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note to self
ON KEEPING A JOURNAL

AND OTHER DANGEROUS PURSUITS

y yy
samara o’shea
 This book is dedicated to
my distinguished little sister,

Andrea Lynn O’Shea,

the one who has always read my journals

and loved me just the same
 CONTENTS

Introduction: Write for Your Life ix

CHAPTER 1

IN THE BEGINNING 1
Express Yourself, Don’t Repress Yourself 9
The Diary Versus Journal Dilemma 12
Red Light/Green Light Journals 13
Anne Frank (1929–1945) on Writing the First Few
Entries in Your New Diary 15

CHAPTER 2

ROMANCE ON RECORD 19
Express Yourself with Other People’s Words 23
“I Love You, Too”? 25
Sylvia Plath (1932–1963) on Falling in Love in
the Summer Rain 29

CHAPTER 3

HEARTS THAT HURT 32

Express Yourself in an Unsent Letter 40
The Blind Date that Broke the Camel’s Back 42
Sylvia Plath (1932–1963) on Breaking His Heart
and Your Own on a Late-Summer Night 46
iv Contents

CHAPTER 4

THE SPIRIT IS WILLING 48

Express Yourself with Questions and Concerns 53
On the Universe 56
Joyce Carol Oates (b. 1938)
on Contemplating Your Place in the Universe 57

CHAPTER 5

SENSE OF SELF 59
Express Yourself in a Stream of Consciousness 65
Sense of Another’s Self 67
Tennessee Williams (1911–1983) on Pondering Your Place
in This Strange Thing Called Life 69

CHAPTER 6

WHILE YOU WERE SLEEPING 71

Express Your Subconscious Self 75
Picture Yourself in a Boat on a River 77
Lewis Carroll (1832–1898) on Using Your Dreams
to Define Insanity 81

CHAPTER 7

A DAY IN THE LIFE 84

Express Yourself with a Specialty Journal 87
A Day in the Life of the Philadelphia Museum of Art 88
Samuel Pepys (1633–1703) on a Day in the Life
of a Seventeenth-Century Englishman 92
 Contents v

CHAPTER 8

ALL THE NEWS THAT’S FIT

TO BLOG 94
Express Yourself Online 99
On Being Blogged About 102
Thomas Paine (1737–1809) on Being
an Effective Pamphleteer 103

CHAPTER 9

CRIMES OF PASSION 106

How to Make a Joke Out of Your Girlfriend’s Cheating on You 111
Express Yourself Before the Crime Is Committed 112
The Dangers of Forgiving Too Soon 114
John Wilkes Booth (1838–1865) on How to Journal
After You Just Killed the President 117

CHAPTER 10

A DREAM DEFERRED 119

Express Yourself with Goals and Lists 126
Alternate Ambition 129
On Being Naked in Front of Strangers 132
Sins of the Mother 133
Louisa May Alcott (1832–1888) on Giving
Birth to Your First Book 135
vi Contents

CHAPTER 11

INTIMATE DETAILS 139

Express Yourself Explicitly 144
The Violin Concerto; or, Lessons in Taking a Lover 147
Anaïs Nin (1903–1977) on Sex
Both Good and Bad 161

Endnotes: This Above All 165

Acknowledgments 169
Sources 171
About the Author
Credits
Cover
Copyright
About the Publisher
 NOTE TO READER

regarding dates: My publisher and I decided to move forward with

this book by verbal agreement on June 5, 2007. Although I continued to
keep a journal beyond that date, there will be no entries found here from
after that point, as I feared the knowledge of imminent publication would
inf luence my private writing. Throughout the course of keeping a jour-
nal, I dated the majority of my entries. There were, however, a few occa-
sions where I did not, in which case I looked to nearby entries and listed
simply the month and the year of the entry.

regarding names: Many of the names in this book have been changed
and a few of them remain intact. There is no indication as to which is
which, to protect the privacy of those who were comfortable having their
actual names appear, but who still didn’t care to call direct attention to
themselves. The names I have changed will remain consistent throughout
the book. For example, if someone named Charlie appears in chapter 2
and then again in chapter 5, know that it is the same person I’m referring
to. When initials appear in lieu of a name, they are the actual initials of
the person being written about.

regarding edits: I have made some edits to the journal entries, mostly
spelling and occasionally grammar. I have only corrected grammar for
clarification’s sake (and spelling for embarrassment’s sake). If the initial
grammar in the journal was incorrect but the statement read clearly, then
it was left as originally written.
 INTRODUCTION:

WRITE FOR YOUR LIFE

We write to taste life twice,

in the moment and in retrospection.
—Anaïs Nin

“I swear to God, this is different.”

“You do realize this is the third girl you’ve said that about,” I shot at
him curtly—realizing right away how inappropriately callous my tone of
voice had become, considering I was dealing with a friend and his broken
heart. I tried to quell my frustration. I felt bad that I had allowed myself
to become frustrated at all. He had come to me in emotional agony; I was
happy to listen and offer advice if I could. I bit my tongue every time it
moved to say “Everything happens for a reason.” Although I believe it’s
true, I know it’s the last thing anyone wants to hear when a relationship
goes sour or when a car gets towed.
His request was straightforward and simple: He wanted to know why. I
explained gently that I didn’t think it was a good idea to continue prompt-
ing this woman with that question, because she wasn’t going to give him
the explanation he craved. Most people are never going to (or usually
won’t) tell you exactly why, and, also, by asking them, you’re making it
too important—like your own self-worth depends entirely on their an-
swer. I told my friend this just to say I said it, but it didn’t bother me when
x Introduction

he reiterated that he still needed to ask. I understood that. I can count

plenty of times when my friends were advising me against calling, e-mail-
ing, or approaching a guy who had made it clear he was already out the
door, and I said, “Whatever, I’m doing it.” My heart overruled my head,
and I just needed to know why. It is a need both dangerous and pressing.
I have since learned it’s best to mourn in private, do lots of yoga, and
move on.
My friend had yet to master the art of rejection. His desire to dissect
the situation didn’t bother me—again I’ve been there—nor did his futile
need to contact this woman one final time. My frustration entered stage
left when I was referencing his last broken heart (six months prior) and I
made some poignant—or so I thought—parallels. He wouldn’t have it.
He kept insisting that the pain was somehow sharper and his restlessness
more stirring this time around. This isn’t to say that one broken heart
can’t outweigh another. Of course, it can. But I’d stood on the sidelines
for both of these (all three of them if you count the girl before that). The
similarities were striking. His case of emotional amnesia was getting to
me, but he was so hurt after my initial offhand comment, I swallowed the
aggravation and said calmly, “Will you please write this down? Write it
down, so the next time it happens, you can refer to yourself.” Because,
God knows, he wouldn’t believe me.
My piece of advice caught me off guard. I wasn’t sure what compelled
me to put it that way. Maybe it was because I was at my desk with my shelf
full of journals in front of me or because just that morning, I had come
across an article that said journaling not only helps one overcome emo-
tional trauma but also strengthens the immune system. I had a proud
moment when I read that. I thought if that’s true, my immune system
must be a small fortress because I’ve kept journals since I was fifteen and
I drink insane amounts of green tea. His response to my suggestion was
along the lines of “Yeah, yeah. I’ll be fine.” We both got off the phone
feeling defeated. He still suffering, and I wishing I could airlift him from
 Introduction xi

the barren I’ll-never-find-another-her desert to the land of good and

plenty or milk and honey or beer and babes—whichever he preferred.
Long after our conversation ended, I realized I’d shared the wrong
benefit of journaling with him. It’s not in the rereading where one finds
solace but in the writing itself. It’s like crying—you don’t know why, but
you feel so much better afterward. Everything pours, streams, flows, out
of you aimlessly. Afterward, you get to see what your thoughts look like,
if you want. You could also just take the emotional-cascade part of the
process for what it’s worth. And the journal, unlike the less-than-perfect
friend, won’t get frustrated. As a wise thirteen-year-old named Anne
Frank once noted, “Paper has more patience than people.” The journal is
the (much cheaper) therapist, who isn’t hired to tell you what to do but
rather to guide you into speaking and speaking (writing and writing)
until at last you hear yourself. It’s only when you recognize your own
problems that you can come to your own solutions.
I first gave journaling a go when I was in elementary school, when it
was called a diary. I had several of them, little books with locks on them.
One stands out especially—it was royal blue with a gold border and a
strong lock. I remember thinking it was too sophisticated to write in, but
I got over that. I’m sure it didn’t last very many entries. They never did.
My first diary horror show took place in the fifth grade. It was the first
diary I had that wasn’t 5 × 7. It probably couldn’t even be considered a di-
ary—it was one of my mom’s notebooks with big binder clips that you
put as much or as little paper in as you wanted. I liked it because the pages
were big and easier to write on. I told this book all about my big crush on
Jason Cusack and about my new friend, Heather Wall. I invited Heather
to sleep over one night and was very excited that she was sleeping at my
house and not Melissa’s. Ah, the little things. Heather was a hyper one
and I was much more subdued, so as the night wore on, I grew tired and
she became increasingly giddy and I wasn’t sure what to do. At one point,
she went into the bathroom, and I pulled out my diary and furiously
xii Introduction

wrote that Heather was getting on my nerves. I put it back beneath my

bed before she saw me, or so I thought.
I’m not exactly sure what happened next. Either she asked for some-
thing to eat or drink, from downstairs, or I went downstairs for a reason
all my own. What I remember clearly is coming back upstairs and being
locked out of my room and having her read my diary to me through the
door. With every ounce of energy I had stored in my prepubescent body,
I banged on that door and shouted with utmost fury. This is what you do
when you life had ended. She was reading—barely, as she was laughing so
hard—the passage about Jason Cusack. That was the gold she she’d gone
digging for. She didn’t seem to care that I’d written she was getting on my
nerves. I think she was proud of it. Again, my memory fails me, as I don’t
remember how we got through the rest of the night or how I could stand
having her in my house or if I even bothered to ask her meekly not to tell
anyone. I’m sure I knew even then that it was pointless. When she left, I
not only cried, but I sat in my closet and cried. I needed to be surrounded
by darkness and get comfortable in my social grave.
As predicted, she told everyone on Monday morning. She and I were
both on the safety patrol, and I can easily conjure the image of her shout-
ing (with deliberate intent to mortify) from her post as I walked to mine.
I had no idea what she was saying, but I didn’t need to. Walking into class
was fun, lots of snickering. The one person who looked at me with under-
standing and sympathy was Jason Cusack himself. He was neither cocky
nor rude; he gave me half a smile as if to say we were on the same side.
And we were. Heather had just embarrassed the hell out of him, too. Sur-
prisingly, that didn’t discourage me altogether from writing in my diary.
I still wrote in it occasionally and Heather found it two more times. I
didn’t care about those times quite as much and am now wondering why
I didn’t put more thought into a hiding place. (Maybe I subconsciously
wanted her to read it.) If you’re wondering why I remained friends with
her, it was because I wasn’t popular enough to have a choice.
 Introduction xiii

I don’t have that makeshift diary or any of the earlier ones anymore.
I’m sure I didn’t see the value in holding on to them. I started writing
consistently again when I was in high school, and by that time, I had
graduated to calling them journals—there was really no graduation in-
volved, but it sounded more mature to me. I don’t recall if I had a motiva-
tion for writing; I just did it. My journal was a place to record events and
let out whatever needed to be, which can be a lot when you’re a teenager.
I do, however, recall placing much more importance on my college
journals. The young woman in me started asking herself a lot of ques-
tions and trying to figure out the inner workings of her mind. The sexual
being wrote of her many cravings, curiosities, and experimentations. The
basket case said all the things she was afraid to say elsewhere. And the
growing writer in me ran amok. She had a blast playing with words and
ignoring the conventions of grammar. For example, at the age of nine-
teen, I wrote, “My mortality has come un-tethered. To rule the world is
my only confection and passion.” Let’s ignore (if you possibly can) my
desire to rule the world and zero in on the word confection. I remember
reading it in the book Grace, by Robert Lacey (a biography of Grace
Kelly). I had probably encountered the word before but not in this way—
the author of the book kept referring to Grace herself as a confection. I
loved it! I loved playing with the meaning of words like that. A confection
is “a sweet preparation, such as candy,” and referring to a beautiful
woman in that way made perfect, breathtaking sense to me. I didn’t have
as much luck using the word in a clever way, but I certainly kept trying.
On February 19, 1999, I wrote, “In a whisper in a whirl I am considered a
mess. I want confections to come my way.” It kind of makes sense there,
but a few days later, on February 26, I lost the meaning again: “I want to
conquer sex. I want it to be the pleasure, control, and confection that al-
lows me to be a woman.” So there, you now know that at the age of nine-
teen, I liked the word confection enough to use it out of context, and that
I wanted to conquer both the world and sex. I have since conquered nei-
xiv Introduction

ther, but I promise to talk about both. The point is, the benefits of a jour-
nal became clear to me—it was a place to check in with myself. On those
private pages, mind met matter, poetry met prose, and nobody was grad-
ing.
I’ll tell you up front a journal isn’t a road map. It can’t be. A journal,
rather, is the path of pebbles you leave behind you, so you have the secu-
rity of knowing you can always return to where you’ve been. You can re-
attempt an obstacle course that kicked your ass the first time. You can
run back and apologize to the people you hurt along the way. You can
also confront the people who hurt you. You can stand at the mouth of a
chasm that separates what you once believed from what you now believe.
Or you can keep moving forward, with specific Sodom and Gomorrah–
type instructions for yourself never to turn around, knowing the purpose
of the journal was for momentary release.
Many of my journal passages were meant only for the moment, in that
I now have no idea what I was talking about. On January 2, 1999 (’99 was
an enlightening year for me, which is why I keep referring to it, but I
promise to unlock the other journals as well), I wrote, “Instead of going
outside and gathering men for my army, I stayed inside and thought of
you. I suppose it was lazy of me, but it helped me put you in perspective.
And now you have my admiration.” Yeah. Not a clue. No idea who “you”
was or what I thought I needed an army for. I get a kick out of reading it,
though, because it’s as if someone else wrote it. I suppose someone else
did write it. My nineteen-year-old self wrote it, and I don’t know her so
well anymore. There’s a thought! Putting all the girls who wrote these
journals in the same room together. If the sweet sixteen-year-old who
swore she’d never try drugs and would remain a virgin until marriage
mistakenly got her hands on the written ramblings of the unruly twenty-
two-year-old, she’d discover that she was destined to break both of those
rules—often at the same time. At some point, she’d lift her sad eyes from
the pages and innocently ask, “What does blowing lines mean?” Then the
 Introduction xv

responsible twenty-five-year-old would tap twenty-two on the shoulder

and say, “I think you’ve had enough.” Twenty-two would say, “Mind your
own business!” She was feisty. I would have to come in and break it up—
me, the twenty-eight-year-old matron who oversees them all (my thirty-
five-year-old self is rolling her eyes at me; I can feel it.)
Sorry to go schizo on you, but I am amused by my other selves, as I
believe everyone should be. We aren’t meant to be proud of everything
we’ve done, but we are meant to keep learning and growing. I’ve found
keeping a journal to be a very efficient way of doing that. The older I get,
the more I see people who don’t know themselves very well. It’s a great
paradox, not knowing yourself, but it’s very real. I see people going
through the motions of marriage or of this job or that job all because they
think it’s what they should do, and they’ve never bothered to ask them-
selves what they want to do. My friend with back-to-back broken hearts
was being very true to himself in pursuing each girl, so I think journaling
would serve a different function for him. It would teach him to recognize
his own limits and help him practice some self-discipline. Not that read-
ing a previous journal entry can necessarily dull your present pain, but it
can serve as a reminder that you did survive this once before. You end up
being your own support system.
As I said, I’ve kept journals for over ten years through what was a cru-
cial growing period—the latter half of high school, college, and my early
twenties. I’d like to share with you not only many of the entries them-
selves but the stories that surround them, and how journaling has come
through for me again and again. I do this with the hope that you might
consider embarking on a personal journey of this sort, and if you are al-
ready an enthusiastic journaler, then let’s compare notes. I do this not
because my life is grand or even out of the ordinary. Not to show off. Not
even to kiss and tell (although that’s inevitable). I do it for the sake of a
frame of reference. I’m willing to bet that some of my thoughts and expe-
riences match yours.
xvi Introduction

I count among the most wonderful moments we can experience as hu-

man beings those in which we’re walking around thinking we’re the only
ones. I’m the only one who’s ever done this dumb thing. I’m the only one
who’s ever had this random set of feelings. I’m the only one who’s ever suf-
fered in such a way. And then we happen upon a poem or a song, a movie
scene, a play, a page in a book, and we see ourselves. It’s as if the writer
had stolen the thoughts directly from the dusty shelves in our minds or
he or she had ripped the seemingly unique events from our vulnerable
memories. The writer whispers, “It’s okay. Me, too.” It is a satisfying mo-
ment when you realize you’re not the only one who thinks orange juice
tastes funny after you brush your teeth. We collectively breathe a sigh of
relief when we realize we are not alone in our thoughts, words, or deeds. I
don’t pretend you’ll identify with everything in this book, but if you can
identify with something, then I’ve done my job. Of course, I need to iden-
tify with others, too; to that end, I’ll share some journal entries and liter-
ary passages of those I’ve identified with and even those I hope never to
identify with—sometimes knowing who you are comes from knowing
who you aren’t. The first sage I give you is Richard Rhodes. In his book
How to Write: Advice and Reflections, he captures soulfully the inherent
value of the act of writing. “The process of writing is always a healing
process because the function of creation is always, always, the alleviation
of pain—the writer’s first of all and then the pain of those who read what
she has written. Imagination is compassionate. Writing is a form of mak-
ing, and making humanizes the world.”
 CHAPTER 1

y yy
In the Beginning
In the beginning was the Word . . .
—John 1:1

I think we all know or know someone who knows that person—the

person who keeps a daily, very meticulous diary. They end each day
with a cup of tea or perhaps a scotch on the rocks. They sit in a large vel-
vet armchair and pull out a black leather hardcover journal with their
name imprinted on it—very Masterpiece Theatre. Then with a majestic
black fountain pen poised over a blank page, they relax and write. They
record the day’s events in the order that they happened, and they do this
devotedly each night before bed.
I don’t mean to criticize daily diarists. I envy them—I wish I had that
sort of self-discipline, and I also wish I could drink straight scotch. How-
ever, it’s the knowledge of this methodical type of journaling that often
prevents the rest of us from even attempting to keep a journal. I tried to
start several journals as an adolescent and I would get so frustrated with
myself if I (1) didn’t write every day and (2) left out anything that hap-
pened during the day. None of these journals ever got off the ground. I
2 Note to Self

finally got the journal thing going when I took both of those pressures off
myself. I changed the rules: Write when you want and write whatever you
want. I was fifteen at the time, and I now have eleven journals to show for
lifting that lid of ridiculous expectation off myself.
A journal is one of the only places where no one can judge you, and it
should also be a place where you are not judging yourself. It’s difficult to do
that when you’re already criticizing yourself for falling short of the pro-
cess, so I invite you to dismiss everything you think a journal should be
from your mind. Your journal is an extension of you, and therefore it can be
whatever you want it to be. You can write every day or once a year. It can
be a place to write one word to describe a feeling or event, a place where you
emote in endless paragraphs without any punctuation, a place where
you write upside down and backward, a place where you start your own
language. Whether it’s all of the above or none of the above, the purpose of
your journal is to serve as a mirror for your mind. You are your own uni-
verse. Your mind is vast, and even you can’t know of all the passions, in-
sights, fears, and troubles that dwell within. A journal is an effective way to
peel back the fleshy onion layers and get to the center of yourself—bear in
mind that there can be tears involved when handling an onion.
You may be thinking, But I’m not a writer! If you’re a thinker, then
you’re a writer, for writing is simply thoughts making their way to paper.
Don’t be self-conscious about your style or your approach. Remember,
the point of the journal is to temporarily eliminate self-consciousness.
Don’t worry about grammar, spelling, or the morality factor of your words
and deeds. Put whatever is swirling around in the back of your brain on
the page and see what it looks like. Or don’t. Maybe you’ll write it and
throw it away immediately. But if a thought is begging to breathe the
fresh air, then it’s best to open the door and let it out.
I have watched my thoughts—some mundane, others vibrant and
strange—make their way to paper countless times and in a variety of
ways. My journal has been the looking glass I’ve held up to myself on
Another random document with
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Annelids. The pharynx conducts to the œsophagus, on each side of
the lower part of which are placed three pairs of large glands, called
calciferous glands, whose function is the secretion of carbonate of
lime. These glands are very remarkable organs, and their like is not
to be found in any other animal. Their use is connected in some way
with the process of digestion. The œsophagus, in most of the
species, is enlarged into a crop in front of the gizzard. This latter
organ is lined with a smooth, thick chitinous membrane, and is
surrounded by weak, longitudinal, but powerful transverse muscles,
whose energetic action is most effectual in the trituration of the
food, for these worms possess no jaws, or teeth of any kind. Grains
of sand and small stones, from the one-twentieth to the one-tenth of
an inch in size, are found in their gizzards and intestines, and these
little stones, independently of those swallowed while excavating their
burrows, most probably serve, like millstones, to triturate their food.
The gizzard opens into the intestine—a most remarkable structure,
an intestine within an intestine—which runs in a straight line to the
vent at the posterior end of the body. But this curious structure, as
shown by Claparède, merely consists of a deep longitudinal
involution of the walls of the intestine, by which means an extensive
absorbent surface is secured.
Worms have a well-developed circulating system. Their breathing
is effected by the skin, and so they do not possess any special
respiratory apparatus. Each individual unites the two sexes in its own
body, but two individuals pair together. The nervous system is fairly
well developed, the two nearly confluent cerebral ganglia being
situated very close to the anterior extremity of the body.
Being destitute of eyes, we would naturally conclude that worms
were quite insensible to light; but from many experiments that have
been made by Darwin, Hofmeister and others, it is evident that light
affects them, but only by its intensity and duration. It is the anterior
extremity of the body, where the cerebral ganglia lie, that is
affected, for if this part is shaded and other parts of the body are
illuminated no effect will be produced. As these animals have no
eyes, it is probable that the light passes through their skins and
excites in some manner their cerebral ganglia. When worms are
employed in dragging leaves into their burrows or in eating them,
and even during the brief intervals of rest from their labors, they
either do not perceive the light or are regardless of it, and this is
even the case when the light is concentrated upon them through a
large lens. Paired individuals will remain for an hour or two together
out of their burrows, fully exposed to the morning light, but it
appears, from what some writers have said, that a light will
occasionally cause paired individuals to separate. When a worm is
suddenly illuminated and dashes into its burrow, one is led to look at
the action as a reflex one, the irritation of the cerebral ganglia
apparently causing certain muscles to contract in an inevitable
manner, without the exercise of the will or consciousness of the
animal, as though it was an automaton. But the different effect
which a light produces on different occasions, and especially the fact
that a worm when in any way occupied, no matter what set of
muscles and ganglia may be brought into play, is often regardless of
light, are antagonistic to the view of the sudden withdrawal being a
simple reflex action. With the higher animals, when close attention
to some object leads to the disregard of the impressions which other
objects must be producing upon them, we ascribe this to their
attention being then absorbed, and attention necessarily implies the
presence of mind. Although worms cannot be said to possess the
power of vision, yet their sensitiveness to light enables them to
discriminate between day and night, and thus they escape the
attacks of the many diurnal animals that would prey upon them.
They are less sensitive to a moderate radiant heat than to a bright
light, as repeated experiments have conclusively shown; and their
disinclination to leave their burrows during a frost proves that they
are sensitive to a low temperature.
Investigation fails to locate in worms any organ of hearing, from
which must be concluded that they are insensible to sounds. The
shrill notes of a metallic whistle sounded near them, and the deepest
and loudest tones of a bassoon, failed to awaken the least notice.
Although indifferent to modulations in the air, audible to human ears,
yet they are extremely sensitive to vibrations in any solid object.
Even the light and delicate tread of a robin affrights and sends them
deep into their burrows. It has been said that if the ground is
beaten, or otherwise made to tremble, that worms believe they are
pursued by a mole and leave their burrows, but this does not stand
the test of experiment, for the writer has frequently beaten the
ground in many places where these creatures abounded, but not
one emerged. A worm’s entire body is sensitive to contact, the
slightest puff of air from the mouth causing an instant retreat. When
a worm first comes out of its burrow it generally moves the much-
extended anterior extremity of its body from side to side in all
directions, apparently as an object of touch, and there is good
reason to believe that they are thus enabled to gain a general
knowledge of the form of an object. Touch, including in this term the
perception of a vibration, seems much the most highly developed of
all their senses. The sense of smell is quite feeble, and is apparently
confined to the perception of certain odors. They are quite
indifferent to the human breath, even when tainted by tobacco, or to
a pellet of cotton-wool with a few drops of Millefleur’s perfume when
held by pincers and moved about within a few inches of them. The
perception of such an unnatural odor would be of no service to
them. Now, as such timid creatures would almost certainly exhibit
some signs of any new impression, we may reasonably conclude that
they did not perceive these odors. But when cabbage leaves and
pieces of onion were employed, both of which are devoured with
much relish by worms, the result was different. These, with bits of
fresh raw meat, have been buried in pots beneath one-fourth of an
inch of common garden soil, or sometimes laid on pieces of tin foil in
the earth, the ground being pressed down slightly, so as not to
prevent the emission of any odor, and yet they were always
discovered by the worms that were placed in the pots, and removed
after varying periods of time. These facts indicate that worms
possess some power of smell, and that they discover by this means
odoriferous and much-coveted kinds of food.
That all animals which feed on various substances possess the
sense of taste, is a wise presumption. This is certainly the case with
worms. Cabbage leaves are much liked by worms, and it would
seem that they are able to distinguish between the different
varieties, but this may perhaps be owing to differences in their
texture. When leaves of the cabbage, horse-radish and onion were
given together, they manifestly preferred the last to the others.
Celery is preferred to the leaves of the cabbage, lime-tree,
ampelopsis and parsnip, and the leaves of the wild cherry and
carrots, especially the latter, to all the others. That the worms have a
preference for one taste over another, is still further shown from
what follows. Pieces of the leaves of cabbage, turnip, horse-radish
and onion have been fed to the worms, mingled with the leaves of
an Artemisia and of the culinary sage, thyme and mint, differing in
no material degree in texture from the foregoing four, yet quite as
strong in taste, but the latter were quite neglected excepting those
of the mint, which were slightly nibbled, but the others were all
attacked and had to be renewed.
There is little to be noted about the mental qualities of worms.
They have been seen to be timid creatures. Their eagerness for
certain kinds of food manifestly shows that they must enjoy the
pleasure of eating. So strong is their sexual passion that they
overcome for a time their dread of light. They seem to have a trace
of social feeling, for they are not disturbed by crawling over each
other’s bodies, and they sometimes lie in contact. Although
remarkably deficient in the several sense-organs, yet this does not
necessarily preclude intelligence, for it has been shown that when
their attention is engaged they neglect impressions to which they
would otherwise have attended, and attention, as is well known,
indicates the presence of a mind of some kind. A few actions are
performed instinctively, that is, all the individuals, including the
young, perform each action in nearly the same manner. The various
species of Perichæta eject their castings so as to construct towers,
and the burrows of the Common Earth-worm—Lumbricus terrestris—
are smoothly lined with fine earth and often with little stones, and
the mouth with leaves. One of their strongest instincts is the
plugging up of the mouths of their burrows with various objects, the
very young worms acting in a similar manner. But some degree of
intelligence is manifested, as will subsequently appear.
 Almost everything is eaten by worms. They swallow enormous
quantities of earth, from which they extract any digestible matter it
may contain. Large numbers of half-decayed leaves of all kinds,
excepting a few that are too tough and unpleasant to the taste, and
likewise petioles, peduncles, and decayed flowers. Fresh leaves are
consumed as well. Particles of sugar, licorice and starch, and bits of
raw and roasted meat, and preferably raw fat, are eaten when they
come into their possession, but the last article with a better relish
than any other substance given to them. They are cannibals to a
certain extent, and have been known to eat the dead bodies of their
own companions.
The digestive fluid of worms, according to León Frédéricq, is
analogous in nature to the pancreatic secretion of the higher
animals, and this conclusion agrees perfectly with the kinds of food
which they consume. Pancreatic juice emulsifies fat, dissolves fibrin,
and worms greedily devour fat and eat raw meat. It converts starch
into grape-sugar with wonderful rapidity, and the digestive fluid of
worms acts upon the starch of leaves. But worms live chiefly on half-
decayed leaves, and these would be useless to them unless they
could digest the cellulose forming the cell-walls, for all other
nutritious substances, as is well known, are almost completely
withdrawn from leaves shortly before they fall off. It has been
ascertained that cellulose, though very little or not at all attacked by
the gastric juice of the higher animals, is acted on by that from the
pancreas, and so worms eat the leaves as much for the cellulose as
for the starch they contain. The half-decayed or fresh leaves which
are intended for food are dragged into the mouths of their burrows
to a depth of from one to three inches, and are then moistened with
a secreted fluid, which has been assumed to hasten their decay, but
which, from its alkaline nature, and from its acting both on the
starch-granules and on the protoplasmic contents of the cells, is not
of the nature of saliva, but a pancreatic secretion, and of the same
kind as is found in the intestines of worms. As the leaves which are
dragged into the burrows are often dry and shrivelled, it is
indispensable for the unarmed mouths of worms that they should
first be moistened and softened, their disintegration being thereby
the more readily effected. Fresh leaves, however soft and tender
they may be, are similarly treated, probably from habit. Thus the
leaves are partially digested before they are taken into the
alimentary canal, an instance of extra-stomachal digestion, whose
nearest analogy is to be found in such plants as Dionæa and
Drosera, for in them animal matter is digested and converted into
peptone, not within a stomach, but on the surfaces of the leaves.
But no portion of the economy of worms has been more the
subject of speculation than the calciferous glands. About as many
theories have been advanced on their utility as there have been
observers. Judging from their size and from their rich supply of
blood-vessels, they must be of vast importance to these animals.
They consist of three pairs, which in the Common Earth-worm
debouch into the alimentary canal in front of the gizzard, but
posteriorly to it, in some genera. The two posterior pairs are formed
by lamellæ, diverticula from the œsophagus, which are coated with
a pulpy cellular layer, with the outer cells lying free in infinite
numbers. If one of these glands is punctured and squeezed, a
quantity of white, pulpy matter exudes, consisting of these free cells,
which are minute bodies, varying in diameter from two to six
millimetres. They contain in their centres a small quantity of
excessively fine granular matter, that looks so like oil globules that
many scientists are deceived by its appearance. When treated with
acetic acid they quickly dissolve with effervescence. An addition of
oxalate of ammonia to the solution throws down a white precipitate,
showing that the cells contain carbonate of lime. The two anterior
glands differ a little in shape from the four posterior ones by being
more oval, and also conspicuously in generally containing several
small, or two or three larger, or a single very large concretion of
carbonate of lime, as much as one and one-half millimetres in
diameter. With respect to the function of the calciferous glands, it is
likely that they primarily serve as organs of excretion, and
secondarily as an aid to digestion. Worms consume many fallen
leaves. It is known that lime goes on accumulating in leaves until
they drop off the parent-plant, instead of being re-absorbed into the
stem or roots, like various other organic and inorganic substances,
and worms would therefore be liable to become charged with this
earth, unless there was some special apparatus for its excretion, and
for this purpose the calciferous glands are ably adapted. On the
other hand, the carbonate of lime, which is excreted by the glands,
aids the digestive process under ordinary circumstances. Leaves
during their decay generate an abundance of various kinds of acids,
which have been grouped together under the term of humus acids.
These half-decayed leaves, which are swallowed by worms in large
quantities, would, therefore, after having been moistened and
triturated in the alimentary canal, be apt to produce such acids, and
in the case of several worms, whose alimentary canals were
examined, their contents were plainly shown by litmus paper to be
decidedly acid. This acidity cannot be attributed to the nature of the
digestive fluid, for pancreatic juice is alkaline, and so also is the
secretion which is poured out of the mouths of worms for the
preparation of the leaves for consumption. With worms not only the
contents of the intestines, but their ejected matter or the castings
are generally acid. The digestive fluid of worms resembles in its
action, as already stated, the pancreatic secretion of the higher
animals, and in these latter pancreatic digestion is necessarily
alkaline, and the action will not take place unless some alkali be
present; and the activity of an alkaline juice is arrested by
acidification, and hindered by neutralization. Therefore is seems
probable that innumerable calciferous cells, which are emptied from
the four posterior glands in the alimentary canal, serve to neutralize
more or less completely the acids generated there by the half-
decayed leaves. These cells, as has been seen, are instantly
dissolved by a small quantity of acetic acid, and as they do not
always suffice to render of no effect the contents of the upper part
of the alimentary canal, it is probable that the lime is aggregated
into concretions, in the anterior pair of glands, in order that some
may be conveyed to the posterior parts of the intestine, where these
concretions would be rolled about among the acid contents. The
concretions found in the intestines and in the castings often present
a worn appearance, but whether due to attrition or chemical
corrosion it is impossible to say. That they are formed for the sake of
acting as mill stones, as Claparède believed, and of thus assisting in
the trituration of food, is not at all likely, as this object is already
attained by the stones that are present in the gizzards and
intestines.
In dragging leaves into their burrows worms generally seize the
thin edge of a leaf with their mouths, between the projecting upper
and lower lip, the thick and strong pharynx at the same time being
pushed forwards within their bodies, so as to afford a point de
resistance for the upper lip; but in the case of broad and flat objects
the pointed anterior extremity of the body, after being brought into
contact with an object of this kind, is drawn within the adjoining
rings, so that it becomes truncated and as thick as the rest of the
body. This part is then seen to swell a little, seemingly from the
pharynx being pushed a little forwards. By a slight withdrawal of the
pharynx, or by its expansion, a vacuum is produced beneath the
truncated, slimy end of the body whilst in contact with the object,
and by this means the two adhere firmly together. Worms can attach
themselves to an object in the same manner under the water.
 COMMON EARTH-WORMS.
Out on a Foraging Excursion.

As worms have no teeth, and their mouths consist of very soft

tissue, it may be presumed that they consume by means of suction
of the edges and parenchyma of fresh leaves after they have been
softened by the digestive fluid. They cannot attack such strong
leaves as those of sea-kale or large and thick leaves of ivy. They not
only seize leaves and other objects for purposes of food, but for
plugging up the mouths of their burrows. Flower-peduncles, decayed
twigs of trees, bits of paper, feathers, tufts of wool and horse-hair
are some of the many things other than leaves that are dragged into
their burrows for this purpose. Many hundred leaves of the pine-tree
have been found drawn by their bases into burrows. Where fallen
leaves are abundant, especially ordinary dicotyledonous leaves,
many more than can be used are collected over the mouth of a
burrow, so that a small pile of unused leaves is left like a roof over
those which have been partly dragged in. A leaf in being dragged a
little way into a cylindrical burrow necessarily becomes much folded
or crumpled, and when another is drawn in, this is done exteriorly to
the first, and so on with succeeding leaves, till finally they all
become closely folded and pressed together. Sometimes the mouth
of a burrow is enlarged, or a fresh one is made close by, so that a
larger number of leaves may be drawn in. Generally the interstices
between the drawn-in leaves are filled with moist, viscid earth
ejected from their bodies, thus rendering them doubly secure.
Hundreds of such plugged burrows may be seen during the
autumnal and early winter months.
When leaves, petioles, sticks, etc., cannot be obtained for the
mouths of their burrows, heaps of stones, smooth, rounded pebbles,
are utilized for protection. When the stones are removed and the
surface of the ground is cleared for some inches round the burrow,
the worms may be seen with their tails fixed in their burrows
dragging the stones inward by the aid of their mouths, stones
weighing as much as two ounces often being found in the little
heaps, which goes to show how strong these apparently weak
creatures are. Work of this kind is usually performed during the
night, although objects have been occasionally known to be drawn
into the burrows during the day. What advantage worms derive from
plugging up the mouths of their burrows, or from piling stones over
them, cannot be satisfactorily answered. They do not act in this
manner when they eject much earth from their burrows, for then
their castings serve to cover the mouth. Perhaps the plugs serve to
protect them from the attacks of scolopenders, their most inveterate
enemies, or to enable them to remain with safety with their heads
close to the mouths of their burrows, which they like so well to do,
but which, unless protected, costs many a fellow its life. Besides,
may not the plugs check the free ingress of the lowest stratum of air,
when chilled by radiation at night, from the surrounding ground and
herbage? The last view of the matter seems especially well taken,
because worms kept in pots where there is fire, having no cold air
with which to contend, plug up their burrows in a slovenly manner,
and because they often coat the upper part of their burrows with
leaves, apparently to prevent their bodies from coming into contact
with the cold, damp earth. But the plugging-up process may
undoubtedly serve for all these purposes. Whatever the motive may
be, it seems that worms much dislike leaving the mouths of their
burrows open, yet, nevertheless, they will reopen them at night,
whether or not they are able afterwards to close them.
Considerable intelligence is shown by worms in their manner of
plugging up their burrows. If man had to plug up a cylindrical hole
with such objects as leaves, petioles or twigs, he would push them
in by their pointed ends, but if these were thin relatively to the size
of the hole, he would probably insert some by their broader ends.
Intelligence would certainly be his guide in such a case. But how
worms would drag leaves into their burrows, whether by their tips,
bases, or middle parts, has been a matter of interest to many.
Darwin, who experimented upon the subject, found it especially
desirable to experiment with plants not native to his country, for he
conceived that although the habit of dragging leaves into their
burrows is undoubtedly instinctive with worms, yet instinct could not
teach them how to act in the case of leaves about which their
progenitors knew nothing. Did they act solely through instinct, or an
unvarying inherited impulse, they would draw all kinds of leaves into
their burrows in the same manner. Having no such definite instinct,
chance might be expected to determine whether the tip, base, or
middle might be seized. If the worm in each case first tries many
different methods, and follows that alone which proves possible or
the most easy, then both instinct and chance are ruled out of the
solution of the question. But to act in this manner, and to try
different methods, makes what in man would be called intelligent
action.
Three species of pine-leaves are mentioned by Darwin as being
regularly drawn into the mouths of worm-burrows on the gravel-walk
in his garden. These leaves consist of two needles, which are united
to a common base, and it is by this point that they are almost
invariably drawn into the burrows. As the sharply-pointed needles
diverge somewhat, and as several are drawn into the same burrow,
each tuft forms a perfect chevaux-de-frise. Many tufts were pulled
up in the evening, but by the ensuing morning fresh leaves had
taken their places, and the burrows again well protected. Impossible
it would be to drag these leaves to any depth into the burrows,
except by their bases, as a worm cannot seize hold of the two leaves
at the same time, and if one alone were seized by the apex, the
other would be pressed against the ground and resist the entry of
the one that was seized. That the worms should do their work well,
it was very essential that they drag the pine-leaves into their
burrows by their bases, that is, where the two needles are
conjoined. But how they are guided in this work was at first
perplexing. The difficulty, however, was soon settled. With the
assistance of his son Francis, the elder Darwin set to work to
observe worms in confinement during several nights by the aid of a
dim light, while they dragged the leaves of the aforementioned kinds
into their burrows. They were seen to move the anterior extremities
of their bodies about the leaves, and on several occasions when they
touched the sharp end of the needle they suddenly withdrew as
though they had been pricked, but it is doubtful that they were hurt,
for they are indifferent to sharp objects, being known to swallow
rose-thorns and small splinters of glass. It may be doubted whether
the sharp end of the needle serves to tell them that is the wrong
end to seize, for the points of many were cut off for the length of an
inch, and these leaves were always drawn in by their bases and not
by the cut-off ends. The worms, it seemed, almost instantly
perceived as soon as they had seized a leaf in the proper manner.
Many leaves were cemented together at the top, or tied together by
fine thread, and these in the majority of instances were dragged in
by their bases, which leads to the conclusion that there must be
something attractive to worms in the base of pine-leaves,
notwithstanding that few ordinary leaves are drawn in by their base
or footstalk. Leaves of other plants, and also the petioles of some
compound plants, as well as triangular bits of paper, dry and damp,
were experimented with, and the manner of seizing the objects and
bearing them into their burrows were as amusing as they were novel
and interesting. The leaves and stems used were such as the worms
had not been accustomed to in their respective haunts.
When the several cases experimented on are considered, one can
hardly escape from the conclusion that some degree of intelligence
is shown by worms in plugging up their burrows. Each particular
object is seized in too uniform a manner, and from causes which we
can generally understand, for the result to be attributed to mere
chance. That every object has not been drawn in by its pointed end
may be accounted for by labor having been saved by some being
carried in by their broader ends. There is no doubt that worms are
governed by instinct in plugging up their burrows, and it might be
expected that they would have been taught in every particular
instance how to act independently of intelligence. It is very difficult
to judge when intelligence comes into play. The actions of animals,
appearing due to intelligence, may be performed through inherited
habit without any intelligence, although aboriginally acquired, or the
habit may be acquired through the preservation and inheritance of
some other action, and in the latter case the new habit will have
been acquired independently of intelligence throughout the entire
course of its development. There is no à priori improbability in
worms having acquired special instincts through either of these two
latter means. Nevertheless it is incredible that instincts should have
been developed in reference to objects, such as the leaves and
petioles of foreign plants, wholly unknown to the progenitors of the
worms which have acted in the manner just described. Nor are their
actions so unvarying or inevitable as are most true instincts.
 As worms are not controlled by special instincts in each particular
case, though possessing a general instinct to plug up their burrows,
and as chance is excluded, the next most probable conclusion is that
they try in many ways to draw in objects and finally succeed in some
one way. It is surprising, however, that an animal so low in the scale
as a worm should have the capacity to act in this way, as many
higher animals have no such capacity, the instincts of the latter often
being followed in a senseless or purposeless manner.
We can safely infer intelligence, as Mr. Romanes, who has specially
studied animals, says, only when we see an individual profiting by
his own experiences. That worms are able to judge either before or
after having drawn an object close to the mouths of their burrows
how best to drag it in, shows that they must have acquired some
notion of its general shape. This they probably acquire by touching it
in many places with the anterior extremity of their bodies, which
serves them as a tactile organ. Man, even when born blind and deaf,
shows how perfect the sense of touch may become, and if worms,
which also come into being in the same condition, have the power of
acquiring some notion, however rude, of the shape of an object and
their burrows, they deserve, it must seem to every sensible mind, to
be called intelligent creatures, for they act in such a case in nearly
the same manner as a man would under similar circumstances. That
worms, which stand so low in the scale of organization, should
possess some degree of intelligence, will doubtless strike everyone
as very improbable. It may be doubted, however, whether we know
enough about the nervous system of the lower animals to justify our
natural distrust of such a conclusion. With regard to the small size of
the cerebral ganglia, we would do well to remember what a mass of
inherited knowledge, with some power of adapting means to an end,
is crowded into the minute brain of a worker ant.
Two ways are adopted by worms in excavating their burrows.
Either the earth is pushed away on all sides or it is swallowed by the
animal. In the former case the worm inserts the stretched-out and
attenuated anterior extremity of its body into any little crevice or
hole, and the pharynx is pushed forward into this part, which
consequently swells and pushes away the earth on all sides, the
anterior extremity thus acting as a wedge. When placed in loose
mould a worm will bury itself in between two and three minutes, but
in earth that is moderately pressed down it often requires as many
as fifteen minutes for its disappearance. But whenever a worm
burrows to a depth of several feet in undisturbed compact ground, it
must form its passage by swallowing the earth, for it is impossible
that the ground could yield on all sides to the pressure of the
pharynx when pushed forward within the worm’s body. Great depths
are reached only during continued dry weather and severe cold, the
burrows sometimes attaining to a depth of from seven to eight feet.
The burrows run down perpendicularly, or, more commonly,
obliquely, and are sometimes said to branch. Generally, or invariably
as I think, they are lined with fine, dark-colored earth voided by the
worm, so that at first they must be made a little wider than their
ultimate diameter. Little globular pellets of voided earth, still soft and
viscid, often dot the walls of fresh burrows, and these are spread out
on all sides by the worm as it travels up or down its burrow, the
lining thus formed becoming very compact and smooth when nearly
dry and closely fitting the worm’s body. Excellent points of support
are thus afforded for the minute reflexed bristles which project in
rows on all sides from the body, thus rendering the burrow well
adapted for the rapid movement of the animal. The lining appears
also to strengthen the walls, and perhaps saves the worm’s body
from being scratched, which would assuredly be the case when the
burrows, as is occasionally observed, pass through a layer of sifted
coal cinders. The burrows are thus seen to be not mere excavations,
but may be compared with tunnels lined with cement. Those which
run far down into the ground generally, or at least frequently,
terminate in little chambers, where one or several worms pass the
winter rolled up into a ball. Small pebbles and seeds as large as
grains of mustard are carried down from the surface by being
swallowed or within the mouths of worms, as well as bits of glass
and tile, whose only use in their winter-quarters seems to be the
prevention of their closely coiled-up bodies from coming into
contiguity with the surrounding cold soil, for such contact would
perhaps interfere with their respiration, which is effected by the skin
alone.
After swallowing earth, whether for making its burrow or for food,
the earth-worm soon comes to the surface to empty its body. The
rejected matter is thoroughly mixed with the intestinal secretions,
and is thus rendered viscid. After becoming dried, it sets hard. When
in a very liquid state the earth is thrown out in little spurts, and
when not so liquid by a slow peristaltic movement of the intestine. It
is not cast indifferently on any side, but first on one and then on
another, the tail being used almost like a trowel. The little heap
being formed the worm seemingly avoids, for the sake of safety, the
use of its tail, the earthy matter being forced up through the
previously deposited soft mass. The mouth of the same burrow is
used for this purpose for a considerable time. When a worm comes
to the surface to eject earth, the tail protrudes, but when it collects
leaves its head must protrude, and thus worms must have the power
of performing the difficult feat, as it seems to us, of turning round in
their closely-fitting burrows. Worms do not always eject their
castings upon the surface of the ground, for when burrowing in
newly turned-up earth, or between the stems of banked-up plants,
they deposit their castings in such places, and even hollows beneath
large stems lying on the surface of the ground are filled up with their
ejections. Old burrows collapse in time. The fine earth voided by
worms, if spread out uniformly, would form in many places a layer of
one-fifth of an inch in thickness. But this large amount is not
deposited within the old unused burrows. If the burrows did not
collapse, the whole ground would be first thickly riddled with holes
to the depth of ten inches or more, which in fifty years would grow
into a hollow, unsupported place ten inches deep.
Hardly any animal is more universally distributed than worms. The
earth-worm is found in all parts of the world, and some of the
genera have an enormous range. They inhabit the most isolated
islands, abounding in Iceland, and also being known to exist in the
West Indies, St. Helena, Madagascar, New Caledonia and Tahiti.
Worms from Kergulen Land in the Antarctic regions have been
described by Ray Lankester, and Darwin has reported them as being
found in the Falkland Islands. How they reach such isolated islands
is quite unknown. They are easily killed by salt water, and it does not
seem likely that young worms or their egg-capsules could be carried
in earth adhering to the feet or beaks of land-birds, especially to
Kergulen Land, for it is not now inhabited by any terrestrial bird.
We have seen that worms are found in nearly every part of the
globe, that they are very numerous, as many as 348,480 having
been found in an acre of rich ground in New Zealand, and that by
the peculiar economy of their nature they are fitted to accomplish a
great deal of good in the earth. They have played a more important
part in the history of the world than most persons would at first
suppose. In many parts of England, according to Darwin, a weight of
more than ten tons of dry earth annually passes through their bodies
and is brought to the surface in each acre of land, so that the entire
superficial bed of vegetable mould passes through their bodies in the
course of every few years; and in most parts of the forests and
pasture-lands of Southern Brazil, where several species of earth-
worms abound, the whole soil to a depth of a quarter of a metre
looks as though it had passed through the intestines of worms, even
where scarcely any castings are to be observed upon the surface.
The upper crust is continually being eaten and ejected by them, thus
aiding the fertility of the soil, as well as conveying water and air to
the interior by the myriads of burrows which they drill. The vast
quantities of leaves that they drag into their holes tend also to
enrich the ground. Nor does their good end here. They cover up
seeds, undermine rocks, burying them up, and to their labors is due
the preservation of many ruins and ancient works of art. Numerous
old-time Roman villas have been discovered beneath the ground in
England, whose entombments were undoubtedly caused by the
worms that undermined them and deposited their castings upon the
floors, till finally, aided by other causes, they disappeared from sight.
When a wide, turf-covered expanse of earth is beheld, we would
do well to remember that its smoothness, upon which so much of its
beauty depends, is largely due to all the inequalities having been
slowly levelled by worms. That all the surface-mould of any such
expanse has passed, and will again pass, every few years through
the bodies of worms is a marvellous reflection, and one which should
not be lightly dismissed from the mind. The most ancient, as well as
one of the most valuable of man’s inventions, is the plough. But long
before man existed the land was in fact regularly ploughed, and still
continues to be ploughed, by earth-worms. No other animal has
played such a part in history as have these lowly-organized
creatures. True it is that corals, which are still lower in the scale of
animals, have performed more conspicuous work in the innumerable
reefs and islands they have built in the great oceans, but their work
is confined to the tropical zones, while that of the earth-worm is
well-nigh universal. Verily it is by the little things in life that the
Creator has erected the most stupendous monuments to show forth
His infinite power and wisdom.
 FIDDLER- AND HERMIT-CRABS.

A
mong our first acquaintances of the sea-shore are sure to be a
number of merry little sprites which do not seem to have yet
mastered the lesson of walking straight ahead. Their
movements will be seen to be in a direction at right angles to that
towards which the head points. It is a very interesting sight to watch
these apparently one-sided creatures hurrying off in their lateral
progression towards their burrows in the sand or mud, or in quest of
food. Pass them, and you will be surprised to see how quickly some
of them will reverse their motion, seemingly without so much as
pausing to glance at their pursuer, their machinery appearing to
have given out at one end, thus compelling them to reverse and
travel back over their old courses.
These little Fiddler- or Calling-crabs, as they are termed, are the
most pronounced offenders against the commonly accepted rule of
proper walking. Scattered all over the salt marshes and mud-flats, at
about high-water mark, may be noted their burrows, which are
about as large as a thrust made by an umbrella point, and from
which can be frequently seen the little animal peeping forth,
preparatory to making a sally. At another part of the flat, where the
noise of your footsteps has not given signals of danger, hundreds of
crabblings are busy with their out-door occupations. Draw near to
them, and away they scamper to their dwellings, males and females
intermingled promiscuously, the former recognizable by the undue
development of one of the claws, which is carried transversely in
front of the head. When the animal is provoked, this claw is
brandished in a somewhat menacing manner, which has been
likened by some to the pulling of a violin bow, and by others to the
action of beckoning or calling, and hence the names which have
been applied to these eccentric creatures.
 Have you a desire for a more intimate knowledge of the animal,
take him up by the big claw, and you can now examine him without
the least fear of incurring the proofs of his displeasure. Two bead-
like, compound eyes, supported on long stalks, which can be readily
withdrawn into the protecting shield of the carapace, will be
observed. From the manner of this support, which allows of vision in
almost every direction, the name of stalk-eyed crustaceans has been
given to the group in which this structure is found. The two pairs of
feelers, which you see in front of the eyes, are known as antennæ
and antennules. They are of peculiar interest, for, aside from acting
as feelers, they subserve the functions of smelling and hearing, the
auditory apparatus being lodged in the base of the smaller pair.
There are ten feet, and this is a character of importance, as it is a
feature distinctive of the ten-footed, or decapod, crustaceans. At
first sight it appears that the animal is devoid of a tail, but if you
turn him over upon his back you will find a very short one tucked
safely under the body. A comparison of our study of this crab with
that of the lobster or cray-fish will show that the tail, or, more
properly, the abdomen, is stretched out beyond the body proper, and
that the elongation is in proportion to the length of the animal. Two
distinct groups of ten-legged, stalk-eyed crustaceans are thus
recognized, namely: the short-tailed forms, or crabs, and the
opposite, or long-tailed forms, to which the lobster and shrimp
belong, the hermit-crabs constituting an intermediate type.
Two species of the Fiddler, considerably resembling each other in
color and ornamentation, are to be found upon our Atlantic Coast.
The more common form, Gelasimus vocator, has a smooth, shining
carapace, while that of Gelasimus minax is finely granulated and in
part tuberculated, the back of both appearing impressed with a
figure very similar to the letter H. The latter, which appears to be a
vegetable feeder, is the larger, its burrows not infrequently
measuring one and a half inches in diameter. Estuarine regions, in
close proximity to fresh water, rather than the tidal flats, are its
habitat, and, in truth, it seems to be able to get along for weeks,
and even months, without any absolute need of salt water.
 FIDDLER-CRABS.
Two Males Fighting for a Female.

In the excavation of their homes the Fiddlers throw up the pellets

of moist earth by means of their anterior walking legs, depositing
their burden usually at some little distance from the mouth of the
burrow. As winter approaches, the domiciliary apertures are closed
up, and the famine of winter is spent in a state of torpidity.
With the advent of spring they come forth from their brumal
retreats, and soon concern themselves with the duties incident to
the propagation of their kind. Two males are often observed
contending in the fiercest manner for the possession of a female.
They strike with the formidable claw most powerful blows, and I
have often seen an opponent so completely claw-locked as to be
unutterly unable to make any determined resistance. These contests
last a long while, and finally conclude with the complete
vanquishment of one or the other of the fighting parties, one or both
sustaining at times some severe injury as the loss of an eye-
peduncle or the joint of a limb. All the while the battle is waging, the
female is a silent, passive spectator, and generally allies herself with
the successful competitor for her affections. Even during the summer
season, when the cares of brood-raising no longer command and
enslave the attention of the female, these combats are still indulged
in by the males, growing out of, as it would seem, the lingering
smarts of old animosities festering in the memory. While these
carcinological lords of the sea-side are eminently fitted for the
sparring business, the whole physiognomy of their smaller, weaker
partners bespeaks a life in which broils can have no part, a life
devoted to peaceful and domestic pursuits.
Differing widely in structure and habits from the Calling-crabs, and
affecting watery situations near the shore, are to be found the
Hermit-crabs. These sprightly little animals, which are usually of
small size, and have truly habits of their own, that stamp them at
once as being original and distinctive, are a source of never-failing
delight to the student of nature. They derive their name, as is well
known, from the seclusion into which they cast themselves as the
inhabitants of the shells of other animals, but it is probably not
generally known, however, that the rights of tenantry are oftentimes
exercised in the most arbitrary manner. Not always satisfied with a
dead shell, the Hermit-crab has been seen to raid upon a living
possessor and attempt to drag him from his home, in which
operation the assailant is often assisted by a number of his fellows,
each bearing with him his castle as defensive armor. True, the attack
is probably made in many instances for the purpose of getting
possession of the enemy as well as his belongings, and, however
this may be, forcible possession is by them considered no
misdemeanor.
The body of the Hermit-crab, in the greater number of species, is
unprovided with a carapace, and, being soft and liable to injury, the
animal is compelled to seek shelter usually in a snail-shell, winding
himself about the coils, to the inner extremity of which he attaches
himself by his modified posterior feet. So securely is he now
intrenched that it is only with difficulty he can be withdrawn,
retracting himself as he does further and further within cover of the
shell. A sudden fracture of the apex of the shell, under which
appears to be the most delicate part of the animal’s body, will
generally effect a speedy dislodgment, the frightened Crab dropping
from the aperture.
With his progressive development in size the Hermit requires
frequent changes of abode. His methods in securing a new
habitation are among the most interesting of his life. He is very
circumspect in his movements, and will make several
reconnoissances before he is fully satisfied with the conditions of his
prospective home, retiring after each visit to the old shell.
 Copyright 1900 by A. R. Dugmore.

CRAB WAITING FOR FOOD UNDER A ROCK.

From a photograph taken through water.

Like many bipeds, he has his first of May, and so he goes house-
hunting. He finds a shell. Will it do? He examines it within, feelingly
if not courteously, to see whether it is to let. Satisfied on this point,
he turns it over, then turns it round, to know if it will suit, the weight
of the house being quite an item in the reckoning to one who is to
carry it upon his back. All things being right, his mind is made up to
move, and quickly, too, at that, lest he miss his chance through
some more active fellow house-hunter who is on the alert. Out
comes the body from the old house, and pop it goes into the new.
The resolution to move, the surrender of the old house, and the
occupancy of the new, were all effected within a fraction of a second
of time.
 WARTY HERMIT-CRABS.
One at Home, the Other House-Hunting.

But the matter does not always go on pleasantly. Two house-

hunters may find the same tenement. Should they both desire it,
then comes the tug of war. Dwell together they neither can nor will.
Recourse is had to battle, in which the stronger proves his claim
right by the rule of might. In these encounters terrible mutilations
quite often occur.
As an offset to all this bad feeling and bloodshed, it is a sad sight
to see the little Hermit when his time comes to die. However droll
his career may have been, he is now very grave, for he knows he
must part with life and all its joys and pleasures. Who can explain
the strange fact? The poor little fellow comes out of his house to die.
Yes, to die. To us humans home is the only fit place to die in, but to
Eupagurus it has no attractions at this solemn time. Poor fellow!
With a sad look and a melancholy movement he quits of his own will
the house for which he fought so well. Those feelers that often
stood out so provokingly, and that were quite as often poked into
everybody’s business, now lie prone and harmless; the eyes have
lost their pertness, and dead, stone dead, the houseless Hermit lies
upon that moss-covered rock.
There are two species of Hermit-crab occurring on our coast,
which are readily distinguishable from each other by their size and
the difference in the shape of the big claw. Eupagurus pollicaris, the
Warty Hermit, is the larger species. He inhabits the shells of the big
Naticas and the Fulgurs, and can be easily recognized by his coarse,
broad claws, which close up in great part the aperture of the shell
which he occupies. In the more common form, Eupagurus
longicarpus, which seldom attains a length exceeding an inch, the
legs are all much elongated, giving the animal a very slender
appearance.
 FUNNEL-WEB BUILDER.

S
imple nests and tubes are all the majority of spiders construct
for their homes. The larger and better known webs for catching
insects are made by comparatively few species. He who is astir
in the grass-fields on damp summer mornings, will everywhere see
innumerous flat webs, from an inch or two to a foot in diameter,
which weather-wise folks consider prognostic of a fair day. These
webs may always be found upon the grass at the proper season, but
only become visible from a distance when the dew is upon them,
making the earth appear as covered by an almost continuous carpet
of silk.
By far the greater number of these nests is of the form which is
termed funnel-webs, which consist of a concave sheet of silk,
constituted of strong threads, crossed by finer ones, which the
author spins with the long hind-spinnerets, swinging them from side
to side, and laying down a band of threads at each stroke, the many
hundred threads extending in all directions to the supporting spears
of grass. The web is so close and tight that the footsteps of the
spider can be distinctly heard by the attentive, listening ear as she
runs hither and thither over its scarcely bending surface. At one side
of the web is a tube, leading down among the grass-stems, which
serves as a hiding-place for the owner of the web. Here, at the top,
and just out of sight, the spider ordinarily stands, waiting for
something to light upon the web, when she eagerly rushes out,
seizing the prey unluckily caught and carrying it into her tube to eat.
If too formidable an insect comes upon the web, she turns herself
round, beating a precipitate retreat out of the lower end of her
funnel and soon is lost beneath the mesh of enveloping and
interlacing grasses.
Where favorably located, these webs remain through the entire
season, and are enlarged, as the spider grows, by additions on the
outer edges, and are supported by threads running up into the
neighboring plants. Sometimes the webs are built in close proximity
to a stone partially imbedded in the earth, the bottom of the funnel
opening slightly underneath the stone, which secures to the spider a
convenient harbor in case of threatening danger.
Agalenidæ, as our funnel-web weavers are called, are long-
legged, brown spiders, in which the head part of the cephalo-thorax
is higher than the thoracic part, and distinctly separated from it by
grooves or marks at the sides. The eyes are usually in two rows, but
in Agalena the middle eyes of both rows are much higher than the
others. The feet have three claws, and the posterior pairs of
spinnerets are two-jointed and usually longer than the others.
Agalena nævia, the technical name of our Common Grass Spider,
abounds in all parts of the United States, but its very commonness is
the principal reason why it is so little known except by the trained
naturalist, its very familiarity leading the average man and woman to
look upon it with contempt.
 AGALENA AND HER FUNNEL-WEB.
House-Fly, Caught in the Toils, Becomes a Victim.
 Persons unfamiliar with spiders find it difficult to distinguish the
young from the old, and male from female. This is caused, in part,
by the great differences between different ages and sexes of the
same spider, on account of which they are supposed to belong to
distinct species. The adult males and females, however, are easily
distinguished from each other, and from the young, by the complete
development of organs peculiar to each sex, the palpal organs on
the ends of the palpi in the males, and the epigynum, a hard swollen
place just in front of the opening of the ovaries in the females.
Usually the males are smaller than their partners, and have, in
proportion to their size, smaller abdomens and longer legs. They are
generally darker colored, especially on the head and front part of the
body, and markings which are distinct in the female coalesce and
become darker in the male. In most species these differences are
not very great, but in some, Argiope and Nephila for examples,
where the males are about one-tenth as large as the females, one
would hardly suppose, without other evidence, that the males and
females had any relationship to each other. The palpal organs and
the epigynum are sexual characters which do not attain their
functional value until after the last moult has been effected.
Spiders are naturally very selfish creatures. Their chief concern in
life seems to be the gratification of their desires for food. They are
eminently unsocial, the sexes preferring to live solitary lives. It is
only when actuated by amatory influences that the females will
tolerate their weaker lords, and in some instances it is only by
stratagem and agility that the latter are able to accomplish the
fulfilment of the law of their being, the females by their ugly, vicious
tempers resisting to the utmost. In the case of Agalena the male is
the stronger of the two. He, at the proper time, when the
reproductive cells are matured, takes the female in his powerful
mandibles, lays her gently on one side, and inserts one of his palpi,
whose little sacs had previously been filled with the fecundating
discharge, into the epigynum underneath. After a time, necessarily
brief, he rises on tiptoe, turns her around and over, so that she
comfortably lies on the other side, her head being in the opposite
direction, and inserts the other palpus. All through the operation the