught any gentle, 
affectionate hen. I taught her to submit to many postures 
that hens naturally object to — such as balancing on her 
back, on the top of a slender post, and remaining so until 
disturbed or removed, or being "buried alive," all but her 
head, in any position I wished. Be it understood, she did 
not place herself in any of these positions, but merely 
submitted to being so placed. 
I taught a duck to roost on a platform high above the 
ground (eight or nine feet) with an old hen and a few 
grown turkeys. But an even more remarkable thing was 
that the old hen would not permit the turkeys to fight the 
duck, though any one of those large birds could have 
conquered her and the duck combined. It was simply a 
case of respect for parental authority — "Old Muff" had 
been "the only mother they ever knew." 
Two of the same turkeys were trained to perch quietly 
on a slender cross-piece at the top of a tall pole while 
I carried it around, or juggled with it. One of them was 
gray, the other yellow. If I dropped a red handkerchief 
on the ground, the yellow one would dart down and 
tramp and toss it about in an apparent frenzy of rage for a 
long while. The other would merely look on in mild sur- 
prise, or come calmly down and stand by idly. 
I once brought home a strange gobbler, a large old fel- 
low. When I dropped him, our old rooster gave a scream 
of rage and hurled himself at — me ! Although a man "and 
a voter," I had to exert myself not a little in self-defense 
with fist and foot. I never found out the cause of his at- 
tack, nor what he was mad about; but I did find, after- 
ward, that a bond of union had been formed between the 
two haughty birds, for whoever touched either was com- 
pelled to defend himself immediately from a savage attack 
by the other, or run away. 
I once knew two young roosters who formed a regular 
"David and Jonathan" attachment for each other which 
continued unbroken all their lives. If there was ever a 
blow or a cross word between 'em, I never knew of it. 
Nor did I ever see or hear of any bird treating another 
with such polite consideration as they constantly showed 
each other. Indeed, their mutual favorings were exces- 
sive — they were the "Alphonse and Gaston" of birddom. 
Only one other dase wthin my knowledge at all ap- 
proaches this. A couple of chicks of opposite sexes, when 
about the size of quail, formed such a romantic, and at 
the same time platonic, regard for each other that they 
withdrew not only from their own family, but from all 
other birds, and, without showing fear of any, carefully 
avoided all. I don't think I ever saw them twenty feet 
apart while they both lived. They did not stray far away 
nor become wild, but behaved as if they each desired no 
other society. They sought the most secluded and un- 
popular resorts, gathered bugs and berries, and were 
happy. Their favorite bower was a tiny hazel grove near 
the shingle mill; but if they saw other birds wandering 
thitherward, they got up and strolled further. They were 
both very beautiful, very quiet and dignified, very gentle ; 
with soft, loving voices, expressive eyes, and altogether 
charming manners. But one day, when they were nearly 
mature size, a hawk swooped down among the hazels and 
caught the male bird. The hen, in her uncontrollable fear, 
fled. But love was powerful, and soon drew her back. 
Something had driven the enemy away, and he had left 
most of her friend's body, or else he had set a trap for 
her, so that he might claim her also. Now, if she had 
been an ordinary^ chicken, she would have begun to eat 
her dead companion without any compunction. But in- 
stead she screamed with horror, and when I went down 
there, taking along my .22 rifle, she was slowly walking 
round and round the silent remains, calling out to him in 
the most pitiable tones of grief I ever thought it possible 
for any bird to utter. She paid little attention to me or 
to my heartfelt words of sympathy, but continued her 
walkings and lamentations. 
Hoping the hawk might come again at once (I didn't 
know much about hawks then), I left the dead bird and 
the living one, and retired some distance to watch for it 
as long as my patience and other duties would permit. 
Needless to say, my vigilance was in vain. For several 
days I visited the spot, filled with a wicked desire toward 
that hawk, or any other that might come near. Every 
day I saw the little hen, wandering sad and alone in the 
vicinity, and listened to her plaintive voice, much like a 
young girl's whose vocal organs are changing, until I 
was too much wrought upon to bear it longer. She now 
gave no heed to any bird flying over, no matter how large, 
and refused^ all food. I feared she desired to die— if a 
bird ever thinks of death — or to have the same destroyer 
of her loved brother take her also away. If so, fate must 
have turned kind to her, for she suddenly disappeared, 
and I saw her no more. I found a bunch of her exceed- 
ingly beautiful feathers near her friend's — that was all. 
The wild turkey mentioned in a former chapter deserves 
mention here, not merely because he was a peacemaker, 
but for other reasons. He became more affectionate to- 
ward me than any of our tame ones ever did, although 
he would never allow me to handle him. As I once re- 
marked to a visitor who was admiring him, "He's like the 
average pet deer — it's all right for him to touch me any- 
where, any time; but I musn't touch him." He would eat 
cut of my hand, and did so to the last, though he grew 
to be a great, independent gobbler, and leader of the 
flock. And wherever I slept, as soon as he found it out, 
he would soar up to the roof, as nearly over me as possi- 
ble. This was more remarkable than at first appears, for 
I slept on porches wherever I thought I could get the 
best air, winter or summer, and in different rooms; and 
while he remained with us we built a new house in the 
yard and moved into it, and again he flew to the roof of 
my bedroom. If I went out, even at midnight, and the 
darkest midnight, and spoke to him ("Hello, Turk!" being 
my usual greeting), he would reply, either with a plaintive 
chirp or a most startling gobble. He went to roost much 
later than the other birds, and often frightened them into 
an unearthly uproar by sailing majestically out of the 
woods in the gathering gloom of night, perhaps at a great 
height, and coming down violently with his great weight 
upon the side of the roof, causing a thump that could 
have been heard an eighth of a mile. He generally struck 
the chicken-house first, removing a few minutes later to 
the roof over my bed, no matter where that might be. 
It was a thrilling sight to see him flying, he looked so 
large and magnificent, yet moved as swiftly and grace- 
fully as a partridge. Unlike most game birds, he never 
seemed to tire of flying. I believe he could have flown 
ten miles without a rest. And his strength of wing was 
prodigious. Now that there are "myth-busters" who deny 
that any eagle ever carried off a child, and declare that 
no eagle could do so, let me tempt their ridicule by say- 
ing that this turkey once came very near flying away with 
me, and with one wing handicapped, too, and my weight 
varies from 150 to 165 pounds; a little greater than the 
average weight of a small child! 
We had, early in his life, tied a strip of bright red flan- 
nel around the scapular part of one wing to cause him to . 
be a little less likely to fall a victim to the heedless, hasty 
hunter; but the feathers had at last grown over so as to 
entirely conceal his "safety badge" most of the time; and 
he kept ranging further and further away, though he still 
came home every night, and always flew straight home 
when frightened by hounds or hunters. We frequently 
got reports of his being seen a mile or more from home. 
So, being anxious about him now, I resolved to catch him 
and rearrange his badge, adding another ribbon to it. 
He was valuable and worth taking trouble to preserve, 
for, in addition to giving strength and vigor to our do- 
mestic flock, he caused divers of the wild turkeys to stray 
within gunshot of Uncle Tom — my father-in-law, who is 
an unquenchable sportsman, but never a pot-hunter, let 
me add. 
Turk came and ate from my hand, as usual, but seemed 
suspicious, for he kept his neck stretched and stood back 
as far as possible, and kept watching my eye as a trained 
boxer might. No living thing is more alert than the 
wild turkeys of this region. Seeing there wasn't the ghost 
of a chance to seize a leg, I suddenly threw myself bodily 
upon him, and snatched the scapular joint of the nearer 
wing just as he turned to fly. There was a very large, 
heavy gate right between him and the woods. The gate 
was 16 feet long and 6 feet or more in height. There 
was a j ump and a wild flutter, and in a moment I let go — 
perhaps to save my face from being beaten to a jelly — and 
dropped right across the sharp top of that gate on my 
ribs. O0-00-00 ! I can almost feel it yet, though it hap- 
pened five or six years ago. Turk flew across the road 
into the bushes, but as soon as I could recover sufficiently 
to call him, he returned, looking as if he thought I had 
entangled with him by accident. But I never caught him, 
and when he was about two years old the long-feared 
thing came to pass — a hunter shot him, and was honest 
enough to own to it, though he would never have known 
him to be other than legitimate prey had he not found the 
badge, which he did, of course, after it was too late. 
None of Turk's descendants were ever as tame or intel- 
ligent as he; yet one — a gobbler of the third generation — 
was even more remarkable in one respect. He was as 
cross and selfish as his grandsire was gentle and chival- 
rous. Our turkeys and chickens always ran out mornings 
and evenings to wrestle with the hogs when the latter 
were fed. In the confusion and struggling one would 
have doubted the ability of any bird to escape alive. The 
turkeys, however, were more cunning and cautious than 
even a wild chicken. Instead of dashing into the midst of 
the herd, as did the chickens, they would dodge warily 
around the outer edges, snatching up a stray grain here 
and there, until the gobbler would at last grab a whole 
ear — he'd always take the largest he could find — and run 
with it. He would rush down toward the brook, followed 
by all the turkeys. He would double here, and dodge 
there, for a time, until most of his pursuers had despaired. 
Two or three old hens, however, would usually keep up 
the chase until they reached the stream. This was done, 
with but slight variations, once or twice every day. Once 
I followed the very last and most determined of the gob- 
bler's pursuers. The brook is . about 100 yards south of 
the corncrib. Now, a turkey is not considered a water 
fowl. But that gobbler waded into the shallow water (it 
was at the ford), holding the big ear of corn as high as he 
could stretch his neck. I supposed he intended to cross; 
but, while the other turkeys hesitated, he laid the ear 
down in the water and began picking at it. It floated 
away, although his mighty blows retarded it somewhat, 
sending it to the bottom every time. Sometimes his huge 
head went under with it, but he cared no more for that 
than a duck might, or at any rate showed no sign of 
chagrin. The hens then waded in and grabbed at the 
elusive prize. He caught it up and went rapidly down 
stream toward deeper water. They followed until it was 
deep enough to wet their breasts, then stopped, dismayed. 
Deeper, deeper went the gobbler, until the ear was dropped 
in a swift current which quickly hurled it into a corner 
of a comparatively calm pool. Here he stood, in water 
almost over his back (deep enough for a small boy to 
swim in), and calmly pecked away at the bobbing ear, ap- 
parently as unconcerned as if alone and on dry ground. 
It was an amazing spectacle, and at the same time a comi- 
cal one. How long it lasted I cannot tell, but too long for 
me to see the end. L. R. Morphew. 
[to be continued.] 
Insect Tenacity of Life. 
Little Rock, Ark., July 23.— Editor Forest and Stream: 
I was very much interested in an article in a recent issue 
on the tenacity of insect life. I have often noticed the 
same thing. .Some experiments on wasps which I once 
made, however, led to results which were surprising, and, 
to say the least, anomalous. Mr. Chapman says that he 
was surprised to see that the insect did not die when he 
cut it in' two between the thorax and abdomen. I ex- 
perienced the same surprise once, but I determined to 
see how far the thing could be carried. There was a 
wasps' nest just outside my window and a number of 
wasps were usually in the room. One day I cut one of 
them in two at the waist. This small loss did not seem 
to worry the wasp at all. He fluttered against the win- 
dow pane just as he did before. This surprised me so 
much that I wanted to see how long one would live thus. 
There were a number of them on the window, and I 
severed them all. After the operation both halves of the 
wasp were still alive. The head, thorax, and wings flew 
about just as the insect had; only the flight was mani- 
festly weaker. The next day this fore part of all of them 
was still able to walk, and most of them to fly. On the 
second day about half of them were dead, and but few 
of them lived till the third day, although a few of them 
were able to crawl then. The abdomens of the insects 
showed unmistakable signs of life after being cut off for 
several hours. This was manifested in the movement of 
the sting. Now for the most remarkable result of these 
crude experiments. Although the wasps would live when 
cut at the point of articulation of abdomen and thorax, 
if they were cut in two further back— i. e., if the abdo- 
men were cut in two, the animal died instantly. Can any- 
one explain why? I once asked a professor of biology 
about it, but he was unable to explain; in fact, the phe- 
nomena was unknown to him till I told him of it. Now, 
obviously, there is nothing in the abdomen so vital to the 
life of the insect, because the whole thing can be cut off. 
Why, then, can it not be cut in two? Does it die of pain 
or nervous shock? Lewis H. Rose. 
A Snake-Hunting Dog. 
Mr. L. R. Morphew's story of "Coallie, the Snake 
Dog," reminds me of Lulu, who was my constant com- 
panion for about six weeks two years ago in Florida. She 
was a cross between the fox terrier and pug. She would 
hunt for and find snakes much as a good setter would find 
quail. She killed all she found, till, much to the disgust 
of my friends who owned chickens, I told her she musn't 
I have the skin of a 6-foot chicken snake which she 
detained for me till I took it with a forked stick. She one 
day, at my command, held at bay by barking, a o-foot 
king snake for about half an hour, till I had studied it all 
I wished, and called her off. Much to my regret, I 
learned that she was recently bitten by a rattler and died. 
Mask E. Noble, 
