Some Curious Facts in Vocal Growth—Children and Consonants—Single, Double, and Treble Consonants—Sounds of Birds—Fishes and their Language—Insects and their Language.

I shall take occasion here to mention some curious experiments, which have suggested themselves to me in my work with the phonograph. For lack of time and opportunity, I have not carried them far enough to give exact and final results; but it has occurred to me that philology may be aided by taking a record of the sounds made by a number of children daily through a period of two or three years from birth. The few experiments which I have tried in this particular line are sufficient to show that the growth of speech obeys certain laws in the development of vocal power. It is apparent to me that the first sounds uttered by children have no consonants, and that certain consonants always appear in a regular succession and always single. The double consonants develop later, and the triple consonants appear to be the last acquirement. I have not the space to go to great length on this subject, and my experiments have not been sufficient to enable me to formulate with certainty any set of rules by which the development of this faculty is uniformly governed.

It is my purpose, on my return from Africa, to set on foot a series of such experiments, with the hope of ascertaining the facts connected therewith. And while in Africa I shall aim to make such records of the natives as to ascertain whether their speech conforms to the same laws of development or not. It is my earnest hope to be able to do the same thing with the great apes which I am going chiefly to study. I think if I can record on a phonograph cylinder the sounds uttered by a young chimpanzee under certain conditions once each day for a year or so, I can determine whether there is a like growth in their speech, and to what extent the same laws control it. I have already observed that the quality of voice in a given species of monkey changes with his age very much in the same manner as the human voice; but I have not been able to follow the changes through one individual specimen by which to ascertain the exact manner of such change.

The sounds of birds have been studied perhaps more than any others except those of man, but they have not been studied as speech, nor to ascertain their meanings. Their musical character has attracted attention and been the subject of some discussion. My opinion is that much that has been said on that subject belongs more properly to the realm of poetry than of science. I think the sounds of birds are chiefly intended for speech, but it may supply the place of music in their Æsthetic being; but, so far as I have observed, I confess that I cannot find that they obey the laws of harmony, melody, or time, and it is my opinion that most of the efforts to write the sounds of birds on a musical staff are not to be relied upon as accurate records of the sounds. There is no doubt that each sound uttered by a bird is in unison with some note in the chromatic scale of music, but the intervals between the tones of the same bird do not coincide with those of the human voice. It is quite evident that birds possess an acute sense and ready faculty for music, and many of them show great aptitude in imitating the sounds of musical instruments; some varieties of birds, such as the southern mocking-bird, the thrush, and others, imitate with great success the sounds of other birds. They often do this so perfectly as to deceive the species to which the sounds belong. The songs of birds, as they are called, appear to afford them great pleasure, and they often indulge in them, I think, as a pastime; the effect is pleasing to the ear because of its cheerfulness, and it is not discordant or wanting in richness of tone in most birds. From the little study I have given them I think it safe to say that the range of sounds possessed by any one bird is quite limited and their notes are strictly monophones. This last remark does not apply to the sounds made by parrots and birds of that kind.

The parrot is perhaps possessed of the greatest vocal power of any other bird. He imitates almost the entire range of sounds that are uttered by all other birds combined, and can also imitate the sounds of human speech from the highest to the lowest pitch of the human voice. In addition to all this, he imitates many noises, such as the sounds of sawing wood, the slam of a door, and the whistling of the wind. The vocal range of the parrot is perhaps the most marvellous of all the vocal products of the animal kingdom. One strange thing, however, that I observe among them is, that the range of sounds that they use among themselves is very small. I have made some records of parrots, macaws, cockatoos, &c., and I find their natural vocal sounds usually wanting in quality: most of their sounds are hoarse and guttural.

Among the gallinaceous birds there does not appear to be much music. There is a great sameness of sounds in the different species, and they seem to be confined to the economic use of speech.

In my early life I devoted much time to gunning, and I observed then, and called attention to the fact, that when a covey of birds became scattered I could tell at what point they would huddle. I could tell this by the call of one bird and the reply of the others. The call-bird, which was always the leader of the covey, would sound his call from a certain point near which the other birds would usually assemble, and during this time they would answer him from various other points. The sound used by the call-bird is unlike that used by the rest of the flock, but the sounds with which they reply to him are all alike, and by observing this I could always find the covey again by allowing them time to come together, especially if it was late in the afternoon.

Mr. Wood, of Washington, D.C., has given such attention to the sounds of birds that he can interpret and imitate nearly all the sounds made by domestic birds, and many of those made by wild birds. He has twice confused and arrested the flight of an army of crows by imitating the calls of their leader. His feats have been witnessed with astonishment by many men of science.

Among fishes I have found but few sounds, and most of these I have never heard except when the fish was taken out of the water. The carp and high-fin, however, I have frequently heard while in the water. It has occurred to me that the sound is not the medium of communication, but it is the result of an action by which they do communicate even when the sound is not audible. I have observed while holding the fish in my hand when he makes this sound that it produces a jarring sensation which is very perceptible. It is quite possible that in his natural element these powerful vibrations are imparted to the surrounding water, and through it communicated to another fish, who feels it in his sensitive body instead of hearing it as sound. It may be accompanied by the sound merely resulting from the force applied, but not in itself constituting any part of the means of communication. It is not unlike what we call sound, in the fact that it is generated in the same way, transmitted in the same way, and received in the same way as sound. When I have time and opportunity I shall carry my studies of the language of fishes much farther. Their means of communication are very contracted, but it is superfluous for me to say that they have such means.

Many observations have already been made on the language of insects, and much diversity of opinion prevails. Very little has been said about the details of their intercourse, but the consensus of opinion is that they must in some way communicate among themselves. To me they seem to live within a world of their own, as other classes of the animal kingdom do. The means of communication used by mammals could not be available among aquatic forms, any more than could their modes of locomotion. Each different class of the animal kingdom is endowed with such characters and faculties as best adapt them to the sphere in which they live; and the mode of communication best fitted to the conditions of insect life would be as little suited to mammals, perhaps, as the feathers of a bird would be for locomotion in the realm of fishes.

I am aware that some high authorities have claimed that insects communicate by sounds. My own opinion is that they employ a system of grating or scratching by means of their stigmata, but that the sound created thus performs no function in the act of communicating, but is only a bi-product, so to speak, and that the jarring sensation transmitted through the air is the real means by which they understand each other, possibly somewhat like telegraphy, in which the sounds are not modulated, but are distinguished by their duration and the interval between them. I do not announce this as conclusive, but merely suggest it as a possible key to their mode of intercourse.

I have observed that signs prevail to a great extent among ants. Some years ago I had an opportunity of studying a colony of ants, and I watched them almost daily for several weeks. I had seen it stated that they found their way by the sense of smell, but these observations confirmed my doubts on that point, and I feel justified in saying that they are guided almost, if not entirely, by landmarks. On the bark of a tree from which they were gathering in their winter stores, I observed that there were certain little knots or protuberances by which they directed their course and which they always passed in a certain order. Between these landmarks they did not confine themselves to any exact path, but the concourse would sometimes widen out over the space of more than an inch, but as they approached a landmark every ant fell into line and went in the exact path of the others, which rarely exceeded in any case more than an eighth of an inch in width. Whenever an ant would lose its way it would lift its head high into the air, look around, and then turn almost at right angles from the course it was pursuing towards the path of the others. In scores of cases I observed that the outward-bound ant, when it had been lost and returned to the path, always came on the homeward side of the landmark and passed out. On the other hand, if a homeward-bound ant was lost it would approach from the outward side of the landmark and pass in. About five feet from the ground were two small, round knots, about one-eighth of an inch in height, and a space between them of about the same width. This appeared to be one of their most conspicuous and reliable landmarks, and every ant that I saw pass in or out during the lapse of weeks passed between these two points. The burdened ant always appeared to have the right of way, and when meeting another without a burden there was no question of this right. In such a case the burden was usually held aloft, and the right of way conceded without debate. A little later in the season I had the opportunity of seeing the same colony emigrate to a point about eighty feet distant from their original abode, at which time they carried large burdens and were many days in completing their work, but the same system and methods prevailed.

As far as desire can be found in life the means of expression go hand in hand with it, but I do not contend that desire alone is the origin of this faculty. So far as human ears can ascertain, the lowest forms of life appeared to dwell in perpetual silence, but there may be voices yet unheard, more eloquent than we have ever dreamed of.