one of these half-wild hens with her brood; her distracted
screams and motions would then cause her chicks to
scatter and vanish in all directions, and, until the
supposed danger was past, they would lie as close
and well-concealed as young partridges. These
fowls in summer always lived in small parties, each
party composed of one cock and as many hens as he
could collect—usually three or four.
Each family occupied its own feeding ground, where
it would pass a greater portion of each day.
The hen would nest at a considerable distance from
the feeding ground, sometimes as far as four or five
hundred yards away. After laying an egg she would
quit the nest, not walking from it as other fowls
do, but flying, the flight extending to a distance
of from fifteen to about fifty yards; after which,
still keeping silence, she would walk or run, until,
arrived at the feeding ground, she would begin to
cackle. At once the cock, if within hearing, would
utter a responsive cackle, whereupon she would run
to him and cackle no more. Frequently the cackling
call-note would not be uttered more than two or three
times, sometimes only once, and in a much lower tone
than in fowls of other breeds.
If we may assume that these fowls, in their long,
semi-independent existence in La Plata, have reverted
to the original instincts of the wild Gallus bankiva,
we can see here how advantageous the cackling instinct
must be in enabling the hen in dense tropical jungles
to rejoin the flock after laying an egg. If there
are egg-eating animals in the jungle intelligent enough
to discover the meaning of such a short, subdued cackling
call, they would still be unable to find the nest by
going back on the bird’s scent, since she flies
from the nest in the first place; and the wild bird
probably flies further than the creolla hen of La
Plata. The clamorous cackling of our fowls would
appear then to be nothing more than a perversion of
a very useful instinct.
THE MEPHITIC SKUNK.
It might possibly give the reader some faint conception
of the odious character of this creature (for adjectives
are weak to describo it) when I say that, in talking
to strangers from abroad, I have never thought it
necessary to speak of sunstroke, jaguars, or the assassin’s
knife, but have never omitted to warn them of the
skunk, minutely describing its habits and personal
appearance.
I knew an Englishman who, on taking a first gallop
across the pampas, saw one, and, quickly dismounting,
hurled himself bodily on to it to effect its capture.
Poor man! he did not know that the little animal is
never unwilling to be caught. Men have been blinded
for ever by a discharge of the fiery liquid full in
their faces. On a mucous membrane it burns like
sulphuric acid, say the unfortunates who have had the
experience. How does nature protect the skunk
itself from the injurious effects of its potent fluid?
