Kitabı oku: «Aileen Aroon, A Memoir», sayfa 12
Chapter Twenty.
My Cabin Mates – Concluded
“The spider spreads her web, whether she be
In poet’s towers, cellar or barn or tree.”
Shelley.
The spider, however, is the great enemy of the small genus of cockroaches. These spiders are queer little fellows. They do not build a web for a fly-trap, but merely for a house. For the capture of their prey, they have a much more ingenious method than any I have ever seen, a process which displays a marvellous degree of ingenuity and cleverness on the part of the spider, and proves that they are not unacquainted with some of the laws of mechanics. Having determined to treat himself to fresh meat, the wary little thing (I forgot to say that the creature, although very small in proportion to the generality of tropical spiders, is rather bigger than our domestic spider, and much stronger) emerges from his house, in a corner of the cabin roof, and, having attached one end of a thread to a beam in the roof, about six inches from the bulkhead, he crawls more than half-way down the bulkhead, and attaching the thread here again, goes a little further down, and waits. By-and-by, some unwary ’roach crawls along, between the second attachment of the thread and the spider; instantly the latter rushes from his station, describes half a circle round his victim, lets go the second attachment of the thread – which has now become entangled about the legs of the ’roach – and, by some peculiar movement, which I do not profess to understand, the cockroach is swung off the bulkhead, and hangs suspended by the feet in mid-air; and very foolish he looks; so at least must think the spider, as he coolly stands on the bulkhead quietly watching the unavailing struggles of the animal which he has so nimbly done for; for Marwood himself could not have done the thing half so neatly. The spider now regains the beam to which the thread is attached, and, sailor-like, slides down the little rope, and approaches his victim; and first, as its kicking might interfere with the further domestic arrangements of its body, the ’roach is killed, by having a hole eaten out of its head between the eyes. This being accomplished, the next thing is to bring home the butcher-meat; and the manner in which this difficult task is performed is nothing less than wonderful. A thread is attached to the lower part of the body of the ’roach; the spider then “shins” up its rope with this thread, and attaches it so high that the body is turned upside down; it then hauls on the other thread, turns the body once more, and again attaches the thread; and this process is repeated till the dead cockroach is by degrees hoisted up to the beam, and deposited in a corner near the door of its domicile. But the wisdom of the spider is still further shown in what is done next. It knows very well – so, at least, it would appear – that its supply of food will soon decay; and being unacquainted with the properties of salt, it proceeds to enclose the body of the ’roach in a glutinous substance of the form of a chrysalis or air-tight case. It is, in fact, hermetically sealed, and in this way serves the spider as food for more than a week. There is at one end a little hole, which is, no doubt, closed up after every meal.
In my cabin, besides the common earwigs, which were not numerous, and were seldom seen, I found there were a goodly number of scorpions, none of which, however, were longer than two inches. I am not aware that they did me any particular damage, further than inspiring me with horror and disgust. It was very unpleasant to put down your hand for a book, and to find a scorpion beneath your fingers – a hard, scaly scorpion – and then to hear him crack below your boot, and to be sensible of the horrid odour emitted from the body: these things were not pleasant. Those scorpions which live in ships are of a brown colour, and not dangerous; it is the large green scorpion, so common in the islands of East Africa, which you must be cautious in handling, for children, it is said, frequently die from the effects of this scorpion’s sting. But a much more loathsome and a really dangerous creature is the large green centipede of the tropics. Of these things, the natives themselves have more horror than of any serpent whatever, not excepting the common cobra, and many a tale they have to tell you of people who have been bitten, and have soon after gone raving mad, and so died. They are from six to twelve inches in length, and just below the neck are armed with a powerful pair of sharp claws, like the nails of a cat, with which they hold on to their victim while they bite; and if once fairly fastened into the flesh, they require to be cut out. While lying at the mouth of the Revooma River, we had taken on board some green wood, and with it many centipedes of a similar colour. One night, about a week afterwards, I had turned in, and had nearly fallen asleep, when I observed a thing on my curtain – luckily on the outside – which very quickly made me wide awake. It was a horrid centipede, about nine inches long. It appeared to be asleep, and had bent itself in the form of the letter S. I could see its golden-green skin by the light of my lamp, and its wee shiny eyes, that, I suppose, never close, and for the moment I was almost terror-struck. I knew if I moved he would be off, and I might get bitten another time – indeed, I never could have slept again in my cabin, had he not been taken. The steward came at my call; and that functionary, by dint of caution and the aid of a pair of forceps, deposited the creature in a bottle of spirits of wine, which stood at hand always ready to receive such specimens. I have it now beside me; and my Scotch landlady, who seemed firmly impressed with the idea that all my diabolical-looking specimens of lizards and various other creeping things are the productions of sundry unhappy patients, remarked concerning my centipede: “He maun hae been a sick and a sore man ye took that ane oot o’, doctor.”
But a worse adventure befell an engineer of ours. He was doing duty in the stokehole, when one of these loathsome creatures actually crept up under his pantaloons. He was an old sailor, and a cool one, and he knew that if he attempted to kill or knock it off, the claws would be inserted on the instant. Cautiously he rolled down his dress, and spread a handkerchief on his leg a short distance before the centipede, which was moving slowly and hesitatingly upwards. It was a moment of intense excitement, both for those around him as well as for the man himself. Slowly it advanced, once it stopped, then moved on again, and crossed on to the handkerchief, and the engineer was saved; on which he immediately got sick, and I was sent for, heard the story, and received the animal, which I placed beside the other.
More pleasant and amusing companions and cabin mates were the little ants, a whole colony of which lived in almost every available corner of my sanctum. Wonderfully wise they are too, and very strong, and very proud and “clannish.” Their prey is the large cockroach. If you kill one of these, and place it in the centre of the cabin, parties of ants troop in from every direction – I might say, a regiment from each clan; and consequently there is a great deal of fighting and squabbling, and not much is done, except that the cockroach is usually devoured on the spot. If, however, the dead ’roach be placed near some corner where an army of ants are encamped, they soon emerge from the camp in hundreds, down they march in a stream, and proceed forthwith to carry it away. Slowly up the bulkhead moves the huge brute, impelled by the united force of half a thousand, and soon he is conveyed to the top. Here, generally, there is a beam to be crossed, where the whole weight of the giant ’roach has to be sustained by these Liliputians, with their heads downward; and more difficult still is the rounding of the corner. Very often, the ants here make a most egregious mistake; while hundreds are hauling away at each leg, probably a large number get on top of the ’roach, and begin tugging away with all their might, and consequently their burden tumbles to the deck; but the second time he is taken up, this mistake is not made. These creatures send out regular spies, which return to report when they have found anything worth taking to headquarters; then the foraging-party goes out, and it is quite a sight to see the long serpentine line, three or four deep, streaming down the bulkhead and over the deck, and apparently having no end. They never march straight before them; their course is always wavy; and it is all the more strange that those coming up behind should take exactly the same course, so that the real shape of the line of march never changes. Perhaps this is effected by the officer-ants, which you may see, one here, one there, all along the line. By the officer-ants I mean a large-sized ant (nearly double), that walks along by the side of the marching army, like ants in authority. They are black (the common ant being brown), and very important, too, they look, and are no doubt deeply impressed by the responsibility of their situation and duties, running hither and thither – first back, then to the side, and sometimes stopping for an instant with another officer, as if to give or receive orders, and then hurrying away again. These are the ants, I have no doubt, that are in command, and also act as engineers and scouts, for you can always see one or two of them running about, just before the main body comes on – probably placing signal-staffs, and otherwise determining the line of march. They seem very energetic officers too, and allow no obstacle to come in their way, for I have often known the line of march to lie up one side of my white pants, over my knees, and down the other. I sat thus once till a whole army passed over me – a very large army it was too, and mightily tried my patience. When the rear-guard had passed over, I got up and walked away, which must have considerably damaged the calculations of the engineers on their march back.
Of the many species of flies found in my cabin, I shall merely mention two – namely, the silly fly – which is about the size of a pin-head, and furnished with two high wings like the sails of a Chinese junk; they come on board with the bananas, and merit the appellation of silly from the curious habit they have of running about with their noses down, as if earnestly looking for something which they cannot find; they run a little way, stop, change their direction, and run a little further, stop again, and so on, ad infinitum, in a manner quite amusing to any one who has time to look at and observe them – and the hammer-legged fly (the Foenus of naturalists), which possesses two long hammer-like legs, that stick out behind, and have a very curious appearance. This fly has been accused of biting, but I have never found him guilty. He seems to be continually suffering from a chronic stage of shaking-palsy. Wherever he alights – which is as often on your nose as anywhere else – he stands for a few seconds shaking in a manner which is quite distressing to behold, then flies away, with his two hammers behind him, to alight and shake on some other place – most likely your neighbour’s nose. It seems to me, indeed, that flies have a penchant for one’s nose. Nothing, too, is more annoying than those same house-flies in warm countries. Suppose one alights on the extreme end of your nasal apparatus, you of course drive him off; he describes two circles in the air, and alights again on the same spot; and this you may do fifty times, and at the fifty-first time, back he comes with a saucy hum-m, and takes his seat again, just as if your nose was made for him to go to roost upon, and for no other purpose at all; so that you are either obliged to sit and smile complacently with a fly on the end of your proboscis, or, if you are clever and supple-jointed, follow him all round the room till you have killed him; then, probably, back you come with a face beaming with gratification, and sit down to your book again, when bum-m-m! there is your friend once more, and you have killed the wrong fly.
In an hospital, nothing is more annoying than these flies; sleep by day is sometimes entirely out of the question, unless the patient covers his face, which is by no means agreeable on a hot day. Mosquitoes, too, are troublesome customers to a stranger, for they seem to prefer the blood of a stranger to that of any one else. The mosquito is a beautiful, feathery-horned midge, with long airy legs, and a body and wings that tremble with their very fineness and grace. The head and shoulders are bent downward at almost a right angle, as if the creature had fallen on its head and broken its back; but, for all its beauty, the mosquito is a hypocritical little scoundrel, who comes singing around you, apparently so much at his ease, and looking so innocent and gentle, that one would imagine butter would hardly melt in his naughty little mouth. He alights upon your skin with such a light and fairy tread, inserts his tube, and sucks your blood so cleverly, that the mischief is done long before you are aware, and he is off again singing as merrily as ever. Probably, if you look about the curtain, you may presently find him gorged with your blood, and hardly able to fly – an unhappy little midge now, very sick, and with all his pride fallen; so you catch and kill him; and serve him right too!
I should deem this chapter incomplete if I omitted to say a word about another little member of the company in my crowded cabin – a real friend, too, and a decided enemy to all the rest of the creeping genera about him. I refer to a chameleon I caught in the woods and tamed. His principal food consisted in cockroaches, which he caught very cleverly, and which, before eating, he used to beat against the deck to soften. He lived in a little stone-jar, which made a very cool house for him, and to which he periodically retired to rest; and very indignant he was, too, if any impudent cockroach, in passing, raised itself on its fore-legs to look in. Instant pursuit was the consequence, and his colour came and went in a dozen different hues as he seized and beat to death the intruder on his privacy. He seemed to know me, and crawled about me. My buttons were his chief attraction; he appeared to think they were made for him to hang on to by the tail; and he would stand for five minutes at a time on my shoulder, darting his tongue in every direction at the unwary flies which came within his reach; and, upon the whole, I found him a very useful little animal indeed. These lizards are very common as pets among the sailors on the coast of Africa, who keep them in queer places sometimes, as the following conversation, which I heard between two sailors at Cape Town, will show.
“Look here, Jack, what I’ve got in my ’bacca-box.”
“What is it?” said Jack – “an evil spirit?”
“No,” said the other, as unconcernedly as if it might have been an evil spirit, but wasn’t – “no! a chameleon;” which he pronounced kammy-lion.
“Queer lion that ’ere, too,” replied Jack.
But, indeed, there are few creatures which a sailor will not attempt to tame.
Chapter Twenty One.
Containing a Tale to Banish the Creepies
“The noblest mind the best contentment has.”
Spenser.
“Now,” said Frank, next night (we are all assembled drinking tea on the lawn), “after all those tales about your foreign favourites, and your pet creepie-creepies, I think the best thing you can do is to come nearer home and change your tactics.”
“I was dreaming about cockroaches last night,” said my wife; “and you know, dear, they are my pet aversion.”
“Yes,” cried Ida; “do tell us a story to banish the creepies.”
“Well then, here goes. I’ll tell you a story about a pet donkey and Nero’s son, ‘Hurricane Bob.’ Will that do? And we’ll call it – ”
Jeannie’s Boarding-house: A Seaside Story
“Jeannie was an ass. I do not make this remark in any disparaging way, for a more interesting member of the genus donkey never, I believe, stood upon four legs. Indeed, I do not think I would be going too far if I said that I have known many individuals not half so wise who stood upon two. Now, although I mention Jeannie in the past tense, it is because she is not present with me, but she is still, I believe, alive and well, and is at this moment, I have little doubt, quietly cropping the grass on her own green field, or gazing pensively at the ocean from the Worthing sands.
“I must tell you who was my travelling companion when I first made the acquaintance of the heroine of this little sketch. He was a very large jet-black Newfoundland dog. Such a fellow! And with such a coat too, not one curly hair in all his jacket, all as straight as quills, and as sheeny as the finest satin. Hurricane Bob can play in the sea, toying with the waves for hours, and still not be wet quite to the skin, and when he comes on shore again he just gives himself a shake or two, buckets of water fly in all directions, for the time being he looks like an animated mop, then away he feathers across the sands, and in a few minutes he is dry enough for the drawing-room. Bob is quite an aristocrat in his own way, and every inch a gentleman – one glance at his beautiful face and his wide, thoughtful eyes would convince you of this – nor, on being introduced to him, would you be surprised to be told that not only is he a winner of many prizes himself, but that his father is a champion dog, and his grandfather before him as well. I do not think that Hurricane Bob – or Master Robert, as we call him on high days and holidays – has a single fault, unless probably the habit he has of going tearing along the streets and roads, when out for a walk, at the rate of twenty miles an hour. It is this habit which has gained for him the sobriquet of Hurricane; it is sometimes a little awkward for the lieges, but to his credit be it said that whenever he runs down a little boy or girl he never fails to stop and apologise on the spot, licking the hands of the prostrate one, and saying, as plainly as a dog can speak, ‘There, there, I didn’t really mean to hurt you, and you’ll be all right again in a minute.’
“We called the place where Jeannie lived, at Worthing, Jeannie’s boarding-house. It was a nice roomy stable, with a coach-house, a yard for exercise, and a loose-box. The door of the stable was always left open at Jeannie’s request, so that she could go out and in as she pleased. The loose-box was told off to Hurricane Bob; he had a dish of nice clean water, a box to hold his dog-biscuits, and plenty of dry straw, so he was as happy as a king.
“When his landlady, Jeannie, first saw him she sniffed him all over, while Bob looked up in her face.
“‘Just you be careful, old lady,’ said Bob, ‘for I might be tempted to catch you by the nose.’
“But Jeannie was satisfied.
“‘You’ll do, doggie,’ she said; ‘there doesn’t seem to be an ounce of real harm in your whole composition.’
“The other members of Jeannie’s boarding establishment were about twenty hens, old and young, more useful perhaps than ornamental. Now, any other landlady in the world would have had a bad time of it with this ill-bred feathered squad, for they were far from polite to her, and constantly grumbling about their food; they said they hadn’t enough of it, and that it was not good what they did get. Then they were continually squabbling or fighting with each other; the little fowls always stole all the big pieces, and the big fowls chased and pecked the little ones all round the yard in consequence, till their backs, under their feathers, must have been black and blue, and they hadn’t peace to eat the portion they had stolen. ‘Tick, tuck,’ the big fowl would say; ‘tick, tuck, take that, and that; tick, tuck, that’s what greed gets.’
“But Jeannie was a philosopher, she simply looked at them with those quiet brown eyes of hers, shook one ear, and said —
“‘Grumble away, grumble away, I’m too well known to be afraid of ye; ye can’t bring disgrace on my hotel. Hee, haw! Haw, hee! There!’
“Hurricane Bob paid his bill every morning and every night with a dog-biscuit. The first morning I offered Jeannie the biscuit she looked at me.
“‘Do you take me for a dog?’ she asked. Then she sniffed it. ‘It do smell uncommonly nice,’ she said; ‘I’ll try it, anyhow.’ So she took the cake in her mouth, and marched into the yard; but returned almost immediately, still holding it between her teeth.
“‘What’s the correct way to eat it?’ she inquired.
“‘That’s what I want you to find out,’ I said.
“Poor Jeannie! she tried to break it against the door, then against the wall, and finally against the paving stone, but it resisted all her efforts. Then, ‘Oh! I know,’ she cried. ‘You puts it on the ground, and holes it like a turnip.’ N.B. – I’m not accountable for Jeannie’s bad grammar.
“Every morning, when I came to see Master Robert, Jeannie ran to meet me, and put her great head under my arm for a cuddle. She called me Arthur, but that isn’t my name. She pronounced the first syllable in a double bass key, and the second in a shrill treble. Ar – thur! Haw, hee! Haw, hee!
“She was funny, was Jeannie. Some mornings, as soon as she caught sight of me, she used to go off into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, then she would apologise.
“‘I can’t help it, Arthur,’ she seemed to say. ‘It does seem rude, I daresay, but I really can’t help it. It’s the sight of you that does it. Hee, haw! Hee, haw!’
“One day, and one day only, Bob and his landlady nearly had a quarrel. Jeannie, having eaten her own biscuit, burst into the loose-box, to help the dog with his. ‘Ho, ho!’ said Hurricane Robert, ‘you’ve come to raise the rent, have ye? Just look at this, old lady.’ As he spoke, the dog lifted one lip, and showed such a display of alabaster teeth, that Jeannie was glad to retire without raising the rent.
“What was Jeannie like, did you ask? Why, straight in back and strong in limb, with beautiful long ears to switch away the flies in summer, with mild, intelligent eyes of hazel brown, and always a soft, smooth patch on the top of her nose for any one to kiss who was so minded. In winter Jeannie was rough in coat. She preferred it, she said, because it kept out the cold, and made an excellent saddle for her three little playmates to ride upon. Of these she was exceedingly fond, and never more pleased and proud than when the whole three of them were on her back at one time – wee, brown-eyed, laughing Lovat S – ; young Ernie, bold and bright and free; and little winsome Winnie C – .
“To be sure they often fell off, but there was where the fun and the glee lay, especially when Jeannie sometimes bent her nose to the ground and let them all tumble on the sand in a heap. And that, you know, was Jeannie’s joke, and one that she was never tired of repeating.
“In summer Jeannie shone, positively shone, all over like a race-horse or a boatman beetle, and then I can tell you it was no easy matter for her playmates to stick on her back at all. She was particularly partial, as you have seen, to the society of human beings, and brightened up wonderfully as soon as a friend appeared on the scene, but I think when alone she was rather of a contemplative turn of mind. There was a rookery not far from Jeannie’s abode, and at this she never tired gazing.
“‘Well,’ said Jeannie to me one day, ‘they do be funny creatures, those rooks. I don’t think I should like to live up there, Ar – thur. And they’re always a-fighting too, just like my boarders be, and never a thing do they say from morning till night but caw, caw, caw. Now if they could only make a few remarks like this, Haw, hee! Haw, hee! Haw hee!’
“‘Oh! don’t, pray don’t, Jeannie,’ I cried, with my fingers in my ears.
“And now, then, what do you think made Jeannie such a bright, loving, and intelligent animal? Why, kindness and good treatment.
“Dear old Jeannie, I may never gaze upon her classic countenance again, but I shall not forget her. In my mind’s eye I see her even now, as I last beheld her. The sun had just gone down, behind a calm and silent sea; scarcely do the waves speak as they break in ripples on the sand, they do but whisper. And the clouds are tipped with gold and crimson, and far away in the offing is a ship, a single ship, and these are all the signs of life there are about, save Jeannie on the beach. Alone.
“I wonder what she was thinking about.”
