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THE TRAINING OF WILD ANIMALS


[Illustration: 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.


[Illustration]






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


  CHAPTER                                                           PAGE
     I  IN WHICH I BECOME “THE BOY TRAINER”--A LION HUNT IN A SEWER    3

    II  ORIGIN AND HISTORY OF WILD-ANIMAL TRAINING                    23

   III  HOUSEKEEPING FOR WILD ANIMALS                                 34

    IV  THE FEEDING OF SNAKES AND ELEPHANTS                           61

     V  CHARACTERISTICS OF DIFFERENT ANIMALS                          76

    VI  “GOING BAD”--ANIMAL INSTINCT                                  97

   VII  HOW WILD ANIMALS ARE CAPTURED                                109

  VIII  THE WILD ANIMALS’ KINDERGARTEN                               120

    IX  HOW WILD ANIMALS ARE TAUGHT TRICKS                           143

     X  AN ANIMAL SHOW AT NIGHT                                      166

    XI  THE PRINCIPLES OF TRAINING                                   182

   XII  THE ANIMAL TRAINER--SOME FAMOUS TRAINERS                     202

  XIII  GUARDING AGAINST ACCIDENTS                                   226




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


                                                                    PAGE
  Frank C. Bostock                                        _Frontispiece_

  Mr. Bostock and his eight lions                                      9

  *Herman Weedon and his group of lions, tiger, brown, Tibet,
       and sloth bears, Silesian boarhounds, and hyena                20

  *The towering of the kings                                          26

  “The Three Graces”                                                  35

  “Denver” and “Cæsar”                                                41

  Mlle. Aurora and her polar bears                                    48

  Lion monarchs in infancy                                            57

  “Brandu,” the snake-charmer                                         64

  M. Johnson and his trained elephant                                 70

  *The old arm-chair                                                  79

  Madame Pianka                                                       85
          From a photograph by Chickering

  Mr. Charles Miller and his Bengal tigers                            95

  Queer friends--camel, lionesses, and dromedary                     106

  Wild ass, quagga, and zebras                                       111

  *Teaching a lion to ride a tricycle                                122

  Polar bear used at Pan-American Exposition for drawing
       children’s carriage                                           127

  Elephants and trainer                                              137

  Trained but not tamed                                              148

  “Depew”                                                            154

  *A difficult feat                                                  163

  *“Doc” balancing himself on a ball placed on a see-saw             169

  *Jaguars, leopards, and panthers                                   179

  *Exchanging confidences                                            190

  The largest number of lions ever grouped                           196

  *Herman Weedon defying his fiercest lion                           205

  Captain Jack Bonavita                                              211
          From a photograph by Frank

  *Madame Morelli and her jaguars, panthers, and leopards            221

  “Consul,” the chimpanzee                                           232

  *Captain Bonavita carrying a lion weighing five hundred
       pounds                                                        238

  Mr. Sam Stevenson                                                  247
          From a photograph by Frank

  Polar bears at play                                                253

                      * 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.

[Illustration: 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.

[Illustration: 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.

[Illustration: 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.

[Illustration: “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.

[Illustration: “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.

[Illustration: 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.

[Illustration: 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.

[Illustration: “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.

[Illustration: 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.

[Illustration: 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.

[Illustration: 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.

[Illustration: 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.

[Illustration: 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.

[Illustration: 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.

[Illustration: 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.

[Illustration: 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.

The lion comes to the trainer from the jungle, after having been
subjected to abuse and gross indignities. From the time of his capture
by natives who have neither feeling nor consideration for the poor
animal, until he reaches his final quarters, his treatment, as a rule,
is such as to terrify him and render him nervous in the extreme.

He has been kept in cramped quarters, cruelly joggled and crushed
in a narrow box, while on his way to the coast from the interior,
his bedding left unchanged, and the poor food with which he has been
provided thrown carelessly into the refuse and offal which surround
him. Clean and fastidious, as the lion always is about his food
and person, he often refuses to eat, and this, added sometimes to
seasickness, makes his suffering terrible.

The finest health and strength will not stand such a strain for long,
and by the time the journey is ended the lion is disgusted with man and
his ways. In many cases he arrives in Europe or America sick and weak,
and appears only too ready to die and get rid of his troubles. The only
passion he has in this state is a genuine hate for man, and this hate
seems to be the only thing which arouses him at all.

It frequently happens that wild animals kill themselves in frenzies of
fear during transportation. Everything in their surroundings is new
and strange to them. They have lost their freedom and the fresh air;
they are cramped and half stifled in close quarters, surrounded by
dirt and unwholesomeness, and cannot even keep their bodies still for
two seconds, owing to the perpetual motion which goes on, and which,
perhaps, terrifies them more than anything else. Therefore, when a wild
animal is first turned over to the trainer, he is practically mad with
his experiences and terrors.

Then begins the training. One man, and one man only, has him in care,
and it is always essential in these cases to choose a quiet trainer.
This is one of the reasons why Captain Bonavita has made such a success
in training lions. He is always quiet and self-possessed, even in times
of extreme peril; and this quietness has more effect on wild animals,
particularly lions, than anything else. In some way it seems to
communicate itself to them and allays their fears. Often a lion rushing
round and round a cage will be calmed down by a gentle “Whoa, whoa,”
spoken in a soothing manner.

The first thing which is done is to attend to the animal’s bodily
comfort. In place of dirt and unwholesomeness is cleanliness; in place
of the filthy, reeking bed is a fresh, sweet one of dry straw; and
fresh food and water are brought to him, always by the same trainer,
who invariably speaks a few soothing words in a quiet voice when Leo
begins to race wildly round the cage in the vain effort to get out.
A very large cage is never given at first, but the one provided is a
great improvement on his old cramped quarters. Were it too large, the
animal would destroy or seriously injure himself in trying to escape.
It is generally just large enough for him to turn round in comfortably,
but not high enough to spring about in too much.

The feeding of the animal is the first step in his training. The
trainer takes him about six pounds of fresh beef or mutton, with a
piece of bone, once a day, and fresh, clear water three times a day. No
one but the trainer is permitted to go near him or to look at him. He
must become acquainted with the trainer’s personality, and must be made
to realize that his food and drink come from the trainer only. He must
also be made clearly to understand that the trainer means him no harm,
but does everything for his comfort.

The meat is usually put upon the end of a long iron fork, and passed
to him through the bars. He has to come a little way forward to take
the meat, and gradually, without thinking about it, he comes close to
the trainer. At first the water-pan is tied to the edge of the cage,
because in trying to draw the pan toward him the animal would upset
it and make the cage wet and uncomfortable. There would also be the
difficulty of getting it out again with a stick, which might arouse the
animal’s anger.

When the lion and his trainer have once become acquainted, he is
transferred to another cage; and here again, for two weeks, he is
fed, watered, and taken care of by the same trainer, until the animal
not only gets accustomed to him, but looks forward to his presence,
because it invariably means something pleasant to himself. In about six
weeks’ time a loose collar is slipped around the lion’s neck when he is
asleep. Attached to this collar is a chain, long enough for the animal
to move about, but just short enough to keep him from reaching the end
of the cage.

The next step is for the trainer to put a chair inside the cage.
Instantly the lion springs for it, but, being kept in check by the
chain, finds he cannot reach it, and retires to a corner, growling
sulkily at the intruder. After casting vindictive glances at it, with
occasional growls, he becomes accustomed to its presence and takes no
further notice of it. Then the trainer, after opening the door of the
cage once or twice and looking in, finally walks calmly in himself
and sits on the chair. He is just out of reach of the lion, and when
the animal has growled and resented it as he did the chair, he again
subsides into indifference.

Then comes the time when the lion is released from the chain, when the
trainer takes his life in his hands, and when he knows that the moment
of extreme danger has arrived. No matter how quiet and docile the lion
may have appeared to be when chained, he is likely to develop suddenly
a ferocious savagery when released.

At this stage Captain Bonavita always carries two stout oak sticks, one
in the right hand and one in the left. The one in the right he keeps
for immediate use, and when once punished with this stick, the lion,
not knowing the purpose of the stick in the left hand, comes to fear
that also and backs away from it. If possible, the sticks are used to
stroke the lion, if he will permit it; for the condition of a wild
animal is one of receptivity--he is willing to welcome anything that
will give him pleasure. But it is rarely, indeed, at this stage of the
proceedings that he will allow this.

In the first place, the lion is generally a little frightened or
nervous himself, and alarm begets wrath. It is feline nature to
dissemble that wrath until the moment of action. Leo does not growl
or lash his tail. It is not the growling lion that is to be feared
most, nor does the lashing tail, as so many suppose, indicate danger.
Not anger, but good humor, comes from such indications. It is when the
tail stands out straight and rigid that the trainer begins to think of
retreat.

[Illustration: ELEPHANTS AND TRAINER]

When the tail becomes stiff in this manner, it is generally a pretty
sure indication that the animal is going to spring. When the trainer
sees that tail become like an iron bar, he tries to slip out at the
door; sometimes he knows he will never have the opportunity. Before
the lion springs he glances aside carelessly, growling quietly, and
the next instant, with open mouth and all four paws distended, he is
sailing through the air, straight for the throat of the man, his tense
body rigid with passion, and his five hundred pounds of sinew and
muscle ready to descend on the intruder.

The man who will not have foreseen that terrific onslaught, holding
himself in readiness for it, has no business with wild animals, and
will, in all probability, never again attempt any dealings with them,
because he will never have the chance. The agility which is one of the
requisite qualities for a trainer must come into play, and upon it
depends his life.

It is here that the chair, which plays no small part in an animal’s
education, comes into use again. That chair was not brought into the
cage merely for comfort. It is the best defense possible against the
lion’s spring. Swift and apparently unpremeditated as the spring has
been, the man has seen the tenseness of the muscles that preceded it,
and before the animal has reached him, the stout legs of the chair are
bristling between them.

Here is another problem for the lion. This unknown thing has suddenly
assumed an unexpected and possibly a deadly significance. Snarling, he
drops on his haunches and claws at the barrier; perhaps he has plumped
into it and has felt the blows from its dull prongs. Then out from
behind it springs a stick--the same stick of his pleasant memories, but
turned to base uses now, for it flicks him smartly on the tip of his
nose, just where a lion keeps all his most sensitive feelings.

Again it lands, and the chances are ten to one that two blows on that
tender spot are enough. Howling with rage and discomfiture, the lion
ceases to claw the chair and retires to his corner, very crestfallen
and extremely puzzled and bewildered. By the time he has had leisure
to consider the strange performance, the trainer is out of the cage,
leaving the chair behind him.

Now the lion may do any one or all of several things, according to the
depth of his emotions. He may glower and sulk in his corner; he may
rant and tear about his cage, giving vent to his outraged feelings in
loud roars; he may go for the chair and dismember it (not without scars
to his own hide, probably); or he may settle down to think matters over
calmly, possibly coming to the conclusion that it is unwise to attack
any strange thing before finding out whether it can hurt in return.

Generally, after this chair incident, when the lion has got the worst
of it, he calms down fairly soon, and on the reappearance of his
trainer some time afterward has evidently forgotten the unpleasantness
of it all, and remembers only that it is the trainer who brings him all
he wants. In some cases he greets him with a gentle rubbing against
the bars of his cage and a soft purr, for he is only a big cat, after
all. The meat is taken with a slightly subdued air, he allows himself
to be stroked and patted,--outside the bars,--and so another great step
in his education has been taken and accomplished successfully.




CHAPTER IX

HOW WILD BEASTS ARE TAUGHT TRICKS


The next stage in the training of a lion is for the trainer to enter
the cage again with the chair and stick. No longer militant, but
somewhat timid, the animal keeps in his corner, furtively watching the
trainer. Little by little, the man edges the chair over until he is
within reach; then he begins to rub the lion with his stick. Little by
little he decreases the distance still more, until, finally, he has his
hand on the lion’s shoulder and is patting him gently.

This is another great step in advance. The lion has learned to
endure the touch of the human hand; although he murmurs sulkily, he
likes it, for few animals are indifferent to petting. Day by day the
trainer familiarizes the lion with his presence and touch; rubbing
his back, stroking his shoulders, raising his paws,--a somewhat risky
and ticklish trial,--and in the course of about two weeks after first
entering the cage, if the animal be of fairly good temper, all alarm
and overt enmity have been eradicated, so accustomed has the animal
become to the presence of this one man.

After this he is taught to back until he reaches the rear of the
cage, and then made to lie down. After a time he is made to lie down
and stand up, at either the word of command or at a certain cue, and
after each act of obedience he is given a small piece of raw meat as a
reward. If he does not obey, he gets no reward, and in time the habit
becomes strong, and he does what is required of him, whether he gets
anything for it or not.

Then comes another period of extreme danger for the trainer. This is
when the animal first enters the arena. He finds himself in a place
which seems vast after a cage, and becoming a little bewildered at the
strange surroundings, behaves in an entirely different manner. Many
animals who have been taught to perform in comparatively small cages
have to be trained all over again when in the arena. In the big arena,
therefore, the training of the animals has to be practically begun anew.

This is one reason why trainers are always so anxious to get their
animals out of the training-schools and -cages and into the arena
as soon as possible. But they are liable to get them there too soon
sometimes, which is extremely dangerous. I have already explained why a
lion is first put into a small cage to begin with. If he goes into the
arena too soon, he is more apt to spring at the trainer, because he has
not yet become tractable and docile enough.

On first entering the arena, the lion runs round and round, seeking
some place to escape, because his surroundings are strange. He is also
rather frightened, for anything unusual or strange always makes a wild
animal, especially a lion, nervous; but the trainer’s quiet presence
and voice generally soothe him after a while, and he soon gets used to
it. An entire day is generally taken to accustom the lion to his new
surroundings, and he is then put through several evolutions, just as
in the smaller cage.

Beginning at this point, the training or education of an animal is
simply the application to more advanced work of the principles already
followed. It is progress beyond a kind of kindergarten, and learning
by association has everything to do with it. The animal is becoming
amenable to the mastery of man, and in doing so his own reason is being
developed. From this time on he begins to take a new interest in life.
That instinct of action, which he has inherited from his ancestors and
which has been slumbering, is awakened, and he is learning to know and
enjoy the cultivated exercise.

He works gradually into the harness, and soon becomes an adept at the
work which he has been taught with so much painstaking patience. But he
always remains an animal, his natural instincts are always paramount,
and though he may go through his performances meekly, and even with a
certain amount of interest, there are always deep down in him an inborn
distrust and fear of man.

[Illustration: TRAINED BUT NOT TAMED]

The only trainer, therefore, who has any business in a cage with such
animals is one who thoroughly understands their nature, who knows all
their weaknesses and characteristics, and who fears their strength.
If I ever hear a trainer make a remark to the effect that, after all,
there is nothing to be afraid of when once an animal is trained, I know
that man is unfit to be a trainer at all. The man who makes the best
trainer is the one who realizes their treachery, and knows that there
is danger at all times and in all places with wild animals, no matter
how well trained they may be. As I said before, no wild animal is ever
tamed, only trained, and the best training in the world is nothing
when once the animal feels inclined to give way to his natural savage
instincts.

In time, the trained animal becomes so accustomed to performing, that
when he sees the paraphernalia of his performance he knows exactly what
is expected of him, and does it naturally and readily. The successful
performance of all trained animals depends on this almost instinctive
following of long-accustomed habit, together with the pleasure the
exercise gives to animals habitually confined in small cages.

Leopards, panthers, and jaguars are all trained in much the same
manner. Mme. Morelli puts them through a course of training very
similar to that given the lion. They are taught to respect and look for
the trainer, and have instilled into them as much awe as is ever bred
in any animal, which is not saying a great deal. The jaguar, leopard,
and panther become used to the association of the trainer, and are
finally willing, through much coaxing and coercion, to perform such
elementary feats as are required of them.

The stick is the instrument for the education of these animals in the
same manner as in the case of the lion. To begin with, a broomstick
is laid on the floor, and the trainer steps to the back of the stage,
apparently unarmed, leaving the stick in full sight, the animal
crouching in the rear of the cage. After a few moments’ hesitation,
with the tense, strained tightening of his leg-muscles,--which all
trainers know so well as a signal of danger,--the animal launches its
sleek, compact, sinewy body full upon the unprotected broomstick.

The dull wood, like a craven, has not spunk enough to respond. It
accepts the punishment as a Chinaman does in battle, with no apparent
expectation of anything different. The animal, disgusted, leaves the
stick and launches himself at the trainer. The trainer, small and
delicate woman as she is, meets the charge with coolness and that
quiet reserve force which stands all trainers in such good stead. The
broomstick is not her only weapon. She has another: an iron prong,
heavy, thick, and with a point dull enough to leave whatever skin it
touches unlacerated, but sharp enough to remind any animal that he
is in poor business in an attack on it, when held in the hands of a
determined trainer.

The prong is attached to the end of a stick much larger and longer
than the first stick, and against that combination the animal throws
himself. He comes out of the encounter with a cowed air and an added
respect for the small woman who held it. He slinks again into his
corner, but allows himself to be finally coaxed out and stroked with
the very stick which had resisted his first spring in such a decided
manner.

Finally, the stick is laid on the floor, and after much persuasion, the
animal is induced to walk over it, which he does, hissing and snarling.
He is led over it again and again, and fails to notice that each time
the stick is raised a little from the floor, until finally he finds,
somewhat to his surprise and discomfiture, that when he walks over the
stick he has to make quite a spring in order to get over it at all.
Before this stick incident is finished, he jumps over a stick raised as
high as a chair.

No animal is ever allowed to backslide. Each thing done one day must be
done the next day in exactly the same way; there must be no deviation
from the rule. This is the reason that in every animal act the trainer
positively insists upon perfect adherence to the regular formula. Such
is the force of habit that laxity to-day means a desire for laxity
to-morrow at the same place and in the same way, and laxity in one
small detail will breed the tendency for it, which will then in all
probability spread and in a short time affect the whole performance.
This is why everything is done with such careful attention to detail.

[Illustration: “DEPEW”]

If an animal is sent to the right side on entering the arena the first
day, he is sent to the right every day thereafter, and the direction in
which he goes after leaving his pedestal, and before taking his place
in the group, is always the same. Each animal, too, in a group has his
own place and his own time for assuming the place; and should he once
leave it, there would be danger to the whole performance. The trainer,
too, even in walking about the arena, always walks in the same way,
and gives his closest attention to the prevention of the happening of
anything unusual.

Performing animals particularly dislike a change in the stage setting,
and it is absolutely necessary, whenever a new one is contemplated, to
accustom them to it by the most gradual means. There have been times
when an animal, seeing a new barrel or block for the first time, would
attack it with such gusto that not only would the objectionable piece
of furniture be destroyed, but so much excitement would be communicated
to the other animals that it would be found impossible to go on with
the act.

The dangerous tigress, Goldie, which performs with Herman Weedon, has a
special dislike to the red pedestal on which she has to sit during the
performance. At all other times, when this pedestal is out of sight,
Goldie is as meek and mild as a kitten, and will allow herself to be
smoothed and stroked with every symptom of pleasure. But when once that
red pedestal is in view, Goldie is a fury. At one time Herman Weedon
tried painting the objectionable stool another color, but he soon found
that in Goldie’s case it was not the color or the pedestal itself that
she objected to: it was the fact that when she saw that pedestal she
knew that she had to perform, which raised all her temper and animosity.

An incident which occurred in Kansas City will well illustrate the
force of habit in wild animals. An error on the part of the workmen
had caused Mme. Pianka’s cage to be misplaced, and it became necessary
that a smaller one be substituted. Such a change from one accustomed
condition to another is one which performing animals particularly
dislike, and it is avoided whenever possible, but in this case it was
unavoidable.

The lions all objected to the change, and showed their displeasure by
many unmistakable signs. One lioness absolutely refused to enter the
cage at all; Mme. Pianka coaxed, ordered, and flicked her whip. The
lioness had been a good animal, but some unaccountable sulkiness, such
as is likely to obtrude into the good nature of any animal at any time,
had taken possession of her, and nothing would move her.

It was at this juncture that I decided to enter her cage myself and
insist on obedience. The lioness looked casually at me and then at the
small riding-whip in my hand, and after a little demur went into the
cage and through her act without any more fuss or sulkiness. I was in
the act of leaving the cage when I, thoughtlessly, did a most foolish
thing.

Pleased to think I had subdued the big cat, I carelessly tapped the
riding-whip on the ground, merely for a flourish. Twenty feet away the
lioness’s mate was standing, watching the whole proceeding with dubious
eyes. He promptly noted the action, had never seen it before, mistook
its intent for an attack on his mate, and with a single bound was on
me. Before I had time to realize what was happening, the lion had
pinned me through the fleshy part of the thigh, and we both went down
together.

The lion loosened his hold, gathered himself up, and picking me up in
his mouth, as though I were a tiny child, carried me over to Pianka,
as though for her approval. Here, fortunately for myself, the force of
habit again came into play.

In Mme. Pianka’s hand was the revolver, loaded with blank cartridges,
which she used for her act. Two of these she fired, in quick
succession, close to the lion’s ear. That was one of the signals for a
change in his act; the other, a simultaneous one, was to throw her arm
about his neck. The natural pose which had always been suggested by
these two actions in conjunction worked the charm. The force of habit
brought him to instant obedience, he drew his teeth out of my body,
fell into the pose, and seemed quite oblivious of the anger that had
only the moment before aroused him to his dangerous attack.

I scrambled to my feet, and after running the lion once or twice round
the arena, just to demonstrate that I still had the mastery, went off
to bed. The teeth had not touched the bone, but there were some bad
flesh wounds, and I was not up again for three weeks. And all this
was through a foolish little bit of byplay to which the lion was not
accustomed.

After the animal has learned his lesson and become expert in his
performance, there still remains the test of a public appearance. This
is always a matter of anxiety for the trainer, as animals suffer from
stage fright. The sight of a crowd is likely to distract them and
draw their attention from the trainer, so that they lose their cues.
Once thoroughly accustomed to the stage, they seem to find in it a
sort of intoxication well known to a species higher in the order of
nature. Nearly all trainers assert that animals are affected by the
attitude of an audience, that they are stimulated by the applause of an
enthusiastic house, and perform indifferently before a cold audience.

The pleasure in acting and showing off before others is, perhaps, more
plainly demonstrated by bears than by any other animals. The conceit
and good opinion of themselves which some performing bears have is
absolutely ridiculous. One trainer, Roberto, has cleverly trained
some very young bears to perform various acts. The duty of one is to
climb up a ladder, set free the American flag, and sit on the top of
the ladder until his trainer has played a tune on the violin while he
balances the bear on the ladder.

So proud is the little bear of his accomplishment that whenever any one
is looking on, he will go through the whole performance by himself,
evidently simply for the pleasure of doing it, and no one can fail to
see the conceitedness of his manner as he does it. Bears very seldom
get nervous in public; they enjoy the acts too much.

More animals are lost to the arena from fear than through viciousness.
Trainers dread a timid lion, tiger, or leopard, not only because in its
panic it is likely to injure the trainer, but because it is unreliable,
and may take fright and spoil a whole performance. When animals are
found to be so unusually timid that it is impossible to rely on them,
they are not used for any of the higher classes of performances, but
are employed for the more simple sensational acts, which often take the
public quite as much as the more difficult feats, but which require
little preparatory education.

In cases of wild animals in captivity suddenly seizing a keeper or
other person, the best means to make them loosen their hold is either
to fire off blank cartridges or to turn a hose on them. Generally the
hose has the greatest effect, as it stops the animal’s breath for the
time, and he loosens his hold to breathe. In many cases, however,
nothing in the world will induce a wild animal to loosen his hold,
and in this case it is merely a matter of brute strength, which it is
impossible to overcome, except by killing the animal, and even then he
will often hold on long enough to finish his victim.

The keeping of red-hot irons in case of emergencies I discarded about
ten or eleven years ago. I rejected it because it is an extremely
cruel expedient, and seldom effectual as a remedy for the attacks of
wild beasts. This fact was contradicted a short time ago by a man who
stated that he saw some irons being heated in one of the coke fires.
So he did, but this was in the winter, and my practice is then to put
hot irons into the drinking-water of the animals occasionally. This
practice is always observed in all my shows during the winter months.
It has the value of taking the chill off the water, and also imparts
some of the beneficial qualities of the iron, thus giving an iron tonic
and drinkable water at the same time.

[Illustration: A DIFFICULT FEAT]

For the reason that it is cruel and unsafe, I never now allow any
firearms to be used, unless it is in a case of great urgency. I took
this precaution after an incident in Chicago, when the cheek of
a spectator was grazed by a shot fired by a trainer at one of his
infuriated animals. The weapons that are used now are intelligence,
pluck, vigilance, and patience. With these used in the proper way, very
few animals in captivity, whether trained or not, will do those about
them any harm.




CHAPTER X

AN ANIMAL SHOW AT NIGHT


To those who are the least timid or not accustomed to it, an animal
show at night has a gruesome and somewhat terrifying aspect.

The general impression is, that when the trainer has made his final
bow and the band has given a gentle suggestion to those departing by
playing “Say ‘Au revoir,’ and not good-by,” everything is over and
finished for the day.

But to the chief trainers, the day--or night--is only just beginning.
For it is at night, when the majority of people are in bed and asleep,
that the principal work of animal training begins. There are various
reasons for this.

All carnivora are nocturnal animals, and although after many years in
captivity they get into the habit of sleeping part of the night, they
are generally more or less alert and wakeful. During the day they are
lazy, sleepy, and somewhat stupid, but as night draws near they begin
to be restless, and it has been found far less difficult to attract
their attention in the night time than either in the early morning or
during the day.

Also, there are no workers or loiterers round the place to take off
their attention when being taught new tricks,--the least thing will
attract an animal’s attention,--and there are also more time and
opportunity for arranging the hoists, or cranes, with which some
animals are taught to understand what is wanted of them. These are used
chiefly for teaching elephants to stand on their hind legs, to lift up
a fore leg and walk on the remaining three, or to lie down.

In teaching him to stand up on his hind legs, the ropes are attached
to each of his fore legs, and at certain words of command they are
gently hoisted into the air, leaving the elephant supporting himself on
his hind legs. This has to be done sometimes as often as fifteen or
sixteen times before he understands what he is wanted to do, but after
a while, simply from force of habit, he begins to raise himself at the
signal, and although the ropes are still kept round his legs, he will
gradually get into the way of doing the whole thing himself, seemingly
unconsciously.

Much the same sort of thing is done in teaching him to lie down, only
in this case a rope with a slip noose is passed round his body at the
small of his back, one hind foot and one fore foot are tied and moved
out from under him, and then the ropes are pulled gently but firmly
until he lies down. When this has been done six or eight times, the
elephant generally lies down of his own accord.

Not only does it take some time to arrange the cranes, but, as it
needs sometimes eight or ten men to help, these men are told off for
certain nights for an hour or so’s work, and are able then to give
their undivided attention to what they are doing. For elephants,
although most intelligent animals when trained, are sometimes extremely
difficult to teach, while their great bulk and strength make them
formidable creatures to annoy.

[Illustration: “DOC” BALANCING HIMSELF ON A BALL PLACED ON A SEE-SAW]

One of the first things an elephant is taught to do is to walk round
the arena without running away. Some elephants show in the earliest
stage of training that they can never be persuaded not to bolt at every
opportunity, and this is another reason why so much of the training
takes place at night. Should an elephant take it into his head to stop
suddenly and go out, he would follow out his intention at the risk of
danger and death to those not only inside the show, but outside.

Were he to do this in the daytime, the chances are that he would cause
a panic, but at night the darkness and quiet have a soothing effect
upon him, and even supposing he should get out,--which rarely occurs,
as great precautions are taken,--there are few people abroad for him
to injure. Even a well-trained elephant will sometimes stop his tricks
abruptly and calmly walk out of the arena. In this case, however, there
is no danger whatever, as he simply wants to go back to his house and
eat peanuts and biscuits, as he was doing when interrupted for the
performance.

To make an elephant stand on a barrel or cylinder is simply a matter of
inducing him to remain there. Ten chances to one he will bolt in the
middle of it; but there is no need to teach him to balance himself--he
will attend to that himself. The same applies to see-sawing: he begins
with a plank, and gradually gets accustomed to the movement. These
methods are simple, but many months, expended in short and frequent
lessons delivered with great patience, must be consumed in instruction
in order to make a success of it.

Quiet and brevity are important considerations in the lessons. What
is to us no appreciable exertion requires an effort on the part of
an animal which soon wearies it, and, if care is not taken, disgusts
it, and this makes it incapable of further instruction until it has
rested. There is also the danger that if too much instruction is given
at a time, or if strangers are present, the animal will not only be
irritated but rebellious, and finally refuse to do anything at all.
There is then nothing to be done but to give up the idea of ever
making a performer of the animal, and let him be a mere figure in the
show.

It will thus be seen how essential it is to do the chief part of the
training by night. There is only one runway behind the cages, and no
one is ever allowed in the training-school or in the runway during a
performance; and as no performance is given after eleven, the trainers
can rest assured that there is no danger of an accidental meeting. In
this way all risk of two trainers and their animals meeting in the
runway is avoided.

Therefore, as soon as the public has disappeared after the evening
performance, a busy time begins in the animal-show. Most of the lights
are turned out. The bolts, bars, and doors of each cage are looked at;
certain men go round the show at stated intervals to make sure that
there is no danger of fire, and the trainers equip themselves for their
dangerous experiments, and begin to turn their animals out for their
lessons.

By this time most of the animals have partly settled down for the
night, with the exception of some few who, unable to forget their
natural feelings, are restlessly pacing up and down their cages. But
however quiet it may happen to be at the time of closing, the minute a
trainer makes his animals come out of their various cages and go into
the arena, peace is at an end. To get the animals out of their cages
and into the arena is most difficult and dangerous. Sometimes they
come out with a rush at the trainer and his assistants, and sometimes
they remain in a corner and refuse to move in spite of persuasions,
coaxings, or threats. In this case there is nothing for the trainer to
do but to go into the cage and drive the animal out.

The animal generally gives in, and finally leaves the cage and sulkily
betakes himself to the arena; but he always relieves his feelings by
growls or roars, and these resentful protests are promptly answered by
nearly all the other animals in the building.

This is specially the case when a strange animal is led out, for
animals are peculiarly quick in recognizing and resenting the presence
of a stranger. The natural instinct is to get at the intruder and
have a fight, in order to prove which is the superior of the two, and,
failing in this, their only form of relief lies in roaring at the top
of their voices. When one starts, another follows, and then another,
until at last scarcely an animal in the building is silent.

The lion generally starts with three big roars, ending up with the
curious, short, gasping barks so characteristic of him. The other lions
follow in chorus; the tigers roar in concert; the jaguars, leopards,
and panthers give their peculiar coughing growls; the peccary sends
forth his choking cry, so like a desperate appeal for help; and the
bears growl a surly accompaniment.

Occasionally, should an elephant be receiving his first lessons, he
will introduce a few notes of shrill trumpeting as a relief to the
roars and growls, and a hyena will suddenly burst out in fiendish,
hysterical laughter, while the wolves and coyotes keep up a low,
monotonous howling, which to some people is worse than all the other
cries, screams, and roars put together.

Added to all these weird sounds, the cages, with the exception of the
arena, are in darkness, and the soft, stealthy tread of footsteps and
an occasional gleam of green and yellow eyes from all corners, make it
necessary that trainers should not only have strong muscles and nerves,
but plenty of cool courage and self-control. For many of the strongest
men are totally unnerved by surroundings of this kind.

There is, of course, always the chance that an animal _may_ get
out, and if a man once begins to dwell on these things and becomes
nervous, imagining he hears various noises, his training is absolutely
worthless. He must give his whole, undivided attention to what he is
doing, both for his own sake and that of the animal he is training.

Of course, accidents occur while training as well as when performing in
public, but comparatively few accidents ever take place at night. This
may possibly be because there is nothing likely to startle the animals,
or because they themselves feel the effect of the dim lights and the
silence.

A curious thing once happened which might have proved disastrous. A
trainer had been through his performance with his animals, had seen
them safely back into their cages, and was just going through the
building on his way to his rooms, which were overhead, when he thought
he heard a movement. It sounded like the scuttling of a rat, and,
being unable to see what it was, he struck a match and lighted a small
lantern he carried in his hand.

He was shutting the little door of the lantern leisurely (for the
greatest precautions have to be observed in case of fire), when
something rubbed against him softly. Thinking it was his dog come to
look for him, he put his hand down to stroke him, and then found he
was stroking the back of a lion! The animal appeared to be dazed by
the sudden flash of the lantern thrown in his eyes, and the trainer
speaking quietly to the other men who were settling matters up for the
night, the king of beasts was persuaded to return to his cage close by
before he had time to recover from his astonishment.

It was entirely due to the prompt presence of mind of this trainer that
no harm came from this incident; for as soon as the door was closed on
the lion, he appeared to realize that he had lost a good opportunity,
and did his best to get out again, but it was too late. It was found
that a bolt had loosened in its socket, and when the animal had rubbed
against the door, it had fallen out and freed him.

In using the arena at night for training, the trainers generally
arrange among themselves as to what time, and for how long, each man
shall have it. In this way, all the trainers get a certain time without
clashing with one another, and it can be readily seen that where there
are several trainers, the training sometimes goes on all night long.

Whether this happens or not, the animals, one and all, indulge in a
general chorus at daybreak. This is, perhaps, even more weird than
the combined noises in the night, for the dim morning light makes the
building full of shadows, and each cage is full of restless animals
pacing to and fro. As the light gets stronger they settle down
again, though first one large head and then another will be lifted at
the sound of the men who first come in to clean up either whistling or
speaking to one another.

[Illustration: JAGUARS, LEOPARDS, AND PANTHERS]

After this they are fairly still, until they are roused while their
cages are cleaned and washed out; then each trainer goes round and
attends to his own animals, and after that comes feeding-time. The
carnivora are given their pieces of meat; the other animals have what
is best suited to them; and many other things are done until the public
once more appears to witness another performance.




CHAPTER XI

THE PRINCIPLES OF TRAINING


It is a long time since naturalists and philosophers maintained the
doctrine that animals, being controlled by instinct, were quite
incapable of comprehending new ideas, and of acquiring and memorizing
novel things which they have been taught to do by man.

Many reflective men now believe that the mind of an animal differs from
the human intellect only in degree. The extent of this difference,
however, remains a question, and one on which close observation of
domestic animals, and more particularly of wild animals trained for
public amusement, is calculated to throw a great deal of light.

Through a study of wild animals in their native haunts there may be
learned what progress each has made in adapting itself to the natural
conditions of its life; but the study of trained animals, placed under
new conditions and influences, will show whether these are capable of
further or, at any rate, divergent advancement intellectually, and give
some hint of the probable limit of this progress. It may then be seen
to what extent the animal trainer has gone in his development of brute
intellect, and that that development has come about under conditions
not entirely dissimilar to those observed in the advancement of the
intellect of the higher species of animals.

It should be noted, first, that “taming” and “training” are two
different words expressing two distinct ideas. “Taming” is merely
inducing an animal to abandon its natural fierce disposition so far as
to come under human control and be more or less sociable with man. It
is a matter in which animals differ very widely, not only as between
classes, but as between individuals of the same species.

Moreover, tameness seems to be a matter of the disposition rather
than of the intellect, and, perhaps, pertains to a lower rather than
to a higher grade of intelligence, for it is noticeable that some
of the animals most apt in the school of the trainer abandon only
slightly, if at all, their native savagery. On the other hand, some
animals thoroughly domesticated seem quite incapable of any degree of
education, though this may be from the fact that no one has tried it in
a continuous or systematic way.

It would be hazardous to say that any animal organism is too low
to manifest, had we eyes to see it, some intelligence superior to
instinct. It is said that even fishes can be taught simple actions,
although personally I have had no proof of it. Serpents can also be
taught a little, though performing snakes are usually simply submitting
to be put through certain motions in the hands of their keepers. But
from birds up to elephants, the most intelligent of all animals, there
is not one species, it may safely be said, which is not more or less
amenable to the training of man.

It is a delusion to think that a wild animal is ever really “tamed.”
He acquires, through passiveness and receptivity, an amenity to man’s
control, and for the time being drops his ferocity. This is partly
because of the inducements which are placed in his way. He has all that
an animal can want,--food, cleanliness, indolence, proper exercise,
even affection,--everything but freedom, but he only bows to man’s
will because man, through the exercise of his intelligence, takes
advantage of the animal’s ignorance. Every animal trainer thoroughly
understands what the public does not know--that the trained animal is a
product of science; but the tamed animal is a chimera of the optimistic
imagination, a forecast of the millennium.

The first principle that is taught a trainer is: “Never let an animal
know his power.” The moment he realizes that, he is likely to use his
terrible teeth, or still more terrible claws, for I always try to
impress upon the trainers that each animal is, as it were, possessed of
five mouths, as he can do as much, if not more, damage with each of his
four feet as with his mouth.

The very moment an animal realizes his power, his training is at an
end. He grows insolent, and in nine cases out of ten proceeds to wreak
his vengeance on the trainer for what he concludes are past outrages;
his fear has gone, and with his knowledge comes power, and his animal
ferocity, long slumbering and awaiting an opening, breaks out with
redoubled vigor. The only thing to be done is for the trainer to get
out as soon as possible, and let that particular animal lead a solitary
life for the remainder of his days.

This is one of the reasons that everything is done to further the
animal’s increased respect for mankind. If he makes a scratch on a
trainer, the man does not resent it in any way, for he does not wish
the animal to know that he is capable of inflicting injury. Should the
animal become aware in the slightest degree that what has been done is
an evidence of any superior ability, he might naturally presume upon it
and proceed to hurt the trainer in some other manner.

Many animals do, of course, inflict injuries upon the trainers fairly
often, but it is a most unwise trainer who ever makes the slightest
sign of pain or annoyance. Trainers have been known to give a flick of
the whip, or some other punishment, but the result is always the same.
Either the animal promptly retorts in some real injury, or indulges in
a fit of the sulks which he is slow to forget. The blow he, as a rule,
never forgets.

Not long ago, Herman Weedon went to greet his favorite bear, Doc,
in the early morning. It is his custom to put his face close to
the bear for a morning kiss or caress, to which the bear responds
affectionately. In this case, Herman was outside the cage, and the
bear, wishing to get his face closer, put out one paw to draw it
nearer. The long claws tore the flesh of the trainer’s face, and
injured his eye so badly that it was feared he would lose his sight.
But no punishment was given to the animal, neither was he allowed to
know what he had done or to what extent his terrible claws had hurt the
trainer. The animal had intended no harm, and it would have been most
unwise to let him know how easily he could hurt, so no notice whatever
was taken of the matter.

There are many slight attacks made by animals such as that in which
Young Wallace tore my leg. This was simply an accident, and not
intentional on the part of the animal, therefore it did not go against
his character. No performer is put on the list of bad animals unless
he makes a direct and full attack. Striking at the trainer with the
paws may amount to very little; it may be purely accidental. It is the
spring that counts. Every trainer expects to be clawed somewhat, and
there is no successful trainer who has remained in the business long
enough to entitle him to the name of trainer, and does not bear many
marks of scratches and tears somewhere on his body.

My own body and limbs are elaborately tattooed with testimonials from
my feline friends of many years past, for from my earliest boyhood I
have been in intimate contact with the carnivora in the menagerie. All
this is a matter of course.

The beast that springs, however, must either be cowed into submission
quickly, or the trainer must escape from the cage as soon as possible.
If the animal really means business, it is the man’s part and duty
to get out, for no man can stand against the strength of a lion, the
cautious spring of a tiger, or the tremendous power and terrible
agility of a leopard or jaguar.

[Illustration: EXCHANGING CONFIDENCES]

Supposing a man gets fairly cornered, the best defense against a
charging lion or tiger is to strike the animal on the nose, hitting up
from under; but this is by no means an easy thing to do, as the animal
will spring and dodge with a degree of skill that would do credit to
a master of the prize ring. Meantime, however, the man can have been
edging into a position that will give him an opportunity to escape.

The felines--lions, tigers, jaguars, and leopards--jump for the throat.
That is the objective point against which all carnivora make their most
decided attack. It is in this way that they hunt their jungle prey,
and they carry the practices of the jungle into their association with
human beings. An agile man,--and no man should be allowed to become an
animal trainer if he is not agile,--when he sees that the animal is
going to leap, can avoid the onset and get in a blow that will not
injure the animal, but will send him cringing to the other end of the
cage.

It is when knocked down that the great danger comes to the trainer. On
his feet he is the master, but for prostrate humanity an animal has no
respect whatever. On his feet there is always a chance of controlling
the animals; but when down his power is gone. The minute his body
touches the floor the man ceases to be master. If knocked down, the
man’s only chance is to struggle to the bars and raise himself, for
back on his feet he may stem the tide of onslaught. A stick, a whip, a
chair, perseverance, and aggressive pluck will then be his weapons of
subjugation.

Some animals train easily; others learn their lessons with great
diffidence and some reluctance. What one lion may learn in a week may
take another a month; what one tiger may do in two lessons may take
another one several months even to imitate feebly. One may as well
try to give a hard and set rule for the rearing of a child, taking it
through nursing, kindergarten, the primary grade, the high school and
into college, without allowing the slightest leeway for the personal
equation, as to say what is necessary for the training of an animal in
general. Each is a study, alone and complete in itself, and each animal
has its distinct individuality.

One of the greatest factors in training is to secure prompt obedience
from the animals, not only at the beginning, but always. When once an
animal is taught to go to a certain place, the next thing is to make
him clearly understand that he is to stay there until he has his cue to
come down again. This is important in more ways than one.

In the first place, the fact of their staying on their pedestals means
everything to the trainer--probably his life. When once the animals
have been made to know that they must not get down until told, the
trainer is safe. Very few, if any, beasts will spring from a pedestal.
It is an awkward place to spring from, for one thing, and there is not
room to give enough impetus, for another. But when an animal is on the
ground, there is never any knowing what he may take into his head to
do next.

There is absolutely no danger to the woman trainer, La Belle Selica, no
matter how much she dances and pirouettes in front of and around her
lions, as long as they keep on their pedestals. It is when one gets
down that the danger threatens. Then there is not only the probability
that the lion will spring, but there is also the chance, and a very
great one, that all the other lions will also get down, for what one
animal does another generally does too. This trainer was attacked at
one time in this very manner.

She had entered the arena, got all four lions up on their pedestals,
and was half way through her dance, when one lioness got slowly and
indifferently down and settled herself comfortably on the floor.
This would not do; so, still going on with her dancing, the trainer
ordered the lioness up again. Not feeling inclined to get up, the
lioness growled a little, in return for which La Belle Selica flicked
her with a small whip that she carried in her hand. Unfortunately, at
this moment another lion got down, and the trainer not only had the
lioness to tackle, but had also to keep a sharp lookout for the other
lion.

[Illustration: THE LARGEST NUMBER OF LIONS EVER GROUPED]

She gave another flick with her whip, but at another growl from
the lioness the second lion sprang forward and knocked the trainer
down. In a wonderful manner she was up again in a moment, and the
lion’s attention being attracted from outside the arena by two of the
trainers, La Belle Selica was able to get out without much injury. By
the time she reached the door both the other lions had also got down,
and it is doubtful whether she would not have lost her life had she not
been very quick. The curious thing was that at her next performance
the lions seemed to have forgotten all about the incident, and were
perfectly obedient, none seeming to have any wish to get down at all.

One of the most dangerous moments in the whole of Captain Bonavita’s
performance is when he first enters and has to get all twenty-seven
lions up on the pedestals. Dozens of things may happen before he gets
them there. A lion may be in a playful mood and catch him by the leg,
throwing him down; one of them may get in his way and trip him up; he
may get a blow from one of the many hard, ropy tails, or a pat from
one of the huge paws. One or two lions may suddenly consider that this
would be a good time to spring on him; a couple of them may have a romp
together, and so knock against him; and, what is far more serious, one
or two may begin a quarrel which may end in a free fight, in which all
the others would be only too ready to join.

All these things may happen before he is able to get them on the
pedestals; but, when once there, the force of habit and obedience has
become so strong, and the personal influence of this trainer is so
powerful, that it is an exceedingly rare thing for even one of the
twenty-seven to once get down. Occasionally this will happen, but
a steady look from Bonavita, a motion from his whip, and the lion
gets slowly up from the floor, ascends the pedestal, and puts on an
indifferent air, as though he had been there all the time.

Absolute obedience from the animals is one of the great foundations of
training. Without it, there would be no performing animals, and no
trainer. I have seen trainers spend hours, and sometimes a whole day,
insisting on an animal doing some little thing which he is reluctant
to do. The thing itself, perhaps, is not very important; it may not be
used in the performance at all, but it is a matter of obedience, and it
must be insisted upon, no matter at what trouble or cost.

Richard De Kenzo, one of the most daring trainers, nearly lost his life
at one time because he had not insisted on an animal promptly obeying
him. De Kenzo prefers to train only the more savage and treacherous
beasts, but in this case he had concluded that the animal was not
feeling very well, and it is a strict rule that no animal who is the
least sick is ever allowed to perform or be trained. For this reason,
then, the animal was let off; but the next time he absolutely refused
to do what was wanted of him, and the fact of trying to make him do so
brought about an attack which might have ended very seriously. As it
was, De Kenzo got off with a badly torn hand and arm, and was ill for
several weeks.

Much has been said, and much more doubtless imagined, by the casual
observer about the control which a trainer has over his charges by
reason of some magnetic power in his eye. No greater fallacy ever
existed. A study of Bonavita’s performance would satisfy any one as to
that question. He has twenty-seven lions in the arena at one time, and
is constantly turning his back on most of them, walking about among
them, and singling out, from time to time, here and there, some one for
special acts and tricks. He would require twenty-seven pairs of eyes to
control his act if the eye supposition were correct.

It is not the eye,--though that may express the qualities of
resoluteness, of wariness, and of patience,--it is the brain that
controls a score and more of beasts like that. In association with
animals of the feline species, there is an ever present element of
danger, no matter how well trained they may be. Every time a trainer
turns his back in a cage he risks his life: not a great risk, to be
sure, but there is always a chance of death in a stroke. Yet it is
impossible to keep the eye on half a dozen animals at once, let alone
twenty-seven, and the man must trust to the good temper of his subjects
and his own control and good fortune.

Many animals--this is true especially of lions--leap at the bars of a
cage in a frenzy of rage the moment a trainer leaves them, as though
furious that they had let him out alive, yet the next time he enters
they are none the less completely under his dominion. So excellent
is the effect of this fury on the thrill-demanding public, that some
lions have been trained to do this very trick. But it is an extremely
dangerous one, and one which no sensible trainer would dream of
teaching his animals.




CHAPTER XII

THE ANIMAL TRAINER--SOME FAMOUS TRAINERS


To secure the right man for the training of wild animals is about the
most serious problem that the proprietor of an animal exhibition has to
solve; very often the problem remains unsolved.

An animal trainer is a complex and unique person in more ways than
one. He is not always superlatively endowed with the characteristics
that are attributed to him by most casual observers. Curiously enough,
the very element that would seem the most essential is scarcely ever
reckoned as his chief virtue. Courage is considered by those who know
little about it as one of the first requisites, but a man may have
physical and moral courage to an unusual degree and still be quite
unfit for a trainer.

The animal trainer may have, and all do have to some extent, the
physical courage which is admired, but it is an unconscious courage,
and plays such a minor part in a successful performance, that the
possession of it is not noted, either by the trainer himself, or
by those who know him. There are faculties far higher and far more
difficult of cultivation, as well as more rarely possessed, which the
animal trainer must have.

First of all are good personal habits. The finest lion-trainers are
men of the most absolute personal integrity, who smoke and drink very
little, if at all, and who possess self-control to an unusual degree.
It is a fact very little known and somewhat difficult to realize
by those who have not studied the matter, that in some curious,
incomprehensible way, wild animals know instinctively whether men are
addicted to bad habits. It is one of the many problems which are beyond
the human understanding. For those who are the least bit inclined to
drink, or live a loose life, the wild animal has neither fear nor
respect.

He despises them with all the contempt of his animal nature, and
recognizes neither their authority nor superiority. Just as men
recognize superior minds and strong personalities in other men, so
does the wild animal recognize such qualities, and it is wonderful how
extremely susceptible animals are to graceful, refined, and pleasing
personalities.

The personality of an animal trainer is one that counts both with the
animals and with the audience, and the more magnetic, polished, and
accomplished he is, the greater will be his success and the stronger
will be his influence, both with the animals with which he comes in
contact and with the public which observes him. But if a man has begun
to take just a little, or has deviated somewhat from the straight road,
the animals will discover it long before his fellow-men.

From that moment the trainer’s life is in danger every time he enters
the cage, and the animals keep a keen lookout for the moment when
he will either trip a little,--always the signal for animals to
spring,--lose his nerve, or let his thoughts go wandering off to other
matters, even for a moment or two. The least carelessness, the least
indifference, even a little unusual movement on his part, is quite
enough to make the animals spring upon him and get him down.

[Illustration: HERMAN WEEDON DEFYING HIS FIERCEST LION]

Occasionally a trainer who is beginning to take to drink or other bad
habits realizes that he will soon lose the respect and control of his
animals, and is wise enough to drop the training business before too
late. But, as a rule, once a man has taken up this profession he is
extremely loath to resign, although he may be perfectly well aware that
he endangers his life every moment he trusts himself among the animals.
There is a peculiar fascination about the life which keeps him at it;
and although I have often warned men, they have rarely been induced to
give it up until some severe accident has happened which has either
disabled them, or given them such a shock that they lost their nerve
entirely.

One of the finest lion-trainers that America ever had has now
voluntarily retired, though still in the prime of life; but he is
addicted to drink, realized the danger, and so was sensible enough to
give it up before too late. He felt it was absolutely unsafe for him
to enter the arena night after night, when no matter how little he
drank had a numbing effect upon him.

The climax came one night when, feeling a little more numb than usual,
he suddenly noticed in the midst of the performance that his lions
were all looking at him curiously. Instantly he knew that they had
lost their respect for him, for all trainers can tell, before anything
happens, when the moment has come in which they are likely to lose
their dominance, if that loss comes, not through accident, but through
the paralysis of their own power. He realized at once the pitiful state
he was drifting into, and the danger, and was wise and quick enough to
get out before they got him.

But that was the last time he ever entered the cage. From being
tractable and docile, the lions from that time had nothing but hatred
and contempt for him, and his approach even near their cages was always
the signal for savage snarls and vicious leaps at the bars.

Another essential in animal training is patience. It must be an
ingrained attribute of the character, and dominant at all times--a
constant, persistent, unwearying patience. Without it the trainer
will never make a complete success. Allied with patience must be good
judgment, and one who is patient generally has good judgment. This is
one of the reasons that, as a rule, Englishmen and Germans, being more
phlegmatic, make excellent animal trainers.

Trainers whose patience is limited never last long. There comes a day
when, through hasty temper or a sudden loss of patience, the trainer
says or does some foolish thing, which he always has reason to regret,
and bitterly, too.

In one case, one of the animals would not respond to his cue, in spite
of being spoken to several times. The trainer kept his patience for
some time, but the fact that the audience was getting restless made him
nervous, and in a foolish moment he shouted at the lion. The shout was
so unusual and so unexpected that every lion in the cage started, and
the next moment there was a scene of the wildest confusion.

The animals roared, jumped from their pedestals, and soon pinned the
man to the floor. By a supreme effort he raised himself, and being near
the door, the attendants were able to keep the lions back by firing
blank cartridges until he could get out. But he was terribly mauled,
and it was a long and tedious illness which followed. To show what a
disturbing effect that shout had on the lions, it was hours before they
could be quieted, and even when they were fed, two hours afterward,
they were still restless and excited, and left their meat every few
minutes to roar and growl.

That was the last time the trainer ever entered the cage. He lost his
nerve completely. Unless a man has absolute self-control, he can never
be sure of what may happen to him as a lion-trainer. This trainer’s
sudden loss of patience proved that he was unable to control his
feelings, in itself a weakness, and animals recognize all weaknesses
immediately.

[Illustration: CAPTAIN JACK BONAVITA]

Among other things, physical agility is a prime requisite. It is
better if it is the agility of reserve rather than the agility of
aggression, for aggression arouses a like quality in the animal, and
develops an appreciation of his brute strength, which sooner or later
may be used against the trainer. But the equipoise and power existing
only in those of good personal habits and judgment give an animal
trainer the needed ability to escape an otherwise unavoidable danger.

Another quality is nerve--and plenty of it. Without nerve no man can do
anything with a wild animal; it is the secret of the animal trainer’s
success, while ceaseless vigilance means the safety of his life. A man
may be nervous and yet have plenty of nerve. I have known trainers who
would start at the slightest noise or a sudden sound, and who would
rather walk ten miles out of their way than meet a stranger, or attract
attention in any way; and yet in times of danger, when their lives hung
in the balance, would exhibit the utmost nerve and daring, mixed with a
calm assurance that was astonishing.

These personal qualities are more or less apparent to all close
observers of animal training, but there is one which is even more
essential than any of the others, and for which the trainer seldom
gets credit, yet it is one which places his profession on a par with
that of the school-teacher, the preacher, the writer, or any of the
students of men, because the study is more difficult and more complex.

This is a knowledge of animal nature, as diversified and peculiar, and
as subject to varying conditions and environment, as human nature. Some
may say that it is not as complex as human nature, because it is not as
highly organized, but it furnishes the same food for thought, with the
added element that upon the trainer’s knowledge of the idiosyncrasies
of his charges depends his success, and very often his life.

Constant vigilance, not only in the arena, but out of it, is the
trainer’s watchword. Consequently, trainers are a hard-working lot; for
it is not only the actual public performances which take up their time.
It is necessary to have constant rehearsals, constant lessons to the
animals about various things; for it is never wise to try to correct
or teach much during a performance, and there is always much to learn
and study. Many animals drop off in time, either by sickness or from
some other causes, and new animals have to be trained to take their
place: this is always done privately, and few ever realize the amount
of time and trouble that an animal will sometimes require before he is
perfected in one little act.

The ideal animal trainer is a man of superb physique. His eyes are
clear, his muscles hard and sinewy, his limbs well grown, his body well
developed, and his clean, healthy skin shows the warm blood circulating
beneath. He is without blemish physically, and his mental capabilities
are good. He knows men as well as animals. He makes a versatile
application of that knowledge; he knows the traits, the history, and
the tendencies of those animals which form his life study, and on the
constant use of that knowledge depends his dominance.

I have always been particularly fortunate in my trainers. From the time
when I assumed control of the business in 1881, it has been my good
fortune to have intelligent men, who take an interest in and love
their profession, and who love their animals and charges.

Edward Deyerling, chief animal trainer at the Chicago Exposition in
1893, received his tuition under me in England in the eighties.

His persistency in practice was remarkable, and while his methods with
his animals gained their entire confidence in him, the unearthly hours
which he devoted to their education would have told on the vitality of
many men of stronger constitution than his. The success he attained
was more than well deserved. He was a humane trainer and possessed
those good qualities so essential for success in the art of animal
subjugation.

He was not killed, as is generally believed, but died a natural death
several years ago.

The wild animal performances of 1893 were small affairs compared with
the exhibitions of to-day, but his performance with five male lions
gave the World’s Fair visitors much to talk about, and secured for him
a great reputation in this country, and I am naturally proud that he
began his career in one of my establishments.

But I am prouder still of a lion-trainer who is with me now, Captain
Jack Bonavita, who has trained no less than twenty-seven grown lions
to perform in the arena at the same time. That this has been the work
of years it is hardly necessary to state; but the patience, courage,
judgment, and terrible nerve-strain necessary to reach this climax no
one can ever realize except those who have watched him carefully week
after week, month after month, and year after year.

There were times when it seemed as though he would certainly have
to abandon his task; there was so much to contend with, so many
difficulties to face and overcome, and such bitter disappointments. But
Bonavita is a man of iron will, and when once he has made up his mind
to do a thing, he never rests until he has accomplished it thoroughly.

When he first made his appearance at the Pan-American Exhibition in
1901, his entrance with the twenty-seven lions was so impressive that
for a few seconds after the first flare of the band the silence was
intense. Few will forget that incident. The gates at the back of the
arena opened, and slowly and majestically out walked twenty-seven kings
of the forest, and at the unspoken order of one man,--for he never
speaks to them when performing,--each one took his special place on a
certain pedestal, and went through all the various evolutions and acts
in which he had been so carefully trained. The sight of this one man
moving quietly about among all the lions made a deep impression upon
many people.

President Roosevelt remarked, after witnessing his performance, that
he had never seen or heard of anything like it, and that he admired
the man’s pluck, for he was a hero. General Miles wrote from the War
Office, and said:

“I was particularly impressed with Bonavita and his monster grouping of
twenty-seven lions. Such control of these noble creatures as was shown
is truly remarkable.”

The first impression one gets of Captain Bonavita is that of a refined
and courteous gentleman. He is peculiarly reserved, and it is with the
greatest reluctance that he can ever be induced to talk about himself,
but he is never tired of talking about his lions.

He is of an extremely sensitive, highly strung nature, and although
many feel that his nerves must be of steel, there are times when the
terrible strain is more than unusually severe, and he retires to his
own quarters completely played out. For it is absurd to think that
a man who does such a risky thing as he does is never nervous. He
realizes his danger as much as any one, and he has had cause to do so
many times.

His chief comforts seem to be his cat and dog. The dog, a magnificent
Great Dane named Pluto, is devoted to his master, and after a specially
trying time, when he seems quite unable to speak to any one else, the
master talks to him. The cat, named Tramp, has no pedigree whatever,
and is as commonplace-looking an animal as can be found in any back
yard. But Captain Bonavita is almost as devoted to him as to the
dog, and when the cat sits on the dog’s back the man who can control
twenty-seven lions is perfectly satisfied.

I have spoken of some of his accidents in other chapters. In
all Captain Bonavita has had over fifty bad ones, but these have
not prevented his going among the lions again at the very first
opportunity. To use his own words: “A man does not refuse to go into
battle because he has been hurt.”

Another trainer who has become famous through her daring and wonderful
control of the most treacherous of wild beasts is Mme. Louise Morelli.
She is a Frenchwoman, and talks to her jaguars, leopards, and panthers
in French, which they appear to understand quite as well as any other
language, as it is not so much what is said as the tone of voice in
which the words are spoken.

[Illustration: MADAME MORELLI AND HER JAGUARS, PANTHERS, AND LEOPARDS]

Mme. Morelli is a small woman and rather frail, but her nerve and quiet
self-possession are truly wonderful. Leopards, panthers, and jaguars
are noted for their stealthy, sly ways, and their deceit and treachery.
They are most difficult to train and subdue, and can never be relied
upon. These cringing big cats are the most alert fiends by nature;
they have none of the nobility of the lion, none of the aloofness
of the tiger. They are cowardly and sly, and are always watching
an opportunity to spring on the trainer’s back on the slightest
provocation, so that the training of them is more perilous than work
with any other animals. And yet this small woman goes into the arena
with five of them, makes them go through various acts and manœuvers,
and finally sits down among them and allows one or two of them to lick
her hands, and even to take them in their treacherous mouths.

This is dangerous enough, but the most dangerous trick of all is when
she allows one of her jaguars, Cartouche, to place the weight of his
prostrate body on a stick held horizontally in her hands and over her
face, while she looks up into his glaring eyes.

Herman Weedon is noted for his mixed groups, of which I have already
spoken. He has unlimited courage and daring, and is a splendid trainer,
but runs a terrible risk in dealing with Goldie, who is one of the
fiercest and most dangerous tigresses. Time after time he has been
terribly torn and lacerated by this animal, and time after time he has
been warned to give up all attempts at training her and leave her
out of the group altogether. But one might as well ask a mountain to
move as to ask Weedon to give up Goldie. In spite of her treachery and
vindictiveness, he is truly fond of her. He will take the trouble to
explain over and over again that it is only occasionally that she has
these wicked fits, that often she is most gentle and affectionate, and
that she has such a beautiful head and body that it would completely
spoil his group to leave her out.

And although all he has ever been able to make her do is to sit on
a pedestal and ladder and allow him to open her mouth, he persists
in trying, with wonderful and unlimited patience, to subdue that
terrible, passionate nature of hers, and induce her to be a little more
tractable. He is afraid of nothing, and trouble and opposition only
make him more determined to overcome obstacles and attain his object.

A wonderful proof of training is the man-ape, or chimpanzee, Consul.
This animal eats and drinks like a human being, plays the piano, uses
a typewriter, and behaves in such a wonderfully human way that one
begins to wonder whether Darwin’s theory is not right, after all.

Charles Day is one of the oldest trainers in the exhibition, and has
been in the Bostock family for thirty years. The fascination of this
life is well shown in his case. At one time he was also a trainer
of lions, but now contents himself with showing visitors round and
explaining the various zoological specimens. He has had more unique
experiences than any man I know, and tells them in a very dramatic and
amusing manner.




CHAPTER XIII

ACCIDENTS


Every man or woman who trains animals has what are termed “accidents.”
Animals differ in temperament, mood, and nature as human beings do,
and the trainer learns to read the intent of each in his eye, in the
motions of his tail, in his walk and movement.

Animals are erratic and uncertain at times, and one can never tell
just what the animal will do. He may have done the same things a great
number of times easily and willingly, and yet may, without any warning,
suddenly refuse to do anything further. He comes out with a plain,
blunt refusal, without any apologies, either in voice or manner, and
he usually makes it pretty clear that he means what he says. He has
grown rebellious; his sense of wrongs, his hate, and his desire for
revenge appear to have culminated suddenly, and his only wish is to get
even with those who have been making him do things which made him look
ridiculous.

In a case like this there is generally an accident, and if the trainer
is not alert and self-possessed he is apt to lose his life. Again, an
animal may lose his temper suddenly, and in one of those swift rages
or frenzies into which all wild animals are liable to fall at any time
try to kill his trainer, and a few moments afterward crawl back and
show his repentance. It is most unwise to punish an animal when this
happens. He will probably do the same thing again, and may succeed
in killing his trainer the next time, but to punish him when he is
repentant would only make him vindictive and revengeful, and wild
animals do not forget easily.

Of course, no animal is ever to be trusted until he is dead; but if the
trainer is in a cage and gets cornered, experience teaches him what to
do. He learns to think and act quickly, to retain a natural sobriety
and coolness, never to lose his temper with a wild beast, and to make
him obey every time, at all costs. It is never the physical force of
the trainer that conquers; that is impossible. It is his coolness,
determination, and untiring patience.

More minor injuries are received in training, without any evil intent
on the part of the animal, than in any other way. The lion, for
instance, is always clumsy, and is at any time likely to misplace a
paw armed with claws that could not be more effective if they were
fashioned from so much steel. If that paw passes along the body of the
trainer, the unlucky man goes to the hospital, where he may be laid up
for six or seven weeks.

Such an accident happened to Mme. Pianka one night at Buffalo. An
admirer had sent her a bouquet of red roses, and in place of her heavy
riding-whip she carried it into the arena for her performance with the
lions. It is a fallacy to suppose that any change in the dress of the
trainer will make a difference with the animal. All trained animals
know their trainers, and even should another man come in dressed
in the same clothes as their own trainer, they would recognize the
difference instantly. But all animals will jump for meat, no matter
where that meat may be.

There can be no doubt whatever that in this instance the lions at the
first glance mistook the bunch of red roses for red meat. One lion had
not yet reached his pedestal when Mme. Pianka entered, or possibly
he might not have sprung. But, being on the floor of the arena, the
moment he caught sight of the red mass in her hand he sprang forward,
and in the wide sweep of his paw to get the supposed meat, struck the
trainer’s cheek, and the blow, glancing to her arm and chest, tore her
flesh and dress.

Instantly Mme. Pianka tossed the flowers from her, and she was only
just in time, for every one of the lions pounced upon them, sniffed
and smelled them with evident surprise and disgust, found they were
not what they had expected, and in their usual slow, deliberate manner
remounted their pedestals and waited passively for their act. Mme.
Pianka, who is an extremely plucky woman and possesses great nerve and
self-possession, put them through their usual performance, although her
face, neck, and arms were bleeding profusely, and then, as she left the
arena, fainted.

Again, what begins by accident may be quickly turned to murderous
account by the animals. The most perilous thing a man can do is to
lose his footing, for it is more than likely, the moment he falls, the
animal will spring upon him. An English trainer was almost torn to
pieces once because of a pair of heavy top-boots he wore.

One of his tigers slipped, and in trying to save himself got one of
his claws entangled in the trainer’s leg. It was a purely accidental
blow, and the tiger, alarmed, tried to get away, but the keen claws had
penetrated through the stiff leather, and in endeavoring to extricate
them the animal threw his master down. Quick as a flash the two other
tigers in the cage were on the prostrate trainer, and but for the
prompt action of an assistant who pluckily sprang into the cage and
beat them back, the trainer would never have come out alive. It is
a vital article in the code of every trainer never to lose his temper
in a case of this kind or to punish the innocent cause of it. Often the
animals themselves are as much frightened as the trainer, and their
only resource when frightened is to fight, and to fight with all their
inherent fierceness and strength.

[Illustration: “CONSUL,” THE CHIMPANZEE]

Therefore, to punish an animal for what is perfectly natural to
him would not only be the height of absurdity, but most unwise and
dangerous. Wild animals can never be punished by chastisement; a few
harsh words are generally sufficient, and even then there is the danger
that it may be too much. Anger the animal or irritate him, and he is
likely to seek revenge with a prompt spring or a sweeping blow.

The apparent lashes given with the whip during performances are mere
pretenses, part of the daily program, and known to the animals as such.
True, these supposed lashings call forth growls and snarls, but this is
because the animal knows it is a signal for him to do something, and
he does not often feel inclined to do it. He generally does it, but
he always protests a little if he can, and growls and snarls form his
speech.

Expert, indeed, must be the trainer, for if one of these light blows
should go wrong and land on some part of the animal’s body where it
would hurt, there might well be an attack; almost certainly there would
be a fit of sulks on the part of the animal struck while doing his best
that would not only put an end to any further effort on his part for
that day, but even mean lifelong resentment and hatred, which would
simply wait for a favorable opportunity for injuring the trainer who
had given the blow.

To illustrate this. A trainer was one day exercising his animals, and
in using the whip accidentally caught a lion on the tip of his nose.
For a moment the animal paused, as though too surprised to do anything
else; then he rubbed his nose reflectively, as though still trying
to solve the problem. The trainer, who had at first grown rigid with
fear of what might follow, kept a careful eye on the lion; but as he
appeared quiet and only puzzled, and as the trainer concluded the blow
could have hurt him only slightly, he thought that was the end of it.

The animals were driven back to their cages, and nothing happened to
show that the injured lion remembered it in any way. But that same
evening, when the time came for the performance, and the trainer
flicked his whip toward the lion whom he had accidentally struck, the
animal, instead of taking it as his cue, promptly roused himself,
gathered himself together, and in another moment had sprung full at the
trainer.

Fortunately, the trainer had noticed the dangerous symptoms,--for
a lion generally gives a little warning before he springs, a tiger
never,--and had leaped aside with such agility that the lion landed a
little to the right, and this time received a stinging blow which sent
him back for a moment, giving the trainer just time to escape.

But from that time it was found absolutely impossible to make that lion
perform. He would go into the arena, and would even mount his pedestal,
but at the very first flick or lash of the whip in his direction he
would prepare to spring. Therefore, through a very slight accident,--a
little blow which one would think such a big brute would not mind,--we
lost one of our best performers.

Some very serious accidents have also occurred from the playfulness of
animals. A playful animal is always dangerous; he may be in the best of
moods and tempers, and simply wish to have a romp, but his strength and
power are too overwhelming for a man to have anything to do with him.
The wisest course to pursue with an animal in a playful mood is to get
out of his way and leave him alone.

This is easy enough at rehearsal, but in the performance it is another
matter. The animal must be put through his paces day after day, or he
will expect to take it easy all the time. A good trainer will always
try, when possible, to let the animal have his play out before urging
him to perform; but sometimes this play will go on until the audience
becomes impatient, and then comes the risk to the trainer. The animal
is comfortable and enjoying himself, and to be forced to get up on
a pedestal and do other things in the middle of it must naturally be
irritating and annoying, and the animal generally vents this annoyance
and irritability on the one who forces him to act. In some cases he
will not be forced, and then more trouble still arises for the trainer.

[Illustration: CAPTAIN BONAVITA CARRYING A LION WEIGHING FIVE HUNDRED
POUNDS]

I was once working with a group of lions at Indianapolis, when an
incident occurred which will show how one small playful action on the
part of a wild animal may sometimes lead to serious results. I was
in the training-school when Young Wallace, one of my fiercest lions,
but for whom I had a great affection, which, in a way, he appeared
to return, jumped from his pedestal for a piece of meat which I had
thrown on the floor. While eating the meat, I stood watching him, and
thoughtlessly tapping the leather leg of my training-boot with my whip.

Wallace had been accustomed to playing with the whip, and to feel the
gentle stroking of it down the muscles of his back. One of the tricks
which he had been taught was to ask for the stroking by reaching for
the whip with his paw when it was held suspended over him. A lion’s
paw is no plaything. A cat’s paw, with its sharp, incisive claws hidden
in the velvet, is sometimes a fierce and effective weapon. Imagine
a cat’s paw enlarged twenty times, propelled with a proportionate
increase of muscular energy, and with the same lightning-like rapidity,
and you can gather some little idea of what a lion’s paw means when it
strikes.

In this instance, Wallace struck at me merely in play and with little
of the strength that he would have displayed in a wilful attack. The
stroke was a part of the trick he was used to, and he made it with good
animal intention, but it was none the less direful. The claws fastened
deep into the fleshy part of my leg, through boot and underclothing,
and there stuck. A lion’s claws would not be nearly so dangerous were
they sharp and straight; but they have a sharp curve, and go in like a
cant-hook, penetrating the flesh at an acute angle. The lion has not
the sense to draw them out, as they went in, by the curving process,
but pulls them straight out.

Wallace found his claws in farther than he intended, and, slightly
frightened, promptly drew them out, not backward but forward. Needless
to say, with them came a good-sized piece of flesh, which caused me
excruciating pain.

Painful as it was, I did not move, knowing as I did that to show any
signs of fear or trepidation would cause alarm, and, probably, not only
be the spoiling of the lion, but the signal for an attack. But when
a second or two had elapsed, and Wallace had returned to eating his
meat, I at once ordered the animals back to their cages, and in this
way Wallace, picking up the remains of his meat and taking them with
him, was soon in his cage again, without having been given time or
opportunity to realize that he had hurt his trainer or drawn blood--two
things which always have bad effects on animals.

A great many accidents occur, and always will occur, either through
carelessness or through mistakes on the part of those in attendance
on the animals. It is not only the trainers who suffer from the claws
and teeth of the animals: there are numerous other men and boys in
an exhibition who are constantly running into danger, very often when
there is not the slightest occasion for their doing so.

The duties of these attendants are numerous. Besides helping to
keep the animals and cages clean, they have to attend to watering
the animals, see that no bones or other small articles are in the
cages,--for the smallest object, no matter how worthless, may be the
means of leading two animals to quarrel for its possession,--and do a
hundred and one other things which crop up from day to day.

Many of these attendants also help the trainers, which is almost as
dangerous as the duties of the trainer himself. Properties and other
things have to be passed in to the trainer during the rehearsals and
performances, doors and gates have to be opened and fastened after
them, and there is always the possibility that an animal may turn and
spring on the attendant, although with trained animals this rarely
happens. It is nothing for a man to close a door, but if an animal
springs back at it, it would require more than the strength of six to
do so.

An attendant was holding the door open, after a performance, for some
bears to return to their cages. All but one bear--a big Kadiak--had
gone quietly in, when, without the least warning, the bear turned,
inserted his claws round the edge of the door, tearing it out of the
hands of the attendant, and in a second had him down. In spite of the
promptest assistance given by Mr. Stevenson, who risked his life in so
doing, the man’s arm was terribly torn, and it was months before he was
able to leave the hospital. To this day his arm has remained stiff, and
he can only hold it in an unnatural way.

A terrible accident took place entirely through a mistake on the part
of an employee. Albert Neilson by name and a good, hard-working young
fellow, and a great favorite with the show, nicknamed “Curly,” was sent
one morning with some food in a basket to feed some young lion cubs.
The cubs were in a cage next to Rajah, the big tiger. All the employees
had been repeatedly warned about taking care in going anywhere near
this tiger--a special little trick of his being to feign sleep and then
suddenly throw out a paw with claws extended.

Whether “Curly” was careless and mistook the cage will never be known,
but the other attendants were appalled by terrible screams issuing from
Rajah’s cage, and on rushing forward saw to their horror that the man
was being held in the tiger’s mouth by his head. The details are too
terrible to go into, but here again Mr. Stevenson, who has earned for
himself the name of the Guardian Angel of the Show, rushed into the
cage, and, at the peril of his life, did his best with iron bars to
force the tiger to let go.

But nothing would induce the beast to relax his hold, and in the midst
of his growling the man was calling piteously for help. After this,
pistols were fired at him; but, when warned to come out, Sam Stevenson
would not leave the man, although he was surrounded by bullets, each
one of which was likely to strike him at any moment. Rajah was hit once
or twice, but he only let go his hold on the man’s head to take a
firmer one round his waist.

Neilson was eventually drawn out, but he died soon afterward, to
the deep grief of all in the show. Most trainers are superstitious,
and great attention was drawn at the time to the fact of the number
thirteen playing so prominent a part in the boy’s history. He was born
on the thirteenth, had thirteen letters in his name, and so forth.

It is, perhaps, the living in this perpetual state or atmosphere
of danger which causes indifference and, in some cases, neglect on
the part of the attendants. Each man and boy knows perfectly well
that he is daily exposed to bites and scratches, and, perhaps,
fearful mutilation; for all this is carefully impressed on every
newcomer,--sometimes so much so that they depart with a shiver, which
proves them totally unsuitable. The treachery of the animals is almost
daily demonstrated in some way or another; the attendants are often
witnesses of what terrible things wild animals can do, and yet I have
seen them pass close to the cages, or stand indifferently by them,
when every moment they were risking the loss of a limb, and, perhaps,
their lives.

I am always afraid of accidents with an extremely quiet man,--a
man, that is, who never speaks to or appears to take any notice of
the animals. All wild animals are very sensitive, and seem to know
instinctively when people are interested in them. A friendly word or
a little interest goes a long way with them. Captain Bonavita, for
instance, never speaks to his lions when performing, but he loves his
animals and takes the greatest interest in them, and when in their
cages talks to each one by name.

Whenever I notice an attendant who evidently takes no interest whatever
in the animals, I invariably get rid of him. He may be in the show
for some time, but one of these days the animals will get him; so, to
prevent a bad “accident,” I consider it wise to let him go.

[Illustration: MR. SAM STEVENSON

_Whose bravery in saving lives has earned for him the sobriquet of “The
Guardian Angel”_]

A very small error is often the cause of a serious accident, and this
I experienced myself at one time with Rajah, the tiger who killed
Albert Neilson. I had been putting this animal through his rehearsal
one day, and was returning through the runway to shut him in his
cage. By an error on the part of an attendant, the door was not shut
as it should have been, and Rajah had an opportunity to jump on my
defenseless back. It was an opportunity he did not hesitate to seize
immediately. The indiscretion of this attendant nearly cost me my life.
Rajah got his fangs inside the head-protector I wore, and his claws
into my body. After the first terrible sensation of tearing, I remember
nothing more, for I became unconscious, and, in addition to other
injuries, had concussion of the brain afterward.

A similar accident happened to Captain Bonavita. He was putting his
lions back, when one door, which had not been properly fastened, was
pushed open by one of the lions, who sprang upon the trainer and nearly
killed him. Another time, when Bonavita was in the runway behind the
cages exercising his lions, the electric lights suddenly went out. This
was a fearful predicament. Owing to the hubbub which immediately ensued
in the building, it was impossible to make any one hear, and even had
he done so, it would have taken a very brave man to go into a dark
runway with several lions.

As it was, Captain Bonavita did the best he could. He kept swinging
about him the heavy club he had in his hand. He could hear one of the
lions coming toward him in the dark and breathing heavily. He knew only
too well that the momentary pause was the signal either for creeping
nearer to him or for a spring. As long as he was able to keep the club
swinging he knew the lion was at a certain distance, but in an instant
it came in contact with something soft, and as this was followed by a
fierce growl, the trainer knew he had probably struck the lion on the
nose just as he was creeping close up to him.

His arms were beginning to ache terribly, and he realized that he
would be unable to keep it up much longer, but when he struck the
soft substance a second time, and knew that the lion had again crept
closer, he determined to sell his life dearly, and kept up the swinging
movements, although he was beginning to get faint and dizzy from the
exertion. As long as he could keep this going he was comparatively
safe, but there was always the danger that, instead of creeping nearer,
the lion might spring, and in that case nothing could save him.

Just as he was about to give up and take the consequences, the lights
suddenly came on again, and disclosed the lion in the very act of
preparing for a spring. The sudden glare of the light, however, and
the appearance of the trainer standing there with his club, appeared
to confuse him; and when Bonavita, with a supreme effort, ordered him
back, he turned round and went submissively into his cage. The trainer
walked to the end of the runway, where he was found by the attendants
soon afterward in a state of collapse from exhaustion.

It takes so little to turn a trivial incident into a serious matter,
that the greatest care is always necessary. In moving round the arena
at one performance, Mme. Morelli in some way touched one of the
leopards with the lace of her dress. This was before they had all
mounted to their pedestals. The lace of the dress caught him in the
eye, and in an instant the leopard sprang, and had she not been so
fortunate as to catch him with her whip as she sprang aside, there
would probably have been a very serious accident. The spring of a
leopard is a serious thing; it can bound ten or twelve feet in the air,
and although it is the lightest and most graceful jumper of all the
wild animals, it is also the strongest, and it was only the agility and
prompt action of Mme. Morelli which saved her.

At another time, a slight oversight on Mme. Morelli’s part resulted in
a very serious accident. She had concluded her performance, and was
leaving the arena, thinking all the leopards were in front of her,
when an attendant called out that one leopard was staying behind and
creeping toward her. Quick as the attendant had been in warning her,
and quick as Mme. Morelli was, they were neither of them quick enough
that time; for before she could turn round, the leopard sprang, and,
unfortunately, catching her just as she was in the act of turning,
landed on her neck and shoulders, tearing them fearfully.

[Illustration: POLAR BEARS AT PLAY]

In this instance it was Captain Bonavita who rushed in and saved her,
beating the leopard back and keeping it at bay until Mme. Morelli
was safely out of the way, and the animal could be sent back to its
cage. This was one of the most serious accidents she ever had, and
great persuasion was brought to bear on her afterward to give up that
leopard, but she would not hear of it. She was ill for some time, but
as soon as she was able she re-entered the arena and made each leopard
obey her as before. It is always a matter of wonder to see leopards
perform, but to see four or five do so with one small woman is a
marvelous sight, and proves what can be done in the way of mastering
even such treacherous and vindictive creatures as leopards and jaguars.

In taking up the business of an animal trainer, a man, if he has the
qualities of which I have already spoken, runs no more desperate
chances than thousands of other men who follow their various callings.
The physician risks his life daily from infectious diseases, but
beyond taking a few precautions, such a thing as thinking of the danger
never occurs to him. The soldier knows he may be called to give up his
life for his country in time of war, but when face to face with the
enemy, he only nerves himself to think of his duty, and not of the
danger to himself.

There are hundreds of occupations, such as mining, building, tunneling,
and driving railway engines, where men also run daily risks, and an
animal trainer runs no more than any of these, provided he is careful
and cautious. Animal trainers are no different from other men. They
all have the same capacity for fear that every man has in time of
great danger, but they have schooled themselves, by good habits and
self-control, to meet the danger calmly.




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Transcriber’s note:

Transcriber removed a duplicate book title between the Preface and
Chapter I.

Cover created by transcriber and placed in the Public Domain.