Martha,
Jane, and Babette
a true story
from
A Farmer's Year
by H. Rider Haggard
August
6, 1898. — In a greenhouse in this garden I have two tame toads,
named Martha and Jane respectively. Also there is a tiny one
called Babette, but she can hardly be counted, as she is so
small and seldom on view. (Martha, there is reason to fear, has
recently eaten Babette.)
These toads
are strange and interesting creatures, differing much from each
other in appearance and character. Martha is stout and
dark-coloured, a bold-natured toad of friendly habit; Jane, on
the other hand, is pale and thin, with a depressed air which
suggests resignation born of long experience of circumstances
over which she has no control. Some of this depression may be
due to the fact that once, entering the greenhouse in the
twilight, I trod upon her accidentally, a shock from which she
seems never to have recovered, although, owing to the adaptive
powers of toads, beyond a slight flattening she took no physical
harm from an adventure which must have been painful. Indeed, I
am not sure that of the two of us I did not suffer most, for I
know of few things more upsetting than the feel of a fat toad
beneath one's foot. Anyhow, since that day Jane has looked
reproachful and never quite trusted me.
These toads I
feed with lobworms, or sometimes with woodlice and centipedes
taken from traps made of hollowed-out potatoes, which are set
among the flowerpots to attract such creatures. In the latter
case the insects must be thrown before the toad, which never
seems to see them until they begin to run, although, its ears
being quite thick, it can sometimes hear them as they move along
the floor behind it.
When a toad
catches sight of an insect its attitude of profound repose
changes to one of extraordinary and alarming animation. Its
swivel eyes seem to project and fix themselves upon the doomed
creature off which it is about to lunch; its throat begins to
palpitate with violence, and its general air betrays intense and
concentrated interest. Presently, from contemplation it proceeds
to action. By slow but purposeful movements of its crooked limbs
it advances; pauses, and advances again, till at length it
reaches a position which it considers convenient. Then, just as
the centipede gains a sheltering pebble, a long pink flash seems
to proceed from the head of the toad. That is the tongue.
Another instant and the pink thing has twisted itself round the
insect and retired into the capacious mouth, and there, once
more wrapped in deep peace and rest, sits the toad, its eyes
turned in pious thankfulness to heaven, or, rather, to the roof
of the greenhouse. The other day even I saw Martha take a
woodlouse off her own head. Mistaking the nature of its foothold
the insect had been so unfortunate as to run up her back, till,
becoming aware of the tickling of its little feet, Martha
guessed the unusual situation and acted on it with all the
decision of the great.
If the
observer wishes to see what my old head gardener calls 'the
beauty of the thing,' woodlice and centipedes undoubtedly
provide the best show; but for real grim earnest, for a perfect
microcosm of the struggle for existence in which somebody has to
go down, the spectacle of Martha meeting with a selected lobworm
is to be recommended. In this instance she sees the thing at
once, for it is long, active, and shiny (toads will not touch
anything that is dead), and instantly clears for action.
Creeping forward with a dreadful deliberation, she arches her
neck over the worm, considering it with her beady eye. Then, as
it begins to take refuge beneath the shingle — for worms seem to
understand that toads are no friends to them — Martha pounces
and grips it by the middle. Next comes a long strain, like that
of a thrush dragging at a branding in the garden, and after the
strain, the struggle.
Heavens! what
a fight it is! Magnify the size of the combatants by five
hundred, and no man would dare to stay to look at it. The worm
writhes and rolls; Martha, seated on her bulging haunches, beats
its extremities with her front paws — cramming, pushing,
gulping, and lo! gradually the worm seems to shorten. Shorter it
grows, and shorter yet. It is vanishing into Martha's inside.
And now nothing is left but a little pink tip projecting from
the corner of her mouth, in appearance not unlike that of a
lighted cigarette.
The tip
vanishes, and you think that the tragedy is overii. But no;
presently there is a convulsion, followed by a resurrection as
frantic as it is futile. Again the war is waged — this time more
feebly, and soon, once more shrouded in holy calm as in a
garment, Martha sits smiling at the roof of the greenhouse,
reflecting probably upon worms that she swallowed years before
anybody now living was born. But as a matter of curiosity one
would like to know what is happening inside of her. Clearly her
digestive fluids must be of the best.
I imagine that
toads live a great while — at least that is the impression among
country people. Old men will declare even that they have known a
certain toad all their lives; but this proves nothing, for some
descendant may so exactly resemble its ancestor as to deceive
the most careful observer.
During the
winter of 1898 Martha and Jane vanished and were no more seen.
In February 1899, however, they reappeared from their hiding
places beneath the hot-water pipes and would sit for hours with
their noses glued to the zinc screens of the ventilators, and
even against the cracks of the doors, desiring doubtless now
that the year had turned towards spring to escape into the open
to spawn. Clearly lobworms and woodlice artificially supplied no
longer consoled them for captivity. At length I took pity upon
the poor things, and on a certain mild damp day let them go. Off
they waddled in haste, heading for the rose border, the bold
Martha leading the way and the pallid Jane with backbone
painfully distinct following humbly at a distance. When I
searched for them half an hour later they had departed, probably
beneath the soil. Let us hope that in generations to be the
recollection of their imprisonment in that shining mysterious
place where towering creatures provided them with worms in
bewildering abundance will come to be regarded by them as a
pleasant episode in a somewhat monotonous career.
The further Manoeuvres of Jane
June 2, 1899
A marvel has come to pass — Jane
has returned to captivity, plumper and in better condition than
she left it four months ago, but without doubt the same pallid,
patient, gentle-natured Jane. It happened thus. This very
morning, going to the door of the cool glasshouse, which is
devoted to hardy cypripediums and other moisture-loving plants,
I found sitting on the stone sill and staring hard at the
cracks of the door none other than dear Jane. Guessing her
wishes I opened it, and in she waddled, turned to the right as
usual, and at once established herself amongst the wet shingle.
Now what can have brought this creature back in so strange a
fashion? My own belief is that the sudden change of the weather
from unseasonable cold to summer heat has caused it to remember
with pleasure the damp shaded greenhouse with its abounding
worms, and to seek shelter there. But this presupposes memory,
for instinct would not bring a creature back to a conservatory.
And if toads have active memory of such sort? — but the problem
is too deep for me. At any rate there is Jane — all have
recognised her pale complexion, her widowed air. I am proud to
add also that the sympathy between us, which I thought gone, is
quite restored, for now Jane allows me to stroke her speckly
head, and puffs herself out with pleasure at the touch of
kindness which makes us kin. Her appetite, too, is excellent;
she has just breakfasted off three woodlice (one large), two
centipedes, and half a worm — and yet almost do I wish that I
could persuade Jane to become a vegetarian. Another strange
occurrence; a second half-grown toad has appeared in the same
greenhouse, a weird, wild, fear-haunted creature, that won't sit
still. Can this be Babette — the lost Babette, whose fate was
hid in mystery — Babette whom we thought anthro- or
Bufopophagically absorbed — escaped and adolescent? Who
knows? But the bold Martha — where is She?
