Chapter 22 | A Bit of Nature | Diamond Dyke

There seems plenty of reason in supposing that the tremendously loud, full-throated roar of the lion at night is intended to scare the great brute’s prey into betraying its whereabouts at times, at others to paralyse it with fright and render it easy of capture. Much has been written about the fascinating power of the snake, but this fascination, from quiet observation, appears to be nothing more nor less than the paralysis caused by fear, and suffered by plenty of objects in the animal world. One might begin with man himself, and the many instances where, in the face of a terrible danger, he becomes perfectly weak and helpless. He is on a railway track, and a fast train is coming. One spring, and he would be safe; but how often it happens that he never makes that spring.

Take another instance. There is a fire at some works. It is spreading fast, and the cry arises, “Save the horses in the stables!” Men rush and fling open the doors; the halters are cast loose, but too often the poor brutes will not stir even for blows: fascinated by the danger, they stay in the stable and are burned.

Go into the woods on some pleasant summer day, in one of the pleasant sandy districts, where the sweet, lemony odour of the pine-trees floats through the sunny air, and the woodland slope is dotted with holes, and freshly scratched out patches of yellowish sand abound. Sit down and don’t move, and in a short time, quite unexpectedly, you will see rabbits seated in front of these holes. You have not seen them come out, for they seem to arrive there instantaneously—first one or two, then several; and if there is neither movement nor noise, more and more will appear, to begin nibbling the grass at the edge of the wood, or playing about, racing after each other, almost as full of pranks as kittens. Now and then one will raise itself upon its hind-legs like a dog begging, ears erect and quivering, now turned in one direction, now in another. Then, all at once, rap, rap!—that sharp alarm stamp given by the foot—there is a wild race, and dozens of white cottony tails are seen disappearing at the mouths of holes, and in another instant not a rabbit is to be seen.

What was it? You listen, but all seems still. You can hear the twittering of birds, perhaps the harsh call of a jay, or the laughing chatter of a magpie, but those familiar sounds would not have startled the rabbits; and if you are new to such woodland matters, you will conclude that some one of the nearest fur-coated fellows must have caught sight of you, called out danger, and sent the colony flying. But if you are accustomed to the woods and the animal nature there, you will listen, and in a short time hear that which startled the little animals, the cry reaching their sensitive ears long before it penetrated your duller organs.

There it is again—a fine-drawn, shrill, piercing cry as of some animal in trouble. This is repeated at intervals till it comes nearer and nearer, and develops into a querulous, frightened scream uttered by some little creature in fear or pain.

Both, say; for in another moment a fine grey rabbit comes into sight running slowly, and looking in nowise distressed by over-exertion as it passes on in front of where you sit, going in and out among the tree trunks and ferns, paying no heed to the many burrows, each of which would make a harbour of refuge and perhaps save its life, though that is very doubtful. It might, too, you think, save itself by rushing off at full speed, as it would if it caught sight of you, or a dog chased it. But no, it goes on running slowly, uttering at times its terrified scream, which you hear again and again long after the rabbit has disappeared—a cry which seems to say: “It’s all over; I am marked down, and though I keep on running, I can never get away. It will catch me soon.”

And it is so, for poor bunny is doomed. He is being hunted down by a remorseless enemy who is on his scent, and now comes into sight in turn, running in a leisurely way exactly along the track taken by the rabbit, though this is out of sight. There seems to be no hurry on the part of the little, slight, snaky-looking, browny-grey animal, with its piercing eyes, rounded ears, creamy-white breast, and black-tipped tail.

The weasel—for that it is—does not seem above an eighth of the size of the rabbit, a kick from whose powerful hind-leg could send it flying disabled for far enough. But the little, keen, perky-looking creature knows that this will not be its fate, and comes loping along upon its leisurely hunt, pausing now and then to look sharply around for danger, and then gliding in and out among the undergrowth, leaping over prostrate pieces of branch, and passing on in front just as the rabbit did a few minutes before, and then disappearing among the ferns; its keen-scented nostrils telling it plainly enough the direction in which the rabbit has gone, though the screams might have deceived the ear.

Not long since I was witness of an instance of so-called fascination in the homely cases of cat and mouse. Not the ordinary domestic mouse, for the little animal was one of the large, full-eyed, long-tailed garden mice, and my attention was directed to it by seeing the cat making what sporting people call “a point” at something. Puss was standing motionless, watching intently, ready to spring at any moment, and upon looking to see what took her attention, there at the foot of an old tree-stump stood the very large mouse, not three feet from its enemy, and so paralysed or fascinated by fear, that it paid no heed to my approaching so closely that I could have picked it up. It was perfectly unable to stir till I gave puss a cuff and sent her flying without her natural prey, when the mouse darted out of sight.

The roaring of the lions seemed to exercise this fascination even upon Dyke, who made no movement to fire, while he could hear the other bullocks, evidently huddling together in mortal fear—a fear which attacked him now, as the bellowings of the unfortunate bullock became more agonised, then grew fainter, and died off in a piteous sigh.

Then, and then only, did Dyke seem to start back into the full possession of his faculties; and raising the gun, he stood listening, so as to judge as nearly as possible whereabouts to fire.

A sharp crack, as of a bone breaking, told him pretty nearly where the spot must be, not fifty yards from where he stood; and, taking a guess aim—for he could not see the sight at the end of the barrel—he was about to draw trigger, when, at almost one and the same moment, Duke uttered a frightened snarl: there was a rush, and the boy fired now at random, fully aware of the fact that a lion must have crept up within a few yards, and been about to spring either at him or the dog, when the fierce, snarling growls made it alter its intention.

They say that discretion is the better part of valour, and it would be hard to set Dyke’s movement in retreat down to cowardice, especially when it is considered that he was almost blind in the darkness, while his enemy was provided by nature with optics which were at their best in the gloom of night.

Dyke moved back into the house, where, partly sheltered, and with the dog close to his feet, watchful as he was himself, and ready to give warning of danger, he waited, listening for the next sound.

This was long in coming, for the lions seemed to have been scared away by the report of the piece—it was too much to believe that the beast which had charged was hit—but at last crick, crack, and a tearing noise came from out of the darkness toward the stables, and taking another guess aim, the boy fired and listened intently as he reloaded his piece.

Once more there was silence till a distant roar was heard, and Dyke felt hopeful that he had scared away his enemy; but hardly had he thought that, when the cracking and tearing noise arose once more, telling plainly enough that if the beast had been scared away, it had only been for a short distance, and it had now returned to feed.

Dyke’s piece rang out again, as he fired in the direction of the sounds, all feeling of dread now being carried away by the excitement, and a sense of rage that, in all probability, one of the best draught oxen had been pulled down and was being eaten only a few yards from where he stood.

Crack went a bone once more, as the noise of the piece died out, showing that the lion had ceased to pay attention to the report.

And now Dyke fired again, and backed right into the house, startled by the result, for this time his bullet had evidently told—the lion uttering a savage, snarling roar, which was followed by a crash, as if caused by the monster leaping against one of the fences in an effort to escape.

Then once more all was still. The tearing and rending had ceased, and though the boy listened patiently for quite an hour, no animal returned to the savage banquet.

At last, tired out, Dyke closed and secured the door, to sit down and wait for day, no disposition to sleep troubling him through the rest of the night. Once or twice he struck a match to hold it near his brother’s face, but only to find him lying sleeping peacefully, the reports of the gun having had no effect whatever; while as the light flashed up, Dyke caught a glimpse of the dog crouching at the door, with head low, watching and listening for the approach of a foe.

But no enemy came, and at the first flush of dawn Dyke opened the door cautiously, to look out and see one of the cows, all torn and bloody, lying half-a-dozen yards from its shed; and just within the first fence, where a gap had been broken through, crouched a full-grown lioness, apparently gathering itself up for a spring.