XXXIII. THE UNTAMABLE SHREW.

By the hedgerow in the garden my terrier, Freckle, has just come across two pugnacious shrews, engaged in one of their sanguinary battles. The high belligerent parties are not exactly formidable to outsiders, it is true, being not quite three inches long apiece from snout to haunches, not counting an inch and a half of tail, oddly square in outline, to finish off their appearance. Yet they are savage fighters, for all that, in their intertribal quarrels. When shrew meets shrew, then comes the tug of war. It very seldom happens that they do not join battle, and the victor in the fray usually kills and eats his discomfited rival. So fierce a heart in so small a body is rare, but the shrew knows not what fear means. This particular pair of combatants were so automatically intent on the fortunes of war that Freckle was upon them and investigating their nature with her inquisitive nose before they even woke up to the fact of her presence.

Most people seem to confuse shrews with mice; but, indeed, our small combatants are widely different creatures from those timid little beasts; they belong to a wholly different group of mammals. Mice are rodents, descendants of the same common ancestor with the rats and dormice, and not remotely related to the squirrels and the rabbits. Shrews, on the other hand, are insectivores, first cousins of the moles, the hedgehogs, and the desmans. Externally, it is true, they resemble considerably the mice and voles; but those who have followed the course of recent natural history must be aware by this time that “appearances are deceitful.” If an animal looks very much like something else, the chances are that it is altogether different. This is particularly the case with the insectivores and the marsupials, each of which great groups has independently developed a series of forms absurdly like the mice, the squirrels, the porcupines, and the jerboas, because each fills approximately the same place in nature. For example, small mammals which creep about among grass and matted herbage are likely to assume a mouse-like shape. This has happened among rodents in the case of the mice and field-voles, among insectivores in the case of the shrews, and among Australian marsupials in the case of the pouched kangaroo-mice. Our English shrew is a pretty little creature of this common type, with thick soft fur like a mouse’s, only a trifle redder, and so mousey in shape that it is seldom discriminated from the true mice, save by naturalists and gamekeepers. Even externally, however, it differs much from mice in its long pointed snout—a marked insectivorous feature—as well as in its square and abruptly cut-off tail, where the mouse’s is rounded, tapering, and slender. When you come to the teeth and internal anatomy, however, the creature is an insectivore, displaying at once quite a separate character.

Mice, as everybody knows, feed mainly on seeds and grains, though they are fairly omnivorous, and do not despise either bees or beetles. But the shrew, less promiscuous, eschews all vegetable foods; he makes his diet entirely of insects, worms, and slugs, of which he devours an incredible number. Hence he haunts for the most part dry fields and gardens, where such prey is abundant. His preference is also for a soft sandy or light loamy soil, in which he can burrow with ease with the muzzle alone, for his slender feet are ill adapted for digging through hard earth or clay. A relative of the mole, he makes long runs, like his cousin, through the soft surface-soil in search of insects; but, unlike the mole again, he has preserved his small, keen eyes intact, and lives, on the whole, as much above ground as beneath it. Yet his cousinship stands him in small stead with his big purblind relation; for moles catch and eat shrews in considerable numbers. This is not to be wondered at, perhaps, when one reflects that the unnatural shrews also eat one another. Cannibalism, indeed, is an unamiable trait common to man and the insectivores. Weasels, owls, and cats are also great shrew-killers; though, strange to say, the shrew, when killed, is by no means always eaten. I put this down in the main to the powerful scent-glands, which run along the side of the body, or occur at the root of the tail, in most species of shrew, and which secrete a very strong and odorous liquid. This liquid, I fancy, is partly protective, partly attractive to the opposite sex. It would seem to be distasteful to outsiders, but not unpleasant to insectivores themselves, for cats will kill a shrew from pure love of sport, or by mistake for a mouse, but will seldom or never eat it, whereas shrews themselves and moles have no such prejudice. Owls, also, eat shrews, in spite of their flavour. I believe such sexually attractive scents almost always coexist with the pugnacious temperament. All musky-perfumed animals fight savagely with one another for possession of their females, as do also those with marked frills or top-knots.

Shrews, though comparatively seldom seen by incurious eyes, abound by myriads in most parts of England. Every summer they increase sevenfold; but as autumn approaches, and food grows scarce, they die off in their thousands from cold and hunger, as I gather. So many of them then strew the footpaths in sandy districts that country people have a quaint superstition about them; they say a shrew cannot cross a church-path without dying instantly. What constitutes a church-path is somebody having once gone to church along it. The truth is, dead shrews abound equally in the grass and thickets; but, of course, only those are seen which happen to die in the open. This is but one out of many hundred odd superstitions about the shrew, which may be regarded, indeed, as the most wizard-like animal now left in England.

THE END.

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