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gates, till it quite fades out in the more highly civilized communities!
Animals experience grief over the loss of their young, but not over the death of a member of their flock or tribe. Death itself seems to have no meaning to them. When a bird seems to mourn for its lost mate, its act is probably the outcry of the breeding instinct which has been thwarted.
Do the birds and mammals sympathize with one another? When one bird utters a cry of distress, the birds of other species within hearing will hasten to the spot and join in the cry at least in the breeding season. I have no proof that they will do it at other times. And I do not call this sympathy, but simply the alarm of the parental instinct, which at this season is very sensitive. The alarm-cry of many birds will often put four-footed animals on the lookout. The language of distress and alarm is a universal language, which all creatures understand more or less. But I doubt if sympathy as we know it the keen appreciation of the suffering or the misfortune of another, which implies power in a measure to put ourselves in that other's place -even in its rudimentary form, exists among the lower orders. Among the domestic fowls, a cry of distress from one of them usually alarms the others: a cry from a chicken brings the mother hen to the rescue; this is the maternal instinct, and the instinct of self-preservation which all animals must have or
their race would perish. A certain agonized call from a member of a herd of cattle will at once
bring the other members to the spot, with uplifted heads and threatening horns. This, again, is the instinct of self-preservation. This, I say, animals must have, but they do not have to have sympathy any more than they have to have veneration, or humility, or the aesthetic sense. But fear-think how important this is to them-blind, unreasoning fear, but always alert and suspicious.
Fear in the human species is undoubtedly of animal origin. How acute it often is in young children the fear of the dark, of the big, of the strange, and of the unusual! The first fear I myself remember was that of an open door at night leading into a dark room. What a horror I felt at that mysterious cavernous darkness ! and this without idea of the danger that might lurk there. The next fear I recall was a kind of panic, when I was probably three or four years of age, at the sight of a henhawk sailing against the sky above me. I hurriedly climbed over the wall and hid behind it. Later, when I was ten or twelve years age, my fear took a less animal form a fear of spooks and hobgoblins, induced, no doubt, by the fearsome superstitions of my elders. Now I am not conscious of any physical or superstitious fears, but there is plenty of moral cowardice left. My little granddaughter, when two and a half years old, was
filled with terror of the sea as she saw it for the first time from the beach.
Fear seems to have the same effect upon both man and beast, causing trembling of the muscles, a rapid beating of the heart, a relaxation of the sphincters, momentary weakness, confusion, panic, flight. It would be interesting to know if the blood leaves the capillaries in the faces of animals during sudden fright, as it does in man, producing paleness.
The panic that sometimes seizes a multitude of animals, resulting in a stampede, a blind, furious rush away from the real or the imaginary danger, seems to differ but little from that which at times seizes the human multitude in theatre, or circus, or on the field of battle. It is a kind of madness, augmented and intensified by numbers. The contagion of fear works among all creatures, like the contagion of joy, or anger, or any other sudden impulse. These things are " catching;" an emotional state in one man or one animal tends to beget the same state in all other near-by men or animals, either through imitation, or through some psychic law not well understood. Like begets like throughout nature. Just as our bodily temperature rises in a crowd, so does that psychic state become more acute in which we are liable to sudden enthusiasms or panic, fear or animal cruelty. Mobs are guilty of things, especially in the way of violence, that the separate members of them would never think of
doing, just as nations and corporations will exhibit a meanness and hoggishness that would shame the individuals composing them.
It is a question whether or not the lower animals ever experience the feeling we know as revenge that they cherish a hatred or a secret enmity toward one of their own kind or toward a person, in the absence of that person or fellow. Their power of association, which is undoubted, would call up the old anger on the sight of an object that had injured them, but they probably do not in the meantime carry any feeling of ill-will as we do, because they do not form mental concepts. And yet I have known things to happen that point that way. It is well known that the blue jay destroys the eggs of other birds. One day I found a nest of a blue jay with its five eggs freshly punctured - each egg with a small hole in it as if made by the beak of a small bird, as it doubtless had been. Was this revenge on the part of some victim of the jay's? One can only conjecture. Roosevelt tells this curiously human anecdote of a bear. A female grizzly was found by a hunter lying across a game trail in the woods. The hunter shot the bear as she was about to charge him, and on examining the spot where she had been lying, he found that it was the freshly made grave of her cub. He conjectured that a male grizzly or a cougar had killed the cub in the absence of the mother, and that on her return she had buried it,
and had lain down upon the grave waiting to wreak her vengeance upon the murderer of her young. But this may be only the plausible human interpretation of the fact. Just what the bear's state of mind was, we have no means of knowing.
The dog undoubtedly exhibits more human traits than any other lower animal, and this by reason of his long association with man. There are few of our ordinary emotions that the dog does not share, as joy, fun, love of adventure, jealousy, suspicion, comradeship, helpfulness, guilt, covetousness, and the like, or feelings analogous to these the dog version of them. I am not sure but that the dog is capable of contempt. The behavior at times of a large dog toward a small, the slights he will put upon him, even ejecting his urine upon him, is hardly capable of any other interpretation. The forbearance, too, which a large dog usually shows toward a touchy little whiffet, never resenting its impudent attacks, is very human. "A barking dog never bites" is an old saying founded upon human nature as well as upon dog nature. The noisy blusterer is rarely dangerous, whether man or dog. I do not agree with Stevenson that the dog is a snob. The key to a dog's heart is kindness. He will always meet you halfway and more. I have been asked why the farm dog usually shows such hostility to tramps and all disreputable-looking persons. It is not their looks that disturb the dog, but