Rensselaer Union, Volume 10, Number 25, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 7 March 1878 — The Domestic Life of a Naturalist. [ARTICLE]

The Domestic Life of a Naturalist.

“It’s a jolly little brute, and won’t hurt!” exclaimed Mr. Buckland, as we were about to retreat from the threshold. The monkeys had seized the jaguar’s tail, and, lifting it with its hind legs bodily to the altitude of their cage, were rapidly denuding it oi fur. No animal with any feelings of self-re-spect could submit silently to such humiliation, and the jaguar was making the place hideous with his yells. Hearing the cries of-her pet, Mrs. Buckland came to the reseue; and it was amusing to see this child of the forest, with gleaminge eyes and frantic yelps, cast itself at her feet and nestle meekly in the folds of her dress. She had nursed it through a very trying babyhood when Mr. Bartlett had sent it from the Zoo, apparently dying and paralyzed in the fore legs, with a promise of £ls reward for a cure. That sum has long since been swallowed up in damages lor clothes and boots devoured, as the invalids health and appetite returned. Hard bv, a laughing jackass was sportively chasing live mice up and down a glass jar, as an appetizer before eating them; and below, solemnly weighing the doctrine of chances, a battalion of cats waited patiently what might befall. At a front window an intelligent parrot'kept calling cabs from the moment we entered, and was equally ready to hail an omnibus if we preferred it. A peaceably-disposed piebald rat was enjoying gymnastic exercises on a pole, until seized by his master and told to “ sing up, old boy.” Held suddenly to our ear, melodious notes were heard issuing from the diaphragm, which Mr. Buckland considers as good as the carol of a lark, whether it arises from a parasite in the liver or not. All around the walls were covered with the heads of curious hybrids and horns of extinct animals; and in- ' deed there was everything in this won-. derful museum to fascinate the mind, |

from a shoe left as a keepsake by Brice the giant to a “ lady’s slipper” floating about in a wine-glass of water. The latter was a beautiful little object like a fairy glass slipper, about an inch long, without heels, and exquisitely fringed and finished off. It belongs to the jelly fish tribe, and was alive and well when we saw it. The “ happy family” life, of which Mrs. Buckland is the center, is carried on in an ordinary London house, formerly the hpme of Charles Dickens’ father-in-law, Mr. Hogarth, in Albany street, Regent’s Park. In their time the room into which we were ushered was probably the drawing-room. At first, during the present tenancy, it used to be called “master’s room;” now itistermedthe “ monkeys’room,” which Mr. Buckland remarks Is Darwin going backward. The dining-room is indeed the one room preserved, but with difficulty, for the sole use of man. It is held, so to speak, at the sword’s point against the incursions of animals from the neighboring jungle. Sometimes the rale is relaxed in cases of sickness, or on the arrival of a welcome little stranger like the jaguar. It is to this room that all good animals expect to go, in a stuffed form, when they die. It is regarded as a Poets’ Corner for the great; while the bodies of the less distinguished are consigned to honorable burial in the back green. Mr. Buckland was informed lately that there was not room to bury so much as a bird there now. * * * *

Enjoying the rare art of imparting his knowledge *to others, Mr. Buckland delights in showing his treasures. Regardless of fearful odors, he will plunge up to his elbows into a deep, dark tank, and draw forth a slimy, dripping reptile, and ask cheerfully “if he is not a beauty?” It requires a strong stomach and no small diplomacy toknow how to act, for he is ready on a word of encouragement to make another fatal plunge ana bring up the other seven. But another joy awaits you—if you can bear it—in a jar, when he carefully hauls out a rib-bon-fish, and tells you it is the next of kin to the great sea-serpent. At that moment you heartily wish the great sea-serpent would bury its own relations; but Frank does not, and any one who would bring him the head of the family would be his friend for life. On the whole, Mr. Buckland prefers live snakes about him; but he has not yet succeeded in getting his household to agree with him. A live snake is considerably worse than a pickled snake, seeing that the latter, they find, is not so likely to be found under their pillows. Perhaps the worst moments for the family, are those when the Parcels Delivery van drives up to On these occasions there is a general closing of windows observable in the neighborhood, and the only lighthearted creature within the zoological circle of Frank Buckland’s home just then is the persevering parrot, who takes the credit of the van’s arrival to himself. The Naturalist steals out to survey the state of things, and, if likely to be very odorous, the man feels uneasy, while the husband, deep and treacherous, drops a propitiatory sovereign into his wife’s hand, and recommends her to try a little shopping in some distant region. * * * * Mr. Buckland’s housekeeping books cover a wide range; his bills for rats and mice and other small fry exceed the butcher’s. Not less peculiar than the fare provided by his kitchen is the company to be met at his parties. It is his especial delight to entertain celebrities on view in the town. This penchant makeshim the idol of aU the children and stray waifs in the neighborhood, who crowd round the door when a party is expected, or clamber up the railings to get a good view of the giant going in or the dwarf coming away. * * * Nothing could have been more appalling than what happened when Mr. Buckland was honored at dinner by Tomati Hapiromani Wharinaki and a number of New Zealand Chiefs. The party had adjourned to the monkey room to smoke the pipe of peace, when for their amusement the host turned some six-and-thirty slowworms out of a box. Instantaneously the guests were transformed; the garb of civilization slipped off, and they returned to the wild untutored savage. With one frantic glance at the slowworms on the floor, they uttered wild yells and straightway fled. Down Stairs, the dining-room was open; through this into the garden, helter-skelter, like hounds breaking cover and filling the air with a tapage denser. Thence they spread over the neighboring gardens, taking the low fences like deer. Two of them seeing another open window, and at it a peaceable old lady at work, headed for it, dashed in, and with their tattooed faces and awful cries nearly were her death. By this time the whole parish was up.; a hue and cry organized, recruits joined from the railings, and the fugitives were run safely to ground. -It appeared that they entertained a superstitious horror of the slow-worm; to them it was the “ Ngarara”— the incarnation of the power of evil.—London World.