The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Training of Wild Animals, by Frank Charles Bostock, Edited by Ellen Velvin

THE TRAINING OF
WILD ANIMALS

Frank C Bostock

THE TRAINING
OF WILD ANIMALS

BY
FRANK C. BOSTOCK

EDITED BY
ELLEN VELVIN, F.Z.S.

AUTHOR OF “RATAPLAN: A ROGUE
ELEPHANT,” ETC.

NEW YORK
THE CENTURY CO.

Copyright, 1903, by
The Century Co.
Published July, 1903

Printed in U. S. A.

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED
TO MY SON
FRANCIS EDWARD BOSTOCK

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

[*] From photographs by Hall.

EDITOR’S NOTE

Before editing this book, I took the opportunity offered by Mr. Frank C. Bostock of practically living in one of his animal exhibitions for a few weeks, in order to see things as they were, and not as I had always heard of them.

I was allowed to go in and out at all times and all hours; to enter the training-schools whenever I liked; to go behind the runways and cages,—a special privilege given to the trainers only, as a rule,—and to be a spectator of whatever happened to be going on at the time.

The thing which interested me most, and to which I paid special attention, was that at no time in this exhibition did I once see the slightest act of cruelty in any way. Each one of the trainers and keepers had pride in his own special animals, and I had many proofs of their kindness and consideration to their charges. The sick animals were most carefully looked after and doctored, and in one case of a lion cub having convulsions, I noticed dim eyes in more than one keeper when the poor little animal was convulsed and racked with suffering.

Had I seen the least cruelty or neglect in any way, I need scarcely say nothing would have induced me to edit this book.

Ellen Velvin.

New York City,
June 8th, 1903.

PREFACE

The big and little men and women of the jungle have ever fascinated me. As a child, I used often to romp with cubs attached to the traveling menageries of my parents and grandfather. Most of my boyhood, and virtually all of my youth, was passed in the almost daily companionship of wild animals. At no time have these far-traveled aliens failed to interest me. Indeed, I believe the subject engrosses me more to-day than it ever did. No two members of a species are alike. Their individualities are as clearly marked as are ours of the bigger life. I early learned that certain traits of my animal acquaintances were easily to be likened to qualities of real men and women. Longer acquaintance ripened my knowledge and understanding. Many and many a lion and tiger have I known that were quite as mean and untrustworthy as men. Others I met in plenty who would scorn an unfair advantage. Most of them I found to be fair, considerate, friendly, and genuinely affectionate. In time I learned to understand my fellows of the cages, got as close, perhaps, as it is possible for man to get to mute creatures, and enjoyed the assurance that they understood and appreciated me.

In my earlier years, I didn’t, I fear, altogether appreciate the good fortune of this companionship; but later, when maturity and reflection illumined my way, I was duly grateful for these friends, and, from being fond of but some, gradually grew to love all. Recognizing as I did with my broadening life the limitations of their knowledge of us, I learned not to blame the slow or the rebellious.

At about this period of my career as a trainer and exhibitor, it occurred to me that perhaps I was wrong in being the jailer of these friends; that doubtless their original freedom of forest, desert, and jungle was their right,—one that could not be trespassed upon with honesty. The question of whether I was wrong or right bothered me for a long while, and many an ache I had while wrestling with it. I saw these untamed men and women back in their own; saw them crouching at night in hidden fastnesses, awaiting the coming of prey; saw tragedies of the jungle; recalled too frequent ravages of human life, sometimes from hunger and again through sheer lust. I traced to authentic sources long records of these acquaintances of mine found on their own playgrounds dying and dead from hunger and thirst or the shot of the hunter of sport or gain. I thought, in these reflections, of the horse in his first wild state, of the zebra and the elephant; how these had been reclaimed from truculence with benefit to themselves and humanity. I considered, too, the demands of modern education, the obligations of natural historians, the incalculable value of living objects for study. I knew my friends of the jungle suffered no discomforts with me.

My problem then resolved itself to this: Should I recommit my charges back to their own, and cease abetting further captures, or should I continue to guard and cherish my friends, thus saving them and their weaker neighbors from the certain evils of the wilds?

Surely, I reasoned, their better welfare is assured here with me; they never hunger, thirst, suffer violent deaths, nor administer any. Incontestably they show that captivity is not a hardship. Feeling thus, can I conscientiously abandon them, where by continuing I may benefit them and others.

The result of these and like deliberations was a decision to continue the work of my forebears.

The training of my dumb companions is never cruel,—less so, perhaps, when the difference of organization is considered, than the firmness exercised occasionally in the correction of an evilly disposed child. Kindness is the whip used to lead wild animals to obey. Without it none can be made to understand. With confidence, established and maintained by kindness and gentleness, the most savage beast may be transformed into a willing and even eager pupil. Of course, there are limitations to the intelligence of wild animals. These limitations are pretty clearly established. The pupils are invariably capable of greater understanding and achievement than they are ever called upon to display. It is quite probable that other generations will carry wild-animal training further, but at the stage at which I have stopped I am content. I understand my associates, and know they understand me. I should be sorry to learn that the thoughtful of the public denied to my devotion the instructive and humane incentives that have sustained it.

For some of the matter of the volume, incorporated from an article[†] on wild-animal training, written after an interview with me, I wish to express my thanks to Mr. S.H. Adams.

F. C. B.

[†] “The Training of Lions, Tigers, and other Great Cats,” by Samuel Hopkins Adams, “McClure’s Magazine,” September, 1900.

THE TRAINING
OF WILD ANIMALS

CHAPTER I
IN WHICH I BECOME “THE BOY TRAINER”—
A LION HUNT IN A SEWER

Although my family was one of animal trainers and exhibitors, my father did not wish me to follow so hazardous a profession, and decided that I should become a clergyman of the Church of England. My early education was carefully looked after, and having completed my preparatory course under private tutors, I finally went to Kelvedon College in Essex, England, where I did well. I was fond of study, had good masters,—who always impressed upon me the fact that “he who would hope to command must learn to obey,”—and gained some honors.

But during one vacation I went home and saw my father’s wild-animal exhibition, and there all the glamour and fascination of the show came upon me. There is no doubt I had inherited my father’s instincts. The lion-tamer my father had at that time was the great feature of the show. It struck me, however, that he was extremely cruel, and being very fond of animals myself, this aroused my indignation. I spoke to my father about it rather warmly, but he, evidently thinking it a boy’s impetuosity, laughed it off, saying the man was only protecting himself.

That same evening, however, the trainer handled the lion so roughly that, enraged at the injustice and indignities to which he was subjected, the animal suddenly turned upon him, and would certainly have killed him had not prompt assistance been rendered.

Wrought up and excited by the occurrence, I begged my father to let me take his place, but he would not hear of it. The next day I took the law into my own hands, and it was in the lion’s cage that my father found me, to his horror, when casually going the rounds of the show. He watched me for a while in fear and trembling, and then said, his voice quivering with anger and fright:

“If ever you get out of there alive, my lad, I’ll give you the biggest thrashing you ever had in your life.”

But he didn’t. He was so overjoyed at my safety and so proud of my success, that after much persuasion I got him to allow me to take the place of the incapacitated trainer. I was fifteen at this time, and was called “The Boy Trainer.” From that time my college days were over, and I knew there could never be any other life for me than that of a trainer and showman.

I have never regretted this step; but I often look back upon my peaceful college days with great pleasure, for they laid the foundation of good principles, self-control, and discipline; and I have always made it my chief endeavor never to allow anything the least vulgar or offensive in my exhibitions.

There is a fascination about wild-animal training which few who have once felt it escape. The constant presence of danger calls for quick judgment and promptness in meeting an emergency. A thrilling experience of mine in Birmingham, England, in 1889, may show the critical situation in which a wild-animal showman is sometimes placed.

A country fair was being held at the time, very similar to the fairs held in America, which bring into the city country people from all parts, most of whom look upon them as events in their lives.

We had a remarkably fine specimen of an African lion at that time; well formed, well grown, with a handsome head and shoulders covered with a fine darkish mane. He had been much admired, and had been referred to by several naturalists as a typical king of beasts for his haughtiness and dignified bearing.

This lion was, however, one of the greatest worries and anxieties I have ever had. He had killed one man, and wounded several attendants, so powerful were his paws, and so quick his movements in reaching out of his cage. He required the most careful watching at all times, and was a very difficult animal to manage, in spite of unlimited time and patience spent on him. Kindness had no effect on him whatever. Special dainties he took with a growl, watching all the time for the least opportunity to grab and tear the giver. To attempt any sort of punishment or discipline with him would have been fatal; he was far too dangerous an animal to risk arousing his wild nature, and the only thing we could do was to keep him perfectly quiet, see that he was not irritated in any way, and was made as comfortable and happy as was possible, with good food, a clean house, and another lion for companionship.

The second lion was removed from the malcontent by an iron partition, as it appeared a little doubtful how he would be received. We intended transferring both lions on the opening day to a much larger cage, where they would have more space and comfort, and also have a much better opportunity of being seen.

The opening day was remarkable for its fine weather; crowds of people were flocking into the city from all parts, and everything promised to be a huge success. We ran one of our big cages on wheels up to the cage containing the two lions, and placing the cages door to door, dropped a lasso over the quiet lion’s neck, and by gentle twitches induced him to enter the big cage.

Then we tried the same tactics with the African lion, but with very different results. Time after time he slipped the noose from his great body and tore madly up and down the cage, as though possessed of the strength of twenty lions. We waited a few minutes until he stopped to roar, and then once more slipped the rope over him. With a terrific wrench and twist he got himself free, and with such a wild bound that the cages shook again he sprang into the next cage so suddenly, and with such terrific force as to cause the wagon to move away upon its wheels; and before the attendants could close the door, he sprang over their heads and into the street, where for the time he was as free and untrammeled as when in his native wilds.

MR. BOSTOCK AND HIS EIGHT LIONS

To approach him probably meant death, but in spite of this we tried to capture him with ropes and the lasso, but without success. Suddenly he turned back, dashed through the lions’ tent to the rear of the building, pushed himself through a rift, and made off for the city of Birmingham, which contained at that time over two hundred thousand people.

On his way he came to one of the openings of the many sewers which empty the waste of the city, and down he sprang, looking up at the crowd of people and roaring at the top of his voice. In about twenty minutes nearly every person in Birmingham knew what had happened, and the greatest consternation prevailed everywhere. The fear was intensified by the fact that as the lion made his way through the sewers, he stopped at every manhole he came to, and there sent up a succession of roars that echoed and reverberated until the very earth seemed to be full of weird sounds, driving some of the people nearly wild with terror.

I was at my wits’ end. There was the danger of the lion escaping from the sewer at any moment and killing some one, for which I should be responsible, while there was also the greater danger that there would be a riot among the crowd. Something must be done to allay their fears, and quickly. People were beginning to flock toward the menagerie in thousands, with anything but complimentary speeches.

After one of the worst quarters of an hour I ever spent, I gathered as many of my men as could be spared from the show, put a lion into a large shifting-cage, and covering the whole thing with canvas, in order that the lion should not be seen, we set off for the mouth of the sewer, all armed with as many ropes, pitchforks, pistols, etc., as we could carry. On arriving, we placed the cage at the mouth of the sewer, with the door facing it. I knew perfectly well that the lion would much prefer to remain in his cage than to enter the darkness of that evil-smelling sewer, and so it proved.

Then, with three of my attendants, I went three blocks back, lowering ropes down each of the manholes on our way until we pretended we had found the lion, and then I lowered myself into the depths through the third manhole. The next thing was to fire blank cartridges, blow horns, and shout as loudly as possible, and, owing to the peculiar echo, the noise was deafening. One of the attendants had been instructed at a given signal to lift the iron door of the cage up and down quickly, and then suddenly clap the door down with a shout.

Everything went off well. At the sound of the door closing, a shout went up from the crowd:

“They’ve got him! They’ve got him! They’ve got the lion!”

The cage containing the lion was then driven quickly toward the menagerie, with myself and attendants seated on top, followed by an admiring crowd of thousands of people. When we finally reached the front of the exhibition, some of the men in the crowd rushed forward and carried me in victory on their shoulders into the menagerie, while the cage containing the bogus lion was restored to its original place in the menagerie. Over forty thousand people filed into the show, until we were positively obliged to refuse admission to any more.

Meanwhile I was in a perfect bath of cold perspiration, for matters were extremely serious, and I knew not what to do next. The fears of the people were allayed for the time, and a probable riot had been stopped only just in time, but the lion was still in the sewer. He might get out at any moment—might be out even then, for all I knew—or he might roar again and so let his whereabouts be known and my deception, which would cause a greater riot than before.

As soon as possible I placed trusty men with iron bars at the mouth of the sewer; and as, fortunately, the lion stopped his roaring, and contented himself with perambulating up and down the sewer through the narrow miles of tunneling, things were quiet for the time. When everything had been done that was possible I went to bed, but as that was the most anxious night I have ever had, it is scarcely necessary for me to say that sleep was out of the question.

On the afternoon of the following day, the chief of police of Birmingham came to see me, and congratulated me on my marvelous pluck and daring. This made me feel worse than before, and I at once made a clean breast of the whole thing. I shall never forget that man’s face when he realized that the lion was still in the sewer: it was a wonderful study for any mind-reader. At first he was inclined to blame me; but when I showed him I had probably stopped a panic, and that my own liabilities in the matter were pretty grave possibilities to face, he sympathized with me, and added that any help he could give me, I might have.

I at once asked for five hundred men of the police force, and also asked that he would instruct the superintendent of sewers to send me the bravest men he could spare, with their top-boots, ladders, ropes, and revolvers with them, so that should the lion appear, any man could do his best to shoot him at sight. We arranged that we should set out at five minutes to twelve, midnight, so that we might avoid any crowd following us, and so spreading the report.

At the appointed time, the police and sewer-men turned out, and I have never seen so many murderous weapons at one time in my life. Each man looked like a walking arsenal, but every one of them had been sworn to secrecy, and there was determination and desire for adventure on the face of each one. Among so many, and with so much ammunition, the danger had diminished to a minimum, provided the lion did not get one man at a time cornered in some narrow place.

The police and sewer-men were to be stationed at every manhole in every district in which the lion was believed to be, within a radius of a mile. The empty cage was brought and placed at the mouth of the sewer, the other end of which had been blocked up so that the lion’s only means of exit was the open door of the cage.

Then three trusty men and myself, accompanied by my giant boar-hound, Marco, lowered ourselves into the manhole, crawling on our hands and knees, and not knowing at any moment when we should come upon the lion. With such suddenness that we all jumped, Marco gave a sharp bark, followed by a curious throaty growl, and I knew that the faithful creature had found the scent and was giving warning of the enemy’s whereabouts.

This boar-hound of mine had been trained to perform with wild animals and lions, and was a stanch and game fighter. He was not to be cowed by any lion on earth, but if he could only once get a hold, would hang on like grim death. As we went slowly and cautiously along, I suddenly saw two gleaming eyes of greenish-red just beyond, and knew we were face to face with the lion at last.

I at once sent one man back to shout the location of the runaway to the others, and then, dropping on all fours, blowing horns, firing off blank cartridges, and letting off Roman candles,—which spat and fizzed in a most uncanny manner in the tunnel,—we went cautiously forward, hoping to drive the lion to his cage, only two blocks away.

But at this juncture a terrific fight took place between the boar-hound and the lion, and it is needless to say that the danger to all parties under these circumstances in that narrow, dark sewer was extremely great. It was not until the boar-hound had been severely slashed and torn by the lion on his shoulders and hind quarters, and his head badly bitten in several places, that he left his savage antagonist and came to me with a whimper for protection. He had held on until he was at his last gasp, and had let go only just in time to save his life. I sent him back to the men to be taken care of, and then went on with the fight myself.

Taking off my big jack-boots, I put them on my hands and arms, and going up close to the lion, was fortunately able to hit him a stinging blow on the nose with one of them. Fearing that he would split my head open with a blow from one of his huge paws, I told one of my men to place over my head a large iron kettle which we had used to carry cartridges and other things to the sewer. While he was trying to fix this, the kettle tipped and rolled over and went crashing down the sewer, making a noise and racket which echoed and resounded throughout the whole length of the narrow tunnel in the most appalling manner.

The lion, who had resisted everything else in the way of capture, at once turned tail like a veritable coward, and, racing down the sewer at a mad gallop, was soon lost to sight, as though the earth had suddenly swallowed him. We wondered where he could have gone, as he had not had time enough to run far, but following him up, we found him in a sorry plight.

HERMAN WEEDON AND HIS GROUP OF LIONS, TIGER, BROWN, TIBET, AND SLOTH BEARS, SILESIAN BOARHOUNDS, AND HYENA

There was an eight-foot fall in the rear of the sewer, and this was evidently his reason for being so reluctant to turn back until frightened by the kettle. We did not know of this, and consequently tumbled headlong into it. We were not hurt, and as the lion was now roaring terrifically, we followed him up and soon found out the cause of his trouble. In the act of falling he had caught his hind legs and quarters in one of the slip-nooses which had been dropped down the manhole to secure him, and was hanging head downward from the manhole.

Other strong ropes were let down immediately, for he would soon have died in that position, and we were fortunate enough to secure his head and fore paws. The cage was then placed at the manhole, and when we had run the ropes through the cage and out over the sidewalk, the men began to haul, and in this unkingly fashion the king of beasts was dragged out of his prison and into his cage once more, where he never again had an opportunity to escape. So I got the lion out of the sewer, as the people of Birmingham supposed I did, only their praise and applause were a little previous. But I hope never to have such another terrible experience.

CHAPTER II
ORIGIN AND HISTORY OF WILD-ANIMAL TRAINING

The arena has been in use for public spectacles and amusements from the earliest ages, and its popularity has never diminished. The great changes, however, which have taken place have developed it into a civilized, instructive spectacle, instead of a barbarous and cruel performance presented only for the purpose of exciting men’s passions.

Lions have always played a prominent part in these public amusements and exhibitions. They were led as trophies in the triumphs of semi-barbarians, and were exhibited and sacrificed by thousands in the Roman amphitheater. Six hundred were provided by Pompey for a single festival. That the lion should always have figured thus in history is but natural. He is the king of beasts, and though there are other wild animals more intelligent in some ways, he always has held, and always will hold, this supremacy over all other brutes.

No wild animals were ever trained by the ancients. It was in turning the power and superiority of man over animals to financial account that the art of training wild animals was first conceived, and it was to further financial gain that it has been advanced step by step since, though the final development of each step has been made by a small number of men who have had an inborn love of daring, and an insatiable desire for the accomplishment of the hazardous.

George Wombwell, from whom I am directly descended, was one of the first men who saw the great possibilities in the training of wild animals, although what actually led to the present advanced stage was the result of chance. Wombwell’s traveling show was established in England in 1805, and the first wild-animal show, in which the most ferocious of the large felines were used, was formed three years later.

THE TOWERING OF THE KINGS

Trained monkeys and many highly trained domestic animals were known in Europe, but never before had lions and tigers been subjugated to daily association with men. At that time a traveling show of the Wombwell type was similar in many respects to the great circuses of to-day, its chief point of similarity being its amalgamation with a menagerie. The importation of Asiatic and African animals was, of course, less frequent and more expensive than now, with the result that the menageries were smaller and less diversified. The greatest care was taken of the animals, chiefly on account of their commercial value, but the proprietors were heavily handicapped by their lack of knowledge respecting animal ways and requirements.

It was a matter of frequent occurrence to take any little sick cubs into the family, and nurse and watch over them as one would a sick child. It was on such an occasion that George Wombwell thought of training wild animals as a good business speculation. He had just received two young lions from Africa, and on their arrival they were found to be in an extremely weak condition from bad feeding, neglect of cleanliness, and violent seasickness. It was clear that unless the greatest care and attention were given to them they would very soon die. Wombwell put one man to attend only to these cubs, watching over them night and day, and nursing them with all possible care.

The man who lived with these young lions, ministering to their necessities and comforts, was in daily association with his charges for several weeks, and in that time acquired a familiarity which lessened his fear of them. He fed them daily from his own hands, kept them warm and clean, bedded them with fresh, dry straw morning and evening, dressed, and finally cured the sores which filth and neglect had caused on their sides and limbs, and by the time they were once more in good condition he had developed a strong affection for them.

When he had to leave the lions altogether, he seemed to feel the separation very much, and the idea suggested itself to Wombwell that not only would the exhibition of two lions and a man in the same cage be a distinct novelty, but it would be a splendid financial speculation. There appeared to be very little, if any, danger, now that the three had grown accustomed to one another, so that when the man begged that the association should not be broken, Wombwell told him of his idea, to which he readily consented. In a few days he announced to the provincial public that he would exhibit a “lion-tamer,” and thousands came from near and far to witness this wonderful sight. Such was the beginning.

That was less than a hundred years ago. Then two sick cubs with a quiet man sitting between them aroused the curiosity of all England, while now a man goes into the arena with twenty-seven full-grown male lions and makes them perform at the same time!

From that first incident, the advance in animal training for exhibition purposes has been steady. Many things have been done which no one ever believed could be done; many valuable facts and characteristics about wild animals discovered which would, in all probability, never have been known to science otherwise; and a great many lessons learned as to the wonderful power of man over all the animal creation, if exercised in the proper manner.

The advance was much slower at the start than it is now, when every year sees as great improvement in animal training as ten years did a century ago. It was five years before George Wombwell realized that it was possible for almost any animal to be trained and handled if he could only find the right man to do the handling. But that was then, and is now, a matter of the greatest difficulty.

The progress during the first three quarters of the last century was very slow. There were various performances in which a man or a woman entered the arena with wild animals and put them through very elementary drills; but it was within the last twenty years only that the involved groups and elaborate tricks of the present day have been suggested and produced.

Many things were not known formerly respecting the control of animals, which now form the very first essentials for all trainers, and accidents were more frequent and more dangerous. One of Wombwell’s most famous trainers was Ellen Bright, a girl who achieved a great reputation. Unfortunately, owing to some slight carelessness on her part, she was killed by a tiger in 1880, when only seventeen years old. Had she only realized more fully the need of patience and firmness with wild animals, there is no doubt whatever that the accident which caused her death would not have taken place.

When it is considered how many trainers there now are, with how many animals they perform at one time, what difficulties they have to face, not only with such numbers, but with such diverse creatures naturally so antagonistic to one another, as in the case of the mixed groups, and how comparatively few accidents happen, it can be readily understood how far this science has progressed.

Perhaps of all the types of animal training these mixed groups are the most wonderful. Lions and tigers instinctively hate each other, and in their native state look with contempt on jackals and hyenas. Were a lion and a tiger to meet in the jungle, it would mean a fight to the death. If two or more male lions meet in their native haunts, a fierce fight is the natural sequence, until only one is left to bear witness by his scars and tears of the terrible battle which has been fought. Should a jackal or a hyena see the king of beasts, he skulks around until his majesty has finished his meal, and then sneaks forward to take the leavings.

And yet, in these mixed groups, lions, tigers, hyenas, sloth-bears, polar bears, and Tibet bears are all together in the same arena; one sits quietly on his pedestal while another goes through his act; the lion has to associate with the hyena; and in some cases two animals, naturally antagonistic to each other, and coming from far corners of the globe, perform together without even showing that they object, and have been subjected to this gross indignity by the superiority of man.

It took Herman Weedon years of patient and painstaking toil and trouble to bring his group to its present state of perfection. The hardest task of all is to accustom animals of one kind to tolerate the presence of animals of another kind. There is always the danger of a fight, which between two wild animals generally ends in the death of one or the other, and the trainer has to consider the interests of his employer as well as the great risk to his own life.

In arranging a mixed group, each animal has to be studied carefully; his idiosyncrasies must be humored, his characteristics must be known and ever borne in mind; the animosity between the wild beasts must be taken into careful consideration, and the methods of teaching must vary with each animal according to its special traits. It means years of patient effort, because it is practically training animal nature against its instincts, and the final result of amity, or assumed amity, between such antagonistic forces is for this reason one of the greatest proofs of the extent of man’s power over wild animals.

CHAPTER III
HOUSEKEEPING FOR WILD ANIMALS

There are three essentials in the care and feeding of wild animals—good food, cleanliness, and exercise. Food and cleanliness come first, but exercise is nearly as important, and this is one of the main reasons why animals in traveling shows are so much healthier and stronger than those kept in zoological parks. In the parks they get food and cleanliness, but little exercise; for wild animals are proverbially lazy, and, unless compelled by hunger or force of circumstances, will not exert themselves in the least, preferring to lie about and sleep rather than even to walk round their cages.

“THE THREE GRACES”

With trained animals especially, the trainers make it one of their chief objects to give their animals exercise; first, to keep them in good condition, and, secondly, to make them more alert and active. Captain Bonavita, a well-known trainer, makes it a rule to take out all his lions, whether performing that week or not, and exercise them up and down the passages, the runways behind the cages, or in the arena.

In doing this there are difficulties. All wild animals, especially lions, dislike movement. True, they pace up and down their cages, but this is only when waiting for food, or because they have discovered a stranger in the building and resent it. This pacing is not exercise enough. Think of the miles a lion has to race in his wild state in search of food!

But in captivity there is no inducement to take any exercise at all. He is fed well and regularly, for his commercial value is considerable, and he is well worth taking care of. He knows that he will get his food in some way or other, and so the most he does in the matter is to pace restlessly up and down his small cage and exercise his lungs by roaring occasionally.

Having to go through two performances a day compels the animal to take a certain amount of regular exercise, which he always resents, but which improves his health and condition. This is the reason that trained animals have such good sleek coats,—a true test of the condition of an animal,—well-grown, thick manes, and clean mouths, feet, and eyes.

There can be no doubt whatever that all wild animals enjoy a change of air and scene. Watch a lion or a tiger when anything strange or unusual takes place. He will rise up and do his best to investigate, and, failing in this, he walks about and roars at the top of his voice. And although this is a little trying to the nerves of some of his hearers, he is all the better for it in many ways.

It has been noticed by many animal owners and trainers, and I have invariably noticed it myself, that the animals grow listless and indifferent after being in one place for a long time; but as soon as they begin to travel, they rouse themselves and take an interest in all that is going on. Very few animals roar or make any sound when traveling, but they are, nevertheless, always on the qui vive to know what is happening, and evidently take a great interest in it all. The very movement of the wagons and trains, although occasionally upsetting them for a short time, proves beneficial in stirring up their livers, which often grow torpid from the sedentary life.

Many have the idea that wild animals are very robust, but this is a great mistake. Instead of being in strong and rude health, they are subject to all kinds of ailments, and in many cases have to be looked after as carefully as an infant. Lions are subject to colds and coughs, and to very serious tuberculosis, which often ends fatally in less than eight months, its course being far more rapid with them than with men.

Another trouble with lions is that they are much afflicted with rheumatism, and unless kept in a dry and warm place, get so crippled in the joints that they not only become valueless for show purposes, but very often have to be killed in order to put them out of their misery—a serious loss when a lion has cost over a thousand dollars and has increased his value by becoming a good performer.

Lionesses, too, are subject to a large number of complaints, and even when fairly healthy and strong require unceasing attention. It is a very critical time when a lioness is about to have cubs. The lioness is invariably more restless and much quicker in movement than the lion, but when expecting to become a mother her restlessness is terrible, and her excitement, if allowed to get the least bit beyond her control, very frequently results in her not only killing all her little ones, but actually eating them. And when this has once happened, it is a rare thing ever to make a good mother of her, for she will do it again and again, not through dislike or fear of her offspring, but simply because she is restless and unnerved, and does not seem to know what she is doing in her distress.

Of course, in addition to ordinary complaints, there are other things which affect the health of wild animals. In a free fight among wild beasts, such as happened at one time with Captain Bonavita’s lions, the animals received serious injuries. It takes very little to start lions fighting; it is their nature to fight one another, and it is only by training and the wonderful power which Captain Bonavita holds over his animals, that this large number of wild beasts is made to sit calmly round on pedestals and not even touch one another.

“DENVER” AND “CÆSAR”

In this case Captain Bonavita had turned his twenty-seven lions out into the runway behind the cages in preparation for the performance, when Denver, one of the biggest and fiercest Nubian lions, suddenly started a fight with another lion. In a very few minutes the whole twenty-seven lions were fighting madly in the narrow passageway, with one man among them, for whom at that moment they had nothing but supreme contempt.

Captain Bonavita did his best to separate the animals, and took some desperate chances while doing so, for the lions were only too ready for something to fight; but it was all useless. He shouted orders to them, called them by name, fired blank cartridges, and when he had exhausted his voice, cartridges, and strength, could only take refuge behind one narrow board, into which he had luckily had a handle put only the day before, and do his best to defend himself.

This board was not wide enough to cover him, and he had to guard himself carefully, as several lions were trying to get at him through the little space which was left at one side. All he could do was to shift the board constantly, but among so many it was small wonder that at last one of the lions got one huge paw in, and tore a large piece of the trainer’s coat and flesh off his chest. By great efforts, however, Bonavita managed to get out alive.

In this terrific fight several of the lions were seriously injured, for the fight lasted over an hour, and it took nearly another hour to get all the animals back into their cages again. One or two were badly bitten and torn, and it was necessary that some sewing and patching should be done. With great caution, ropes were dropped round the neck and legs of each of the injured animals, and in this way they were drawn close to the bars, and the necessary stitches and repairs were accomplished with much difficulty. This is one of the most dangerous things to do to a wild animal, for, in spite of being tied, he is always on the lookout, and can give a bite which would stop the operator forever. But in this case all was got through safely, and the lions eventually recovered.

Animals are always roped in this way when anything is wrong with their teeth, claws, or limbs. It is the only way in which they can be handled at all. As for the notion that many people have that some of the animals are drugged, I need scarcely say that it is absurd. Animals cannot be drugged in that way. To drug wild animals might mean some very serious losses, not to mention the fact that the ultimate effect of the drugs would greatly depreciate their commercial value.

And while speaking of this peculiar delusion of the public, I might, perhaps, also be allowed to mention the mistaken idea that so many have, that cruelty is practised to a certain extent in an animal exhibition.

No greater mistake could possibly be made. A man who purchases valuable race-horses does not ill-treat them or allow others to ill-treat them. On the contrary, apart from the humane point of view, he takes care that all the men in his establishment are kind to the animals in every way, attending to their wants and comforts, and taking the greatest care of them.

It is much the same in an animal exhibition. For instance, the lion has a market value determined by his ability as a performer. Any healthy, well-formed lion is worth from eight hundred to twelve hundred dollars, but in the case of a lion performing in a group, the loss of one means the practical disbandment of the group, because they have been taught to act in concert, and another will be necessary to take the place of the dead or disabled one. Add the lion’s value to the cost of transportation and training, not to mention the costly item of feeding for years, and you will have a pretty large figure. It must, therefore, be apparent to those who will take the trouble to give the matter a little consideration, that the very greatest care must be taken of the animals, and that the slightest abuse of them cannot be allowed.

Even were this not so, I would not allow any one employed by me to stay another day if I once found that he was using any cruelty whatever to the animals in his charge. Kindness may not be appreciated by wild animals in one sense, but it undoubtedly tends to promote their comfort and health.

MLLE. AURORA AND HER POLAR BEARS

In feeding wild animals care is always taken to have the temperature of the food and water about the same as the temperature of the body. Should their meat or water be given to them too hot or too cold, it affects their stomachs, and they may be ill for weeks in consequence.

Only the very best and freshest of meat is given them. The least taint or disease would be sure to cause trouble in some form or other, and in many cases serious sickness and death would follow. It is true that lions in their wild state, when unable to procure fresh food, will occasionally eat tainted food. Whether or not their free, out-of-door life tends to counteract the ill effects of this, is not definitely known. All I personally know is, that lions and tigers in captivity are unable to eat any tainted food without a sickness following, which not only gives untold trouble and cost to the owners, but is also a source of extreme unpleasantness to those around. The only way to keep wild beasts wholesome and free from smell is to give them the best and freshest of food.

The best food for lions and tigers is good fresh beef or mutton, and an occasional sheep’s head, of which they are extremely fond. Curiously enough, they are fond of any heads,—sheep’s, chickens’, calves’, lambs’, and others,—and will always eat them with the greatest relish. About twelve to fifteen pounds of beef or mutton are given to each of my lions and tigers twice a day, unless we deem it advisable to lessen it on any signs of sickness. Pork is never given under any circumstances, or much fat, although lions are rather fond of the fat of mutton.

With each piece of beef or mutton, if we can manage it, is given a piece of bone; the reason for this is that gnawing the bone helps digestion and is good for the teeth. On Sundays no food, but plenty of water, is given to the carnivora. This fast-day once a week is absolutely necessary; it rests their digestion, prevents them from growing too fat and lazy, and is beneficial to their health in many ways. I have carefully watched, and although at times some will get restless when feeding-time approaches on Sunday, they soon settle down again, and on Monday do not seem to be more hungry than on any other day in the week.

When it becomes apparent that a lion or tiger needs an aperient, a piece of liver is given, which has the desired effect. In some cases the liver is given once a week, particularly if the animal is a little off his feed. In other cases, a rabbit, pigeon, or chicken—always killed first—is given; this last food being specially beneficial should the animal be troubled with worms—a not unfrequent cause of sickness.

In cases of special sickness, of course, other means have to be employed, and special medicines given, in order to restore the animal to health. As all carnivora suffer, to a large extent, from the same complaints as human beings, they can be treated in much the same way.

When the sickness cannot be cured by a change of diet, a certain amount of medicine is mixed with the water or milk. Should the animal refuse to take it in this way, a tempting piece of fresh meat is plugged with the medicine, inserted in capsules, and in this way the animal takes his dose without tasting it.

But it is only in extreme cases that I consider it a good thing to give medicine. The best way is to let the animals fast for a time, give them plenty of fresh water, or a little milk, as much fresh air and exercise as possible, and leave the rest to Nature, which in nearly all cases effects a complete cure.

Bears are occasionally given raw meat, but it is not a good thing to give them too much. They thrive best on cooked meats, fish, and bread—dry or soaked in milk. A polar bear is extremely fond of fat pork, and would go through a great deal to get even a small bit; but one of the greatest delicacies you can give a polar bear is a dish of fish-oil. His relish and keen appreciation are well worth seeing, and no connoisseur could display greater enjoyment over a choice entrée than a polar bear over a dish of fish-oil.

Polar bears need special care in many ways. The great change of climate is one of their worst trials, and there is no doubt that in the hot weather they suffer very much, no matter what one does for their comfort. Even in cold, frosty weather, a polar bear, when being trained, will get completely played out long before any ordinary bear would consider he had begun. In a very short time he will begin to pant and show signs of distress.

In training her group of polar bears, Mlle. Aurora took great pains to give the animals as little exertion as possible, and those who have seen this group perform will remember that the chief things they do are to take up positions on various stands and make pretty groupings. In this way she has certainly succeeded in getting one of the finest groups of polar bears on exhibition, while there is also the comforting feeling that the animals are not being made to do more than they are able.

One of the most interesting but, at the same time, uncertain things in the care of wild animals is the rearing and feeding of cubs. Cubs vary in size, health, strength, disposition, and temperament as much as children, and the care and treatment of them have to be regulated accordingly.

The mothers differ likewise. Many lionesses and tigresses make extremely good mothers, many do not. Some take the greatest care of their young, others appear to be absolutely indifferent, while a very few will even turn on their offspring and bite them viciously. The last case more often comes from worry or excitement; the mother is a little run down at the time, and unless absolute quiet is given her, she is apt to vent it on the little ones.

It will be readily understood that in an exhibition which is open to the public all day long it is extremely difficult to give any animal absolute quiet; but we always do our best, and it is wonderful how tender-hearted the roughest of men become toward the animals at a time like this. From the very commencement we try to make life as easy and comfortable as possible for the animal with young.

She is given an extra-roomy cage, placed where she will not be more disturbed than is necessary. Her health and diet are most carefully looked after, and she is watched continually. As soon as she appears uneasy, the cage is covered up, and she is left to herself until she has had plenty of time to settle down with her little ones. The cage is not opened to the public, as a rule, for two weeks, and even then great care has to be taken.

Should the cubs be fairly healthy, the mother takes care of them,—if she is a good mother,—and they remain with her for about eight or ten weeks, although the length of time depends entirely on the mother and the growth and well-being of the cubs. Weaning is begun gradually. At first the cubs are taken away from the mother in the morning and given back to her at night, and there are occasionally some very lively times during this episode, as it is an extremely dangerous proceeding to take the cubs away from the lioness or tigress. A small door is made in the cage, and while the mother’s attention is attracted in another direction, the cubs are either coaxed out, or pushed through the door with an iron rod, and received in a basket or in the arms of one of the keepers.

When this takes place there is always a pathetic scene. The mother gives a peculiar moaning cry, low and short, as though breathless, while the cubs answer shrilly and make as much fuss and noise as they are able. The mother holds her head in the air when the cubs have disappeared, and listens eagerly for the direction from which the cries of her little ones come, and after answering with another moan tries to get out in the direction of the cries.

In the meantime the cubs are given a bone with a little piece of raw meat on it, generally beef. This takes up all their attention for the time being, and they will wrestle and tussle over these bones as though they had never known any other food. In this manner the day passes; but as evening comes on, the cubs become restless and cry pitifully, while the mother answers and listens attentively. When they are returned to the cage there is even more danger, for nothing will attract the mother’s attention then. She knows her cubs are being brought nearer to her, and paces up and down, jumping up toward the top of the cage, and doing her best in every possible way to get out.

LION MONARCHS IN INFANCY

As soon as the cubs are once inside again, she lies down on the floor, receiving them with great delight and giving little pleased cries of welcome, licking the cubs carefully all over, and playing with them; while the cubs jump about, roll over her, and show their pleasure in various ways. After this has happened a few times, the cubs have learned to eat meat, and sometimes, when the mother is fed, they will, by united efforts, drag her portion of meat away and fight over it, while she looks on, growling a little, but not interfering until they grow tired, when she carries it off and eats it quietly at her leisure.

When the cubs are taken away from the mother entirely, they are fed on soft food, milk, and an occasional bone, and soon begin to grow. One of the greatest dangers to which cubs are subject are convulsions, which appear to be partly caused by teething. In these cases certain specifics are given, the cub is kept in the animal infirmary as quietly as possible, and when it is better is returned to the other cubs. I have noticed frequently, and I have no doubt others have noticed also, that after convulsions cubs generally grow very fast, and in some cases appear even better and stronger than the others.

CHAPTER IV
THE FEEDING OF SNAKES AND ELEPHANTS

All wild beasts in their natural state will hunt and kill their food when hungry, and if too lazy to do this,—which is frequently the case with the lion,—they will keep a lookout for the remains of some other animal’s “kill.” When wild, animals always provide themselves with sufficient food, and appear to have many ways of working off a too heavy meal.

In captivity it is very different. They appear to lose their judgment to a certain extent, and in many cases will overfeed, if given the opportunity, or, in some instances, deliberately starve themselves for no accountable reason. This is specially the case with many snakes,—generally the larger ones,—and unless most carefully watched, they will literally starve themselves to death.

Snakes are difficult to feed; they appear to dislike being seen eating, and as they will not eat mammals or birds after rigor mortis has set in, great care is needed in feeding them. Pythons will sometimes go as long as eight or nine months without feeding, and when this is the case it is necessary to feed them by force.

Very few snakes, especially pythons, will allow themselves to be handled. At certain times, it is true, they will appear either indifferent or—if such a cool condition can be called friendliness—friendly toward their keepers; but this is, in nearly all cases, simply a sign that they are torpid from cold, and it merely needs the house to be heated a little to show not only that they can be very lively, but very spiteful and vindictive.

Occasionally, when some little operation is necessary, the snake has to be overpowered, but it is possible to do this only by numbers. No one man could do it; he would be crushed before he had time to turn around. The best way to set to work when the snake has deliberately refused to feed for many months is to wait until it is asleep. Then, at a given signal, several men pounce upon it—one grasps it by the back of its neck, several others stand on or hold different parts of its body, and others stand ready with rabbits, rats, and other small animals on the end of long poles, with which they force the food down the reptile’s throat.

“BRANDU,” THE SNAKE-CHARMER

It is needless to say that some terrific tussles take place on these occasions, and often there is great danger. Unless the snake is quickly subdued, it is likely to subdue those who are molesting it; and even when several strong, able-bodied men are grasping it firmly, it will sometimes recoil with so much force and suddenness that the whole lot may be thrown to the ground.

The most dangerous part is when the moment comes for prying open its jaws. If this has been done safely, there comes the second difficulty of forcing food down its throat. There is no doubt that this process is objectionable and, in all probability, a little painful to the snake, and it is not to be wondered that at this moment it generally resists with all its power. Even should the rabbit be got down the throat of the reptile, there is always the chance that it may be drawn out again with the pole. But this operation is generally performed successfully, and when the python has inside about a dozen rabbits, one or two guinea-pigs, and a few pigeons, he becomes heavy and sleepy, and at last settles down in a state of repletion from which he will probably not awaken for several days.

There have been many dangerous accidents from feeding snakes by force when they refuse food. Once a trainer entered and grasped a big python at the back of the neck, while several other men made ready to catch hold of it in other places. He caught it nicely in the right place, and was just speaking to the others when, to his horror, he found that the python had coiled itself firmly round his legs and body, and that he was unable to move.

With a great effort he shouted, and the men, realizing instantly what had happened, rushed forward and, with united efforts, uncoiled the monster, and so set him free. It was a matter of life and death, for in another moment the breath would have been crushed out of him, and he would have become a shapeless mass of flesh. It was only by his nerve and prompt call that he saved himself, for the men said afterward that until he shouted they were not aware of what the snake had done. After this nothing would ever induce that trainer to have anything to do with snakes again. He said he could never forget the feeling of unspeakable horror and indefinable helplessness he experienced when the coils were encircling him.

At another time, a young pig was thrown to a pair of snakes. In this case the snakes were ravenously hungry, and, consequently, very lively. The larger one of the two darted for it, but the smaller snake was too quick for him, and had swallowed the pig whole before the other could touch it.

Now followed a very curious incident, and one which, I believe, has not often been observed. The large snake waited until another pig was thrown in, and took care this time to get it, but immediately after swallowing it deliberately turned to the small snake and swallowed him, swollen as he was with the first pig. This snake lay in a state of repletion after this for weeks, and from various indications that we had I don’t fancy that his cannibalism agreed with him.

But a more curious incident than either of these occurred at the Pan-American Exhibition with Great Peter, the largest python ever kept in captivity. Great Peter had been fasting for some time,—most of the summer, in fact,—and we were beginning to feel anxious about him, when, toward the end of September, he suddenly became very lively—always a sure sign of hunger.

Much delighted at these signs, his keeper at once looked for suitable food for him, and procured a young razor-back pig. As a general rule, all animals when put in with snakes are rendered helpless by fear. They appear to be paralyzed by a strange fascination, and instead of making the slightest resistance or attempt to get away, stay on the very spot where they are thrown until the snake kills them with a bite or thrusts them into their living tomb by swallowing them.

M. JOHNSON AND HIS TRAINED ELEPHANT

But this little razorback was made of different stuff, and was neither fascinated nor helpless from fear. The moment he entered the cage it was evident that he meant to have a good fight for it, no matter what happened. He gave the python no time to spring, but, taking time by the forelock, ran up to the huge snake, screaming shrilly at the top of his voice, and fastened his sturdy tusks firmly in the back of the snake’s neck.

He squealed no more after this, but attended strictly to business, and hung on like grim death. There was a momentary pause, and then the daring little pig shook his enemy vigorously as he would a rat. For a second or two over thirty-two feet of python coiled and lashed about the cage in a furious manner, but the pig hung on.

His triumph was not long. The contest was too unequal. Suddenly the thick coils left the air, and, descending on the plucky little animal, coiled round and round, crushing his body and cracking his ribs as though they were nutshells. But still the pig hung on,—hung on until the coils of the snake gradually relaxed,—and then, as they loosened weakly and fell off, the pig, game to the last, dropped off the python’s neck, dead. His enemy lay quietly beside him—the conqueror and the conquered together.

Had the razorback only allowed himself to give one little squeal when he was being crushed, he would have been obliged to let go his hold and we might have saved the python, but his pluckiness cost us a valuable reptile.

Elephants are big feeders, and few realize the quantity of food they need. A fair-sized elephant in a healthy condition will consume on an average about two hundred pounds of hay, a bushel of oats, and six or eight loaves of bread a day. This is in addition to all the other things in the way of peanuts, cakes, crackers, nuts, etc., it gets from the visitors. Occasionally one or two large basketsful of fresh vegetables are given to each one, for elephants are fond of any vegetables, fruits, or grain, and nearly always seem to be hungry.

From this a rough estimate can be gathered of the vast quantity of food it is necessary to provide for a group of only half a dozen elephants. The difficulties are often considerable, especially in small country places where the produce is not equal to the demand. It will often take one or two men all their time to procure enough food to keep the animals even in fair condition. Grain can generally be had, but too much grain is not good for them, and the necessity for a variety, which is not always obtainable, causes much difficulty.

Elephants are not particularly strong or robust constitutionally. They suffer from various ailments in captivity, even with the greatest care. Colds and chills are the most frequent, and, though not themselves dangerous, they sometimes lead to pneumonia, and when once an elephant has pneumonia he never recovers.

It is almost impossible to give an elephant medicine. Every way has been tried, but in many cases to no purpose. The moment he tastes it nothing will induce him to swallow it, and he promptly spits it out. Capsules have been tried, in the hope that the animal would swallow them whole, but he at once crushed them with his teeth, and at the first taste the usual spitting out took place. Medicine has also been introduced into loaves of bread and drinks of water or milk, but the elephant detected it at once, and it was, of course, absolutely impossible to force it down his throat, as can be done with some of the other animals.

About the only possible thing to make an elephant take when he has a bad cold is a good dose of hot whisky and onions, and he appears not only to like it but to wish for more. However, if elephants are looked after and cared for properly, it is rarely necessary to give them medicine. They are generally healthy, and the chief thing to guard against is a chill or cold, when there is always the possibility of pneumonia following.

An elephant sleeps in a peculiar manner. Nearly all lie on their left sides with their trunks curled up, making a peculiar hissing noise at regular intervals, something like the sound of steam issuing from a kettle. He is not a sound sleeper. He does not take much notice of his keeper prowling round in the night, but should anything strange or unusual take place, the hissing stops suddenly, two small, red lights appear in the elephant’s head, and the animal is wide awake and evidently watching. At the first sign of danger he trumpets shrilly, so that oftentimes he gives the first alarm, when no living thing besides suspects anything amiss.

CHAPTER V
CHARACTERISTICS OF DIFFERENT ANIMALS

It must not be supposed that all captive felines are amenable to education. The personal equation enters in very largely. What will do for the lion may do for the tiger, the leopard, the puma, or the jaguar; but what will do for one lion may not do for another, nor can all tigers or leopards be trained alike. Many, in assuming that the lion is brave and the tiger treacherous, and in ascribing set qualities to the others, are generalizing without basis.

The lion is feared for his clumsiness as much as anything, because it makes him likely to do serious damage unwittingly; the jaguar and leopard for their terrible swiftness in action; and the tiger for a tenacity of purpose which, when once aroused, is almost unconquerable. But it cannot be said in general that one is more to be feared than another. It is the individual that must be reckoned with by the successful trainer.

One animal may be of a heavy, phlegmatic disposition; another may be slow and stupid; a third subject to fits of unreasonable and ungovernable rage; another curious and inquisitive, making him incessantly restless; another nervous and timid; and yet another will show a fussy and irritable disposition, and refuse to perform unless all the circumstances are just as he considers they should be.

With rare exceptions, all the felines are untrustworthy and more or less treacherous, and no matter how long they may have been trained, or how well their trainer may know them, they are liable at any moment, and without the least reason, to turn on him. Each one has his characteristics, and it is these special characteristics which require such extremely careful study and continual watching.

Weather affects wild animals in just the same way in which it affects human beings. This appears to be the case specially with lions. Damp, muggy weather will make them seemingly depressed and irritable, and in this state they are doubly unwilling to do anything they do not feel inclined to. In hot weather they become lazy and sleepy, and it is sometimes with the greatest difficulty that any of the lions can be made to perform. This laziness is natural. In his native state the lion sleeps all day, and will only go out for food at night when urged by hunger.

In cold weather, Captain Bonavita finds his lions so frisky and playful that it is extremely dangerous to make them perform, for a playful lion is a terrible thing—with even a tap from one of his paws he can break the neck of a horse.

One cold, frosty day, when Captain Bonavita was trying to get his lions to perform, one, a huge beast, was particularly playful, and, in spite of all his care, at last got one claw in the cloth of his coat. In a moment the animal dragged him to the ground, and, not being able to get his claw free,—as it had caught in the cloth,—became wildly enraged. Had it not been that one of the men outside the cage gave the trainer an opportunity to cut the cloth, he would have lost his life in a few minutes.

THE OLD ARM-CHAIR

Apart from all these physical variations, the peculiarities of temperament also must be studied and watched. Each animal is so different from its fellows and so subject to sudden changes of temper, that this requires the most careful observation; nor can any reason often be found for their different actions.

There is a very famous lion now performing who fears but one thing: a stick in the left hand. The trainer may have a club, a whip, a knife, a pistol, or even a firebrand in his right hand, and the lion will spring for him fearlessly, but the smallest thing in the left hand will keep the animal perfectly tractable. No satisfactory explanation of this individual peculiarity has ever been offered, and one trainer limps for life simply because he did not make the discovery in time.

Lions have no affection; they become used to and tolerant of their trainers, and their obedience and docility is partly, if not wholly, due to ignorance and to the dread of anything they do not comprehend. They seemingly do not understand why the trainers are not afraid of them, and do not appear to realize that one little blow could put them out of existence. It is only when they lose respect for their trainer—either because he has contracted bad habits, or because he has been foolish or unguarded enough at some time to let them see that he was nervous—that they realize that he is only a small thing compared to themselves, and turn on him.

The great majority of cases of defense of a trainer by an animal have little foundation, other than the minds of the ingenious press agent. But there have been rare cases where animals have conceived a real affection for a trainer, and fawned upon him like a dog, and even protected him from others when they attacked him.

One such case concerned Mme. Pianka. During a rehearsal at St. Louis several years ago, she was suddenly attacked by a young lion and thrown to the floor. Instantly, a smaller lioness, of whom she was particularly fond and who had appeared to return the affection, leaped upon the lion and gave him so much to attend to that the trainer got to her feet, and was then able to whip the offending lion back to his corner. No trainer, however, depends on such interference; in fact, he knows and takes it for granted that if he is attacked and thrown, the other beasts in the cage will join in only too quickly.

The fellowship of animal for animal in the bonds of slavery is stronger than that of animal for man. Once in the cage, the trainer is alone among vastly superior forces that at any moment may become hostile, and his wisest plan is always to mistrust and look out, and not to expect anything but united hostility should he slip or be attacked.

An animal seldom, if ever, attacks a trainer for blood or a desire for meat. The danger lies in the instinct of ferocity; and many experiments made in this direction undoubtedly prove that animals attack from inherent fierceness and savagery alone. A tiger will occasionally show a desire for blood, but other animals very seldom.

I made an experiment some years ago in order to see whether civilized food would make any difference in the nature of a wild animal. I had a fine, well-grown young lion, which I reared for two years on cooked food—boiled meat and vegetables. He had never tasted blood or raw meat, and yet when he was a little over two and a half years old he broke out and killed a fine young buck which was loose in the runway behind the cage; and when in the arena afterward, proved to be no different in any way from the other animals who had been brought up on raw steaks and other fresh meat.

It is doubtful whether lions, tigers, and their kin have minds developed in a wild state to anything like the degree attained by those of the smaller fur-bearing animals, such as ermine, fox, wolverene, or a number of the smaller rodents. They are endowed with so much agility, strength, and endurance that they need hardly exercise much thought in securing their livelihood; while the caution and ingenuity required of the weaker species, in order not only to get food, but also to escape from their enemies, tend to sharpen their faculties daily.

MADAME PIANKA

The only enemy feared by the larger wild beasts is man. Why they should feel this supreme awe of man it is difficult to explain. Neither his size nor his erect position can account for it, and it is only in long settled and much frequented regions that his firearms are dreaded. The explanation probably is that they are unable to comprehend his habits, to fathom his mental attitude, to learn what he is likely to do next, and are awed by the mystery of his conduct, as we might be by that of some supernatural being of unknown power who came among us and threatened our liberty and our happiness.

The minds of the great carnivora are little exercised in nature, and do not develop. Accustomed to seeing all the denizens of the forest quail before them, they do not know what it is to feel a sense of help needed or of favors granted. It is perfectly natural, then, that trainers should say that kindness is not appreciated by them. A tigress is, in most cases, as likely to eat up her keeper after six years of attention as she would be after six days, should she consider that she were safe in doing so.

A quiet tiger is always to be feared and watched carefully. Mr. Charles Miller, who has been so successful in training the fiercest Bengal tigers, has no fear of the noisy ones, who are forever growling, snarling, and spitting defiance; but of the others, who are stealthily quiet and show in no way by voice or gesture that they object to what he has to do, he takes the greatest care and caution. Whenever he is obliged to turn his back on one of these tigers, he takes care to turn it on the snarling ones, who do nothing but make a noise. The quiet ones are only waiting for the very first opportunity to spring, and one spring from a tiger is fatal. In one performance, Mr. Miller turned his head quickly to find a treacherous animal crawling stealthily on his stomach toward him. The instant the tiger saw he was noticed he stopped, and began to lick his paws in the most indifferent manner, but the next moment he was trying to do the same thing again, until brought smartly up by a flick of the whip. This he also took quietly, although with a curious hiss. He was simply biding his time.

It is an acknowledged fact, among those who know anything about wild animals, that continual quietness invariably goes with a mean or savage nature, and that the animal who does not snarl should be carefully watched at all times by those who have anything to do with him. Why this should be an indication it is impossible, at least for me, to say. I have studied the matter very carefully, and many of the cleverest trainers and owners of wild animals have done the same.

As a rule, lions are much slower than lionesses. They are far more deliberate in their movements, and, consequently, seem more haughty and majestic. A lioness will frisk and romp about even when she has had several families, but a full-grown lion will seldom, if ever, depart in the slightest from his habitual grave, solemn manner. Generally speaking, the female felines are more easily managed and not as dangerous as the males, but they are always crafty and treacherous, and the time when they appear to be indifferent or off their guard is the time to be more than usually cautious.

There are, of course, cases where the females act swiftly and suddenly without treacherous motives, and this makes them even more dangerous, because one never can tell when this may happen. At Philadelphia, some years ago, we had an illustration of this, and of what a terrible and lightning-like blow a jaguar can give.

This jaguar, a magnificent female, had been rehearsing some fancy leap from shelf to shelf, and as a finale was to jump from a projection from the side of the cage, about seven feet high, to a wooden ball some ten feet distant, and maintain herself upon the ball until a given signal from the trainer—a most difficult feat. The graceful creature measured the distance carefully for a few moments, keeping her eyes fixed on the ball, and stretched her slender neck forward toward the goal before essaying the leap.

Then she launched herself. That leap was a study in beauty of form and grace of motion, but there was a slight miscalculation. The jaguar landed on the ball, but after clinging desperately for a moment to the oscillating sphere, fell to the ground, landing in a crouching attitude. Swifter than the eye could follow, there was a motion of the paw, and the wooden ball, weighing nearly a hundred pounds, sailed across the stage and hit the bars with an impact that shook the entire structure as an earthquake would have done, frightening the pair of lions and the leopard who shared the cage almost to a frenzy.

As for the jaguar, she glared fiercely round with a hiss and snarl, as though to see whether any of the others were laughing at her, and then slunk away to one side, where she examined her paw with an appearance of solicitude, listening meanwhile to the rebukes of the trainer with obvious confusion. It is the possibility that at any moment a blow of that caliber may land on him, which effectually prevents the trainer from experiencing any feelings of ennui when in the cage with wild animals.

Elephants have their little peculiarities, like all other animals, and one of them is their strange and often unaccountable antipathy to some persons, and their warm affection for others. One of my elephants is of a most gentle disposition, but hates the sight of a dog. A tiny toy terrier is enough to drive him nearly frantic, and unless the animal is removed at once he would kill him instantly, for an elephant makes up his mind quickly.

The majority of wild animals appear to be fond of music, although a great many dislike it extremely. As a rule, the large carnivora seem to like it, and the trained animals will often rouse themselves at the sound and look round inquiringly. There is no doubt whatever that it is a stimulus to them. In many cases it is their principal cue, and without it they are uncertain, restless, and unhappy.

Some time ago the band of a traveling show went on strike in the middle of a performance, and left in a body. Three trained tigers were the next feature on the program. When they came on they looked inquiringly at the orchestra for the music, and then two of them quietly settled down on their haunches and refused to go on. The third, who was of less experience, made a feeble start and then joined his companions on strike. Orders, commands, threats, and flickings of the whip were useless. No music, no performance, was obviously the motto of these tigers; and they stuck to it until finally the trainer, finding that to try to force them further was dangerous, was obliged to let them return to their cage without giving any performance at all.

The trainer feared that he would never get them to perform again, for once let an animal off his performance and it generally means that he expects and insists on not giving any more exhibitions at all. However, the next day, when the differences with the musicians had been settled, and the tigers were brought out again, they seemed perfectly satisfied as soon as they heard the music, and acquitted themselves better than ever.

One incident which has always puzzled my trainers and myself occurred with a fine, full-grown Barbary lion. When the band has been playing a certain set of tunes for some time, it will naturally change them for newer and more popular ones. I have never noticed that the animals were aware of it, but in this case there was one tune which this particular lion did not like. The moment it was started he grew restless and uneasy, moaned and whimpered, and finally roared to such a degree that we could not imagine what was the matter with him.

This went on day after day and night after night, until at last we noticed that he always did it about the same time, and finally, when the tunes were changed about a little, that he always did it when a particular tune was being played. We tried him the next morning, at quite a different hour, with the same tune, and it had the same effect. The moment it was started he would get up, moan, whimper, snarl, and grow more and more uneasy, until he worked himself up into a rage and roared at the top of his voice, which was strong even for a lion.

The music appeared to irritate his nerves. Whether this was so or not I cannot tell, but it evidently annoyed him to a painful degree. After making sure of this fact, I ordered that tune to be left out for the future, and from that time to this he has never shown dislike to any other music, and is quiet and peaceable, and a good performer.

MR. CHARLES MILLER AND HIS BENGAL TIGERS

CHAPTER VI
“GOING BAD”—ANIMAL INSTINCT

What those who have charge of wild animals in captivity, and especially trainers, dread most among the large carnivora, is that inexplicable change of temperament on the part of the animal known in the parlance of the menagerie as “going bad.” Lions are likely to go bad about the tenth year of life; tigers two or three years earlier. The male tiger is the dread of the profession when he reaches this condition, because he is more likely to go into a frenzy without warning, and, once gone bad, nothing will satisfy him but murder. He will leap for any man within reach, and when once his teeth are on the bone, nothing but fire will make him relinquish it, and not always that.

This “going bad” may come in the nature of a sudden attack, or it may develop slowly and be counteracted if taken in time. An old trainer can usually detect the symptoms of this curious ailment. It seems to be in the nature of a disease, and other animals recognize it and shun the affected one. When its progress is apparent the danger is not great; all that is required then is a level head, and the wisdom to refrain from further interference with the animal.

A good trainer never dreams of interfering with an animal in this condition. If attacked, his one aim is to defend himself, until he has a chance to escape from the cage, and to separate the animal from his fellows as soon as possible. Sometimes this bad temper will last but a short time, and again it will become the permanent condition of the animal. In that case he is sent to the lonely cage to spend the rest of his life in comparative obscurity, disturbed merely by the passing crowd and his daily meals.

Let an animal once acquire a love for blood and he is spoiled for the rest of his life. If the killing instinct once develops it can rarely be eradicated. Rajah, a tiger which has already killed two men, and severely injured me on more than one occasion, “went bad” suddenly, and his taste for blood having once been aroused, it would have been worse than useless to attempt to do anything with him again, and he is now kept carefully by himself. Formerly, he was one of the best trick tigers before the public, but some unknown thing ruffled his nature, he gained a realization of his own brute strength and a taste for blood, and his career as a performer was over.

As a rule, a trainer can also tell when the critical moment has come in this peculiar phase of “going bad.” The man who puts his head in a lion’s mouth, sooner or later, arrives at the point where he feels that to continue would endanger his life. A trainer once had an experience of that kind in England.

He had safely accomplished the hazardous feat for several months without any particular feeling of trepidation. One night he placed his head in the lion’s mouth as usual, and was about to draw it out again when he suddenly had a shuddering, indefinable realization that the lion’s good temper was gone. He knew the danger, and prepared for it by bracing all his strength against that of the lion’s jaws.

He removed his head slowly, as usual, for the least hurry might have provoked an attack, but in a second the lion snapped at him while his face was yet within danger. The tip of his chin was caught and lacerated. That was the conclusion of the act with that lion, and he was relegated to solitude like others troubled with the same complaint.

Elephants also “go bad,” and there is even more danger with these huge beasts than with lions and tigers; for they may break out and kill and injure a great number of people, besides causing an immense amount of damage by tearing up and destroying property.

Most people have heard how many valuable elephants have had to be killed owing to their becoming “rogues.” A rogue elephant is a terrible creature in more ways than one, for his huge bulk and enormous strength make him not only a formidable enemy, but his cunning and viciousness can be appreciated only by those who have come in constant contact with him.

There appears to be no special age for an elephant going bad, but the majority of these animals become dangerous after a certain time in captivity. The most tractable and gentle elephant I ever had suddenly “went bad” for no conceivable reason, and although after much coaxing and soothing he appeared to settle down quietly, there were certain indications soon after that he intended mischief. Finally, his small eyes became so red and threatening that I considered it wiser to have him killed, rather than run any risk of his sacrificing human lives.

With regard to the instincts of animals, I have had some very curious experiences. Just before a disastrous fire at Baltimore, when nearly all the poor animals were terribly burned, many in the exhibition noticed how restless and uneasy the animals were, but as there appeared to be no reason for it, we thought nothing more about it.

When the time for the performance came, not one of the animals would move out of its cage. It is not unusual for wild animals to get restless fits sometimes, but it is extremely unusual for them all, at one and the same time, absolutely to refuse to come out of their cages at the command of the trainers. The majority of wild-animal trainers are superstitious, and many of them began to wonder what it meant and whether it was a bad omen, for not one in the whole building had the slightest idea that the fire was even then gaining ground.

There was not the faintest smell of smoke or any other indication to give warning that one of the greatest calamities I ever had was just coming upon me. Not more than a quarter of an hour before the men had been round, according to the usual custom, to see that everything was safe and in good order, but nothing was noticed out of the way, and until the flames suddenly burst forth no one had any idea that there was the least danger or trouble at hand.

Another curious instance of animal instinct occurred in the winter of 1902–03 at Ocala, Florida. Mme. Pianka had taken her lions there to perform, and as soon as they arrived every one noticed that the animals, especially the lions, were restless and uneasy at night, and that they behaved very strangely.

It is customary, soon after arriving at a place, to turn the animals out into the steel arena for exercise, as, of course, it is quite impossible to give them any exercise at all while on a long journey. The moment the lions entered the arena, instead of stretching themselves luxuriously and pacing up and down in their usual manner, they stopped short, with ears back and noses to the ground, and commenced to sniff in the most peculiar manner.

It was impossible to rouse them up or make them move about. Each one would walk a few paces, but always with his head bent down and sniffing the ground. When the time for the performance came on, their behavior was still more curious. These lions were Mme. Pianka’s favorites, and as she had always been very fond of them, and had had them in training for several years, she had been accustomed to caress them. Although the majority of them took this in the grave, dignified manner peculiar to lions, one or two had appeared actually to like her endearments, and had occasionally rubbed their huge heads against her face.

But at this time they would not let her touch them. Each one let her know that she must keep her distance, or it would be a serious matter. Neither would they perform at the accustomed words of command. Indeed, their manner grew so forbidding and dangerous that at last she dared not even go near them.

That same night Mme. Pianka was awakened by the watchman calling to say that the lions were digging large holes in the ground, and that he thought, at the rate they were working, they would very soon dig themselves out altogether. All the assistants were called up, the electric lights were turned on, and it was found that the lions had already dug holes deep enough in the earth to bury themselves.

The danger was doubly great because so unexpected. Hyenas and wolves will dig holes in the ground in this manner, but for lions to do so is almost unheard of. The lions were with great difficulty taken out of the cage, with evident reluctance on their part, and put once more into their traveling compartments. The ground was securely battened down and covered thickly with fine sand, disinfectant, and sawdust.

QUEER FRIENDS—CAMEL, LIONESSES, AND DROMEDARY

The following night the lions were turned into the arena again, but in a very short time they had scratched away the sand and sawdust and dug up the earth, and it was only just in time that the lions were once more removed to their traveling-cages in exceedingly ugly and dangerous moods.

Many solutions were offered by various people,—especially by those who knew nothing whatever about animals,—but no satisfactory one could be found. We thought of the change of climate, of air, scene, and food. The lions had grown accustomed to changes of air and climate, and the food was the same kind that they had been accustomed to in captivity. We next thought of the water; but it was pure and good, and there seemed to be no accounting for this strange freak on the part of the animals. Had one or two shown this peculiar propensity, we should naturally have concluded that they had “gone bad,” but as all were doing the same thing, and two were quite young lions, this could not be the case.

At last this was mentioned to the chief of police and one or two old residents, and we then discovered that the tent had been pitched directly over an old graveyard in Ocala, and although most of the bodies had been removed, there was, of course, every probability that some of the remains were still under the ground.

This, of course, solved the mystery, to our great relief; for, having found out the cause, we very soon applied a remedy, and it was not long before we had the tent and the animals removed some distance off. As soon as the animals were removed, their savage sulkiness vanished, and they at once settled down into their old routine, and were as obedient and good-natured as they had ever been.

CHAPTER VII
HOW WILD ANIMALS ARE CAPTURED

Few who see wild animals in cages realize the vast amount of trouble, danger, and expense necessary to get them there. The greatest danger lies in capturing the animals in their native countries.

It is an easy task to hunt wild animals for sport, compared to the difficulties connected with their capture, not only alive, but uninjured. An injured animal is rarely any use. The injuries, added to the frenzy of a wild animal when first caught, leave very little chance of his surviving the ordeal, even for a few days; and should he do so, the chances are that he will remain in such a miserable state for so long that he will not repay the cost of capture, feeding, and transportation.

As a rule, although rare specimens have been made exceptions, an injured animal is either killed at once, or, if there should appear to be no immediate danger to the lives of his captors, is allowed to escape.

The chief danger lies, not so much when face to face with the animals, but when hunting and tracking them. The wariest and most careful hunter may be tracking an animal, and at the same time be tracked by the very animal he is seeking, who may spring on him at any moment.

There is no more ticklish or dangerous task than tracking lions in the vast Nubian deserts. The scorching sun pours down with such force that few men can stand it. The effect on the eyes is blinding. There is little or no shade, with the exception of occasional small palm-trees and bushes, while the jutting rocks afford splendid hiding-places for the king of beasts.

It may happen that when a lion-hunt has been formed an elephant or a rhinoceros appears, and either of these animals in their wild state presents a difficult problem. A rogue elephant will put a whole crowd of lion-hunters to rout, and clear that part of the country of men for some little time to come. A rhinoceros is also a formidable foe. Although comparatively slow-moving, it can, when excited, move quite quickly enough, and its horns can be used with terrible effect.

WILD ASS, QUAGGA, AND ZEBRAS

In capturing animals alive, it is generally considered better to get young ones. A number of natives form parties and then go in different directions, until they come upon the spoor of either a lioness or young lions. They then signal to one another by peculiar calls, and, meeting together, follow up the trail until they find the lair.

Should they find that the lair contains a lioness and cubs, they do all they can to induce the lioness to come out, and if unable to capture her alive, shoot her and then capture the cubs. This sounds very simple, but a lioness with cubs is one of the most savage of animals, and she will fight to the last. Having killed the lioness, there is still danger with the cubs; for lion cubs are fierce, strong, and vicious creatures, and can tear and bite with their claws and teeth in a terrible manner.

One plan is to throw nets or a piece of strong sackcloth over the young ones, in which they become entangled. The men then run forward, pick them up, and carry them off, and they are extremely lucky if they escape with a few scratches only, for the cubs, though tangled in the net, are able to make an exceedingly lively fight. Sometimes the lioness is not wounded fatally, and she is then far more dangerous than before. It is quite impossible to take the cubs in that case, for she would follow for miles, and in addition to making the cubs more savage, her cries of pain and distress would be more than likely to bring out her mate from some neighboring hiding-place, and then nothing could be done but to drop the cubs and withstand the lions’ attack.

When the cubs are captured, goats are obtained in full milk, and the cubs are fed by them until they are past the first teething-stage and able to eat meat. In some cases spaniels are provided as foster-mothers, and although at first the dogs are uneasy at their somewhat rough and savage foster-children, they generally grow fond of them, and the affection is more often than not returned by the cubs.

For catching full-grown lions large traps of various forms are used. One trap is square, one of the sides lifting up on a spring, like the old-fashioned mouse-trap. This trap is baited with a piece of fresh meat, and as soon as the lion has entered the trap the door shuts down and he is a prisoner. But lions are shrewd and cunning, like all the cat tribe, and many a man has lost his life by going to look at a baited trap.

Many cases have been known where a lion, becoming suspicious, resisted the temptation of the fresh meat, and lay down in hiding and kept watch. When the rash hunter came to see whether the bait had been touched, the lion sprang on him, preferring fresh man-meat to the bait inside the trap. In one case the lid went down, but, in some way or other, one of the paws of the lion was caught in it, and when the men came to look at him, by a wonderful feat of strength he raised the lid and sprang out, killing two of them.

Animals are also captured by driving them with torches or fire into inclosures made with bamboo rods and nets. When in these inclosures the animals are fairly secure, as any attempt to climb over the bamboo rods only sends them back into the nets, the bamboo not being sufficiently strong to bear their weight. The animals are generally kept a little while without food until they become somewhat subdued, and are then taken to their places of transportation.

In India the natives catch tigers by a peculiar method. The leaves of the sycamore and the large plantain are smeared with a sticky substance and left in the trail of the tiger. The moment the animal puts his foot on one of these leaves he immediately rubs it over his head, in order to get rid of it. This naturally makes his head sticky and uncomfortable, which causes him to roll on the ground. By doing this he becomes covered with the leaves, and when he is mad with rage the natives come cautiously up and cover him with strong nets and sacking.

In other parts of Asia the animals are caught in various ways,—some in pitfalls and traps, and some by meat baited in such a cunning manner that a native is able either to wound or to capture the animal while he is eating it. In running through the forests, the animals pass over these traps, which are carefully concealed by branches and limbs of trees, fall in, and are prisoners. In many cases the animals are so terrified that they die of fright; in others, they absolutely refuse to eat, and die soon after capture. Sometimes the captured animals die just when the cost of transportation has been paid, and it is then discovered that they had been injured internally in falling. In most cases, however, they are kept without food for a short time, and when they have quieted down a little some meat is thrown in to them, and they soon become accustomed to their surroundings.

Elephants are generally caught in nooses, or by being driven into a keddah. A number of men surround the elephant, and forming a circle of fire, which they make smaller and smaller, compel him to go into the keddah. He is then roped to some strong logs and allowed to remain in that state until quiet, when a tame elephant leads him about until he becomes tractable. Some elephants can never be tamed, and in this case it is generally considered wiser either to kill the animal or to let him have his freedom again.

In catching snakes various devices are used, but all methods are attended with a certain amount of danger. One way is to set the grass on fire in a circle where it is known that snakes have their hiding-places. This will always bring them out, and they naturally rush from the fire. As they rush out, they are caught in large nets mounted on wooden hoops to which is attached a large bag.

As the reptiles are generally stupefied with the smoke, it is not a difficult thing to those accustomed to the task to drop them into the bag. They are then carried to the packing-station, where they are packed in boxes and sent direct to Europe.

While on the journey, neither food nor water is given them; the chief things are warmth and freedom from damp. Cold is dangerous to all snakes; it not only makes them dull and torpid, but causes them to have mouth disease, from which they never recover; and as some of them are extremely valuable, this point is very important. Many instances have been known where a whole collection of valuable snakes have been found dead on arrival.

CHAPTER VIII
THE WILD ANIMALS’ KINDERGARTEN

An animal learns by association. Though it is a common belief, fear is not the reason for his obedience to the trainer’s commands. Habit and ignorance are what cause the animal to become an apt pupil in the hands of the trainer. The animal becomes accustomed to the same way of doing the same things at much the same time, and ignorance of his own power keeps him in this state of subjection.

TEACHING A LION TO RIDE A TRICYCLE

This habit is developed in the animal by a laborious and patient process, and it requires an intimate knowledge of animal nature to perfect it. The easiest animal to train is one that is born in his native haunts and new to captivity. The reason is obvious. The one bred in captivity has nothing to fear from man, and knows his own strength and the fear he inspires. Accustomed from earliest infancy to the greatest care and coddling, he arrives one day at the stage of growth where he realizes the value of his own claws, for the use of them has shown him that human beings do not like to be scratched. Some attendant, who has, perhaps, been playing with him day by day, admiring his pretty, innocent-looking little face, soft furry body, and velvety paws while he is still a mere cub, drops him suddenly one day when he feels the deep prick of the claws hidden in those paws. The next time some one comes along, the cub may not be in the mood for handling; he remembers his past experience, that scratching means “let go,” and he puts this into practice. His liberty is promptly secured, and he lies in peace in his cage.

The next man who comes may get a deeper scratch, and he lets the cub alone even more severely, a fact that the cub notes and remembers the next time, for he is gradually acquiring a deeper disrespect for man and his puerile ways; he is beginning to know the value of the little knives he carries sheathed in those paws, and he is very soon autocratic in his independence. He accepts his food as tribute and his care as homage due, and regards man simply as another and much weaker animal.

Such an animal is difficult to train. The only method that may be pursued at all is severe letting alone for several years. All that time he holds himself more and more aloof. He is, in a way, congratulating himself on his success, and man in time becomes a shadowy being who periodically brings his food, and who, in some inexplicable way, keeps him in that oblong box for people to stare at.

He does not mind the people, nor does he mind the cage very much, for he has never known anything else; but deep in him—so deep that he barely realizes its existence—slumbers a desire for freedom and an unutterable longing for the blue sky and the free air. Man, in some way, is to blame for that intangible “something” that he wants, and scarcely knows that he wants; and man has shown him that he is afraid of his claws, and, therefore, the animal hates and despises man and all belonging to him.

The cub grows insolent in his haughtiness; then his undefined desire for freedom decreases somewhat, becomes more and more vague, and his existence is finally comprised in just two sensations: eating and sleeping. The disturbance of either is an insult, and any one who disturbs either an enemy. Man allows both to continue, and so the cub in his arrogance tolerates him.

The cub passes beyond his days of cubhood, and acquires almost the years and stature of a full-grown lion. He has few of the qualities of the newly captured animal. He does not fear man; he knows his own power. He regards man, as an inferior, with an attitude of disdain and silent hauteur.

When it is considered that his memory of the days when scratching insured independence has faded, his training is begun. He meets it with a reserved majesty and silent indifference, as though he had a dumb realization of his wrongs.

He has probably been in a large cage. This is changed to a smaller one that has movable bars. The bars are fitted in this way for a definite purpose. Until now the lion has kept in the rear of his cage, as far as possible from the man who feeds him, grabbing his meat and retreating with a sullen growl. It is desired to bring him into closer relationship with his would-be trainer.

The bars are moved day by day. Soon the cage is small enough to permit a fairly long stick to reach from the front to the back. Such a stick, in the hands of a man, is introduced and allowed to remain several hours. The lion may take no notice of it; he may growl and he may grab it. Whatever he does, the stick is kept there and replaced if destroyed. When he has grown accustomed to the stick, it is gently rubbed along his neck and back. Though he snaps at it at first, when once he finds that the stroking is a pleasure, he soon allows it to be done without any protest.

POLAR BEAR USED AT PAN-AMERICAN EXPOSITION FOR DRAWING CHILDREN’S CARRIAGE

Sometimes a piece of meat is put at the end of the stick by the trainer, and this is found to act as an inducement to allow the stick to come close to the animal. Very often the lion will crunch the stick to splinters, and this the trainer allows, as he wishes to prove to the animal that he has nothing to fear from the stick itself. In a very short time he takes the meat quietly, without even growling at the stick; and when this stage of the proceedings is reached the stick is made shorter each day, until finally it is not much longer than the hand.

As a rule, when once the stick trick has been accomplished with an animal, it is comparatively easy to get on a little farther, for by that time the animal not only has no objection to the presence of the trainer, but appears to look for him and expect him. His objections, suspicions, and resentment disappear, and very soon the fingers replace the stick in the stroking process, and, being softer and more soothing than the stick, seem to give greater pleasure than the wood. This is a great step taken, for one of the most difficult things is to get any wild animal to allow himself to be touched with the human hand.

With a lion which comes straight from Africa or Asia, the case is different. Lions are usually trained when between two and three years of age. A two-year-old of fine physique and restless nature has been brought straight from his native haunts. There he has been actually the monarch of the jungle. His life has been free and fearless.

Suddenly, in the midst of his regal existence, he falls into a hidden pit or is snared in the woods. His desperate struggles, his rage and gnashing of teeth, all the force of his tremendous strength, are ineffectual in breaking the bonds of his captivity.

After his first supreme efforts are over and he has thoroughly exhausted himself, he proves himself a very king of beasts in his haughty disdain. He apparently realizes his helplessness and submits to everything in sullen, dignified silence.