And in the woods about Senegal there is a bird called uett-uett by the negroes, and squallers by the French, which, as soon as they see a man, set up a loud scream, and keep flying round him, as if their intent was to warn other birds, which upon hearing the cry immediately take wing.  These birds are the bane of sportsmen, and frequently put me into a passion, and obliged me to shoot them, (Adanson’s Voyage to Senegal, 78).  For the same intent the lesser birds of our climate seem to fly after a hawk, cuckoo, or owl, and scream to prevent their companions from being surprised by the general enemies of themselves, or of their eggs and progeny.

But the lapwing, (charadrius pluvialis Lin.) when her unfledged offspring run about the marshes, where they were hatched, not only gives the note of alarm at the approach of men or dogs, that her young may conceal themselves; but flying and screaming near the adversary, she appears more felicitous and impatient, as he recedes from her family, and thus endeavours to mislead him, and frequently succeeds in her design.  These last instances are so apposite to the situation, rather than to the natures of the creatures, that use them; and are so similar to the actions of men in the same circumstances, that we cannot but believe, that they proceed from a similar principle.

Miss M.E.  Jacson acquainted me, that she witnessed this autumn an agreeable instance of sagacity in a little bird, which seemed to use the means to obtain an end; the bird repeatedly hopped upon a poppy-stem, and shook the head with its bill, till many seeds were scattered, then it settled on the ground, and eat the seeds, and again repeated the same management.  Sept. 1, 1794.

On the northern coast of Ireland a friend of mine saw above a hundred crows at once preying upon muscles; each crow took a muscle up into the air twenty or forty yards high, and let it fall on the stones, and thus by breaking the shell, got possession of the animal.—­A certain philosopher (I think it was Anaxagoras) walking along the sea-shore to gather shells, one of these unlucky birds mistaking his bald head for a stone, dropped a shell-fish upon it, and killed at once a philosopher and an oyster.

Our domestic animals, that have some liberty, are also possessed of some peculiar traditional knowledge:  dogs and cats have been forced into each other’s society, though naturally animals of a very different kind, and have hence learned from each other to eat dog’s grass (agrostis canina) when they are sick, to promote vomiting.  I have seen a cat mistake the blade of barley for this grass, which evinces it is an acquired knowledge.  They have also learnt of each other to cover their excrement and urine;—­about a spoonful of water was spilt upon my hearth from the tea-kettle, and I observed a kitten cover it with ashes.  Hence this must also be an acquired art, as the creature mistook the application of it.