The Babyhood of Wild Beasts/Preface
PREFACE
I was prompted by my love for wild animals to write this book.
Among my wild pets was one—a lion cub—who was so near and dear to me, that because of the love I bore him, I gained a clearer insight into the lives of other animals.
He was a woolly little rascal just a week old when I first saw him. I took him in my arms and snuggled him against my breast and kissed his round baby face freckled with black spots. He liked the caress and kissed back in his clumsy baby way. We loved each other from the first and became great friends. We played together every day and I took him little play-things that I thought would amuse him. He was so intensely interested in everything that was new to him. Whether it was a new ball to roll or some animal he had not seen before, or a little child, it was all the same to "Pompey"—they were most important and must be carefully studied. He wanted to make friends with everybody and everything from the huge hulking hippo down to a stray bull pup. They were alive and lovable and the little fellow did his best to show his appreciation. A ball of twine set him into ecstasies. He would roll over and over, curling the twine ball until he was completely and hopelessly entangled. Then he would whine plaintively, begging to be helped. After I had released him he would run back and forth and do all his cute little tricks to show his gratitude.
I had a gold topped hand bag that Pompey especially liked, and it was always an issue between us to whom that bag rightfully belonged, him or me. We'd have a tug of war every day with that bag. His milk teeth grew rapidly and once he got a grip on the bag, it was all I could do to hold my own with him. Once he got it and ran round and round holding his head proudly as much as to say: "There you see, I beat you to it." I succeeded in regaining the bag by strategy. However, Pompey forgave me. He held my hand between his big paws and licked it long and caressingly. I smoothed his furry head and talked softly to him. He watched me closely as you sometimes see a dog look into the eyes of his master while he is speaking, as though he understood every word.
One day I found the little fellow sick. I looked at him stretched out before me and realised for the first time that my little roly-poly pet had grown into a long, lean, lanky, young lion.
We had been such close friends I hadn't noticed the great change until I saw him under different conditions. I won't linger over the tragedy. One morning we found him cold and stiff lying in his hammock and a little sparrow chirping on the window sill beside him. His dear spirit had gone back to God that gave it and I was alone with my dead. Sometimes I take from the drawer a handbag worn and rusty from which half the beads are gone, with the golden clasps bitten and bent. The twilight playtime comes back to me and I see a tawny little lion playing tug o' war with me. The tears rush to my eyes as I lay it gently away and through the mist I see his kingly little head lifted proudly as much as to say, "There! You see I beat you to it!"
I was born and lived on the Frontier during my childhood. Neighbours were scarce, and children were scarcer, so I sought the wild kindred for a playmate.
Wild animals were abundant, and I soon found companions among the wild Rocky Mountain goats and smaller creatures. I can't remember the time when I didn't love them. Wild animals have always seemed intensely human to me. I am in sympathy with their struggles for existence, their fears, their sorrows and their loves. Little baby animals are intensely human and appealing. Helpless little bundles of Love they are to me.
They are so interested in the many things that impress themselves upon their consciousness. The wind moaning through the pines fills them with fear and trembling and they anxiously seek the shelter of their mother's warm comforting presence and mew questioningly while she soothes their fears with kisses and caresses. Her babies are very dear to the wild mother; so precious, in truth, that she will gladly give her own life if need be for their protection. Could a human mother do more? She's a tender and patient teacher, this wild mother; her little ones must be taught self-protection, a knowledge of wood craft and forest lore, who are enemies and who are friends.
The hunted creatures develop a marvellous sagacity for detecting signs and scents and prove in many ways that experience and careful training stands them in better stead than instinct. Animals are gifted with natural endowments the same as human beings are—no two animals are mentally equal. Consequently the brighter ones are apt to enjoy longer life and a greater degree of prosperity than their more stupid brothers. Some excel in thrift, others in cunning, great speed, endurance, foresight, a highly developed organism for sensing things, the ability to plan, to execute, command, serve and obey. Such are the things they have in common with us.
In writing this book I have tried to be true to the last detail. This work is not fiction. It is a true account of my observations, experiments and studies, and the knowledge and authentic reports of recognised natural scientists.
I desire to acknowledge my indebtedness and gratitude to Dr. WIlliam T. Hornaday, and his associates of the New York Zoological Society, for valuable assistance rendered in the writing of this book. Lacking the opportunity to study the animals at close range and under many varying conditions, "THE BABYHOOD OF WILD BEASTS" could not otherwise have been written.
I am further indebted to the American Museum of Natural History for much courtesy and valuable assistance in the compilation of this work. The British Zoological Society was drawn upon for valuable information and photographs. Central Park gave generously of material and opportunity for studying the young animals.