and called. There was an answering croak from a little
distance in the wood–evidently a croak of inquiry.
The adversary explained with enthusiasm, and the other raven
dropped everything and came. The two sat side by side
on the limb and discussed me as freely and offensively
as two great naturalists might discuss a new kind of bug.
The thing became more and more embarrassing. They called
in another friend. This was too much. I saw that they
had the advantage of me, and so I concluded to get out
of the scrape by walking out of it. They enjoyed my
defeat as much as any low white people could have done.
They craned their necks and laughed at me (for a raven
CAN laugh, just like a man), they squalled insulting remarks
after me as long as they could see me. They were nothing
but ravens–I knew that–what they thought of me could
be a matter of no consequence–and yet when even a raven
shouts after you, “What a hat!” “Oh, pull down your vest!”
and that sort of thing, it hurts you and humiliates you,
and there is no getting around it with fine reasoning and
pretty arguments.
Animals talk to each other, of course. There can be no
question about that; but I suppose there are very few
people who can understand them. I never knew but one man
who could. I knew he could, however, because he told
me so himself. He was a middle-aged, simple-hearted
miner who had lived in a lonely corner of California,
among the woods and mountains, a good many years,
and had studied the ways of his only neighbors, the beasts
and the birds, until he believed he could accurately
translate any remark which they made. This was Jim Baker.
According to Jim Baker, some animals have only a
limited education, and some use only simple words,
and scarcely ever a comparison or a flowery figure;
whereas, certain other animals have a large vocabulary,
a fine command of language and a ready and fluent delivery;
consequently these latter talk a great deal; they like it;
they are so conscious of their talent, and they enjoy
“showing off.” Baker said, that after long and careful
observation, he had come to the conclusion that the bluejays
were the best talkers he had found among birds and beasts. Said
he:
“There’s more TO a bluejay than any other creature.
He has got more moods, and more different kinds
of feelings than other creatures; and, mind you,
whatever a bluejay feels, he can put into language.
And no mere commonplace language, either, but rattling,
out-and-out book-talk–and bristling with metaphor,
too–just bristling! And as for command of language–why
YOU never see a bluejay get stuck for a word. No man
ever did. They just boil out of him! And another thing:
I’ve noticed a good deal, and there’s no bird, or cow,
or anything that uses as good grammar as a bluejay.
You may say a cat uses good grammar. Well, a cat
does–but you let a cat get excited once; you let a cat
get to pulling fur with another cat on a shed, nights,
and you’ll hear grammar that will give you the lockjaw.
Ignorant people think it’s the NOISE which fighting
cats make that is so aggravating, but it ain’t so;
it’s the sickening grammar they use. Now I’ve never heard
a jay use bad grammar but very seldom; and when they do,
they are as ashamed as a human; they shut right down
and leave.
“You may call a jay a bird. Well, so he is, in a measure–
but he’s got feathers on him, and don’t belong to no church,
perhaps; but otherwise he is just as much human as you be.
And I’ll tell you for why. A jay’s gifts, and instincts,
and feelings, and interests, cover the whole ground.
A jay hasn’t got any more principle than a Congressman.
A jay will lie, a jay will steal, a jay will deceive,
a jay will betray; and four times out of five, a jay
will go back on his solemnest promise. The sacredness
of an obligation is such a thing which you can’t cram