DO SNAKES DRINK?

PERHAPS in no other branch of natural history has such a degree of interest been awakened during the last decade, and such an advance made as in ophiology. The result of a spirit of inquiry thus set afloat is that information is being continually elicited from travellers and observers. Those who now entertain predilections for this branch of science, will many of them admit that whatever interest they feel in the subject has been of a comparatively recent date; that since they have at all studied snake nature, they have repeatedly had to combat with preconceived notions. Again and again they have been ‘surprised to learn that so-and-so’—some now established fact, perhaps—is the case, when they had ‘always thought’—probably something quite the contrary.

This has been frequently verified in my own experience in my correspondence with really scholarly men, who have generously admitted as much. Not a few, during my ten years’ study of the Ophidia, have traced their interest in snakes to my own enthusiasm. Preconceived errors are not to be wondered at when we consider that, apart from scientific works, so much that has been related of serpents has been mingled with prejudice, fable, and tradition, clouding our intelligence at the very outset. Nor need we hesitate in admitting our misconceptions, when we find scientific men themselves devoting page after page to a mooted question, and after all, sometimes venturing to sum up a given subject with a modest doubt only. (Would that the less scientific writers were equally cautious in their statements!) Whether snakes drink, and what they drink, have been among these debated questions.

Those who possess a love for natural history are, of course, acquainted with the works of the eminent naturalist, Dr. Thomas Bell, on our native fauna; and those who admit their interest in the much-maligned snakes have included in their studies his British Reptiles.[14] In one portion of that work, where science is so charmingly blended with personal observations, we are carried on to the heaths and commons to watch our pretty little agile lizards skim across the grass, and flit away with legs too fleet for us to follow them.

We linger on the banks of a stream where a ring snake lies in wait for a frog; and then we are conducted into Mr. Bell’s study, where the same harmless creature, now tamed, is nestling in his sleeve, or lapping milk from his hand.

Most of my readers also, whether naturalists or not, are familiar with some of the numerous works on India, its creeds, customs, and superstitions, where mention is so frequently made of cobra-worship, and of the natives setting saucers of milk near its hole to conciliate and propitiate the serpent. Familiar to us all, too, is the picture of a little child with a bowl of milk on its lap, and a snake receiving a tap with the spoon to check the too greedy intrusion of its head into the bowl, but into which, according to the story, it had been accustomed and permitted to dip its tongue. Some persons place that story in Wales; others, and with better reason, trace it to New England. The child and its surroundings, the size of the snake, all justify this latter belief, and that the intruder is the notorious milk-stealer so common in the United States, the ‘black snake,’ or Racer (introduced p. 64).

In the face of these well-known facts, it may seem strange to propose the question, ‘Do snakes ever drink?’ and still stranger to affirm that this was lately a disputed point among some of our scientific writers. ‘On s’ignore,’ says Schlegel, ‘si les serpents boivent, et s’il est juste d’opiner pour la negative; toutefois on n’a jamais aperÇu des fluides dans ceux dont on a examinÉ l’estomac.’[15]

Schlegel, when he wrote, had not the benefit of Mr. Bell’s experience, and as a foreigner, probably he had not read Jesse’s Gleanings nor White’s Selborne; nor, as a scientific student, had he time to bestow on promiscuous works on India, which, by the way, were not so numerous then as now. But there are several well-known milk-drinking snakes in America which had been described by writers prior to Schlegel. This learned author, however, puts down the milk-loving snakes among the ‘fables’ and ‘prejudices;’ and, as we have seen, dismissed the water-drinkers with a doubt.

Mr. Bell’s work has enjoyed upwards of thirty years’ popularity, and his milk-drinking pet has been quoted by scores of writers of both adult and juvenile books. Thomas Bell, F.L.S., F.G.S., was secretary to the Royal Society; Professor of Zoology of King’s College, London; and one of the Council of the Zoological Society of London. He was also a ‘corresponding member’ of the learned societies of Paris and Philadelphia, and of the Boston Society of Natural History.

As a gentleman of widely recognised learning and veracity, therefore, it may be considered that Mr. Bell, and with good reason, entertained no doubt whatever as to snakes drinking, and also drinking milk. Mr. Bell, moreover, had known of the celebrated python at Paris (see chap. xxiv.), which in 1841 evinced a thirstiness that has become historical in all zoological annals. The circumstance was fully recorded by M. Valenciennes at the time; when a no less distinguished ophiologist than M. Dumeril,[16] Professeur d’ErpÉtologie au MusÉe À Paris, was especially appointed to the management of the reptile department there. That very distinguished ophidian lady, the python, need be referred to here only as regards the drinking question, the rest of her history coming in its place in this book. It will be remembered that she laid eggs, and to the surprise of all, coiled herself upon them to hatch them. ‘Pendant tout le temps d’incubation la femelle n’a pas voulu manger’ (she began to incubate on the 6th May); ‘mais le 25^e de mai, aprÈs vingt jours de couvaison, son gardien, VallÉe, homme trÈs soigneux et trÈs intelligent, la voyant plus inquiÈte que de coutume, remeuÉe la tÊte, et lui prÉsenta de l’eau dans un petit basin; elle y plongea le bout de son museau, et l’animal en but avec aviditÉ environs de deux verres. Elle a ensuite bu quatre fois pendant le reste du temps de sa couvaison: le 4 juin, 13, 19, 26.’ (Her eggs began to hatch early in July.)

The interesting invalid, ordinarily tame and gentle, had latterly displayed anger and irritability on being disturbed, pushing away the hand if touched; but in her present state the want of water was so great that she evinced uneasiness to her guardian, and permitted him to move and turn her head, so that she could dip the end of her muzzle into the basin. The narrator argued, from this remarkable demonstration, that the incubation (in which a rise of temperature was observable) produced a sort of feverishness which caused her to decline solid food, though her thirst was so great that she almost asked for drink.

When eight of the fifteen eggs were hatched, the little pythons ate nothing until after their first moult (which happened to them all within a fortnight), but during those early days of their existence they ‘drank several times, and also bathed themselves.’

This event perhaps established the fact beyond any doubt that snakes do drink, so far as modern and scientific ophiologists had ventured to decide; and M. Dumeril, from long observation, is able to tell us how.

Speaking of the tongue of a snake, this experienced naturalist informs us that ‘cette langue fort longue sert-elle comme on l’a observÉe quelquefois À faire pÉnÉtrer un peu de liquide dans la bouche, car nous avons vu nous-mÊme des couleuvres laper ainsi l’eau, que nous avions placÉe auprÈs d’elles dans la cage, oÙ nous les tenions renfermÉes pour les observer À loisir.’[17]

But, as he goes on to describe, ‘quelques serpents avalent de l’eau sans se servir de la langue pour laper. Alors ils tiennent la tÊte enfoncÉe sous l’eau au-dessous du niveau, ils Écartent un peu les mÂchoires, et font baisser le fond de la gorge, dans laquelle l’eau descend par son propres poids.’ You can then perceive the slight movements of swallowing, like a thirsty man gulping down a beverage (À la rÉgalade).

What follows affords an explanation of M. Schlegel’s statement that he had never discovered water in a snake which he had dissected, this learned author not having gone so thoroughly into the matter. ‘Cette eau,’ says M. Dumeril, ‘sert À laver les intestines; car elle est rendue liquide avec les fÈces, elle ne parait pas expulsÉe par les voies urinaires.’

M. Dumeril speaks very clearly on this point both in his introductory preface, and again in vol. vi., under the more detailed descriptions of each especial sense and organ.

Snakes rarely drink (that is, not every day, as most animals do), most of them living in dry regions or forests, where for long periods they are deprived of water. The live prey upon which they subsist supplies them with sufficient liquid. This may be known by the natural discharges, which are usually of a liquid nature. Nevertheless, a large number of serpents live close to water, and love to plunge and to swim. These truly drink,—lapping with the tongue, as above described; at other times with the head under water, and the neck still lower, so that the water falls into the mouth by its own weight, and is then swallowed. But this, he repeats, does not go into the blood, or very little of it, car ils rendent en grand partie, etc., as above, its function being principally to moisten the intestines.

Lenz, a German ophiologist of still earlier date than Schlegel, went very conscientiously into the subject of whether snakes drink or not,[18] having adopted various means in order to test them. His personal experience was, however, of a more limited range.

It is worth while to bear in mind the dates of some of these writings, both that we may watch the gradual advance of ophidian knowledge, and also that we may the better appreciate the vast amount of time, care, labour, and research by which we are finally put in possession of facts of natural history.

As a comparatively modern writer, Lenz, without doubt, made very valuable contributions to the science of ophiology, and at a time when fact was only beginning to be sifted from fable. It will be seen that, though writing several years before Schlegel, he had arrived at the same conclusions.

‘The numerous snakes and other animals which inhabit arid mountains, or plains destitute of water, can only quench their thirst with rain or dew. Snakes require but little water as long as they live in the open air. It is an established rule that no water is found in the maw, stomach, or entrails of snakes killed in the open air, even when destroyed by or in a piece of water. Snakes are never seen to go to drink in any part of the world.’

This last clause is, as we have now seen, a too positive assertion, and one not subsequently borne out by other equally conscientious and intelligent writers. Livingstone, who was a close observer of nature, informs us that he has known some of the African snakes come a long way to pools and rivers to drink. Dr. Theodore Cantor, who is one of the best authorities on the Indian sea snakes, and who was a member of the Zoological Society, tells us that he has seen snakes ‘both drink and also moisten the tongue; two distinct operations,’ he explains.[19] This conviction having been stated prior to Dumeril’s elaborate and much-prized work, is valuable testimony. The majority of snakes in India are partial to water, he tells us, with the exception of the arboreal species, which probably obtain sufficient moisture from the rain or dew upon the leaves; and as it is not in their nature to be on the ground, their organization doubtless renders them independent of water.

We of late so often see it said of any particular snakes in captivity that ‘they neither ate nor drank at first;’ or that ‘they drank, though they would not eat,’ that we almost wonder their bibulous propensities were ever doubted; especially as the majority of snakes are fond of water, and swim readily. We are surprised, therefore, that the second edition of Mr. Lenz’ really valuable work, published so lately as 1870, should still retain the assertion that snakes have never been seen to drink.

Mr. Frank Buckland saw his Coronella drink frequently, though she ate nothing; and as the discovery and captivity of this interesting lady and her brood, born in London in 1862,[20] formed the subject of many papers in the scientific journals at the time, one would suppose that they would have been heard of in Germany, where the species (C. lÆvis) is well known.

‘Though not to be tempted with food, they are very fond of water,’ says Mr. F. Buckland.

Lenz’ experiments are, however, well worth noticing, because subsequent observations have in many instances confirmed this author’s conclusions.

‘In confinement,’ he says, ‘snakes are more easily induced to lick up drops sprinkled on grass than to drink from a vessel.’ Naturally so. In their native haunts they are not accustomed to pans of water or saucers of milk, but they are accustomed to moisten their tongues on the blades of grass or the leaves of plants which hold the drops of rain or dew. Lenz then mentions some experiments which he himself made with snakes. He placed a ring snake and an adder in an empty box, and kept them there without food for a fortnight, at the end of which period he placed them in a tub containing half an inch of water, and left them there for half an hour. He then killed them both, and on dissection found no water inside of them. This led him to the conclusion that they had not drank at all; but, in the first place, had they occupied the whole half-hour in lapping with their thread-like tongue, it may be doubted whether any appreciable quantity could be imbibed during that time; and in the second place, the sudden transition and strange situation in which they found themselves would, through fright, entirely destroy whatever inclination they might have had to appease hunger or thirst.

It will be seen that snakes are exceedingly capricious in taking food; and that when in an abnormal or strange locality they rarely feed for a long while. Mr. Lenz himself is of opinion that, had he left them longer in the water, or placed them in a dry tub where liquid could be got at, they would or might have drunk. Thus, the experiments only go to corroborate what all keepers of snakes have observed, viz. that captivity or strange surroundings render them averse to feed.

M. Lenz placed his snakes among the cows in order to test the foolish belief that obtains in some countries that snakes will ‘suck’ the udders; but of course, and for similar reasons, even could such an achievement be possible, the snakes attempted no such thing.

His snakes were strict members of a temperance society also, for not even wine could tempt them to drink, though this and other liquids were placed within reach to entice their taste. Not so Pliny’s snakes, for he would have us believe that they show ‘a great liking for wine,’ whenever an opportunity presented itself for their tasting it!

But how came the idea to obtain that snakes suck cows,—a fact so frequently asserted by the older naturalists? One old writer goes so far as to state that a certain American snake ‘causes cows to give forth bloody milk.’ And yet, to the thinking or observing person, the origin of the belief may be easily accounted for. That snakes have partiality for milk no longer admits of a doubt; that they like warmth and shelter is an equally established fact. Therefore, they find their way into cattle-sheds, and hide in the straw or any snug corner, possibly even among the recumbent cattle; and, being there, their ever busy exploring tongues discover a savour of milk, and the snake is led by this intelligent tongue to the very fountain of their favourite drop. The irritated cow would then naturally stir or kick, and endeavour to shake off the strange intruder, who, in its turn alarmed or angered, would bite the udder, and fetch blood. This, in the dark ages of natural history, and during the period when the serpent was invested with all manner of cruel and revolting wilfulness, would suffice to give rise to the belief that has so long prevailed. The rat snake (Ptyas mucosus) and the Clothonia of India are ‘said’ to suck the teats of cows; so also are the ‘hoop snake’ and several other American species, which, with their climbing propensities, may sometimes twine themselves about the legs of cattle, and thus reach the udders, where persons have discovered them. It is just possible that the snakes may get the teat into their mouths, and advance upon it, with the intention of swallowing it, not knowing that it was only a teat, with a cow inconveniently attached to it, and not some small and more manageable prey.

Among the American milk-drinking snakes is Coluber eximius, known as the ‘milk snake,’ one of the dairy frequenters, which is said to seek milk with avidity. This snake is mentioned by De Kay,[21] Emmons,[22] and Holbrooke,[23] who all describe it as being very beautiful and ‘innocent’ (except in the eyes of the farmers’ wives). It is of a pale, pearly white, sometimes tinged with pink, and with rich chocolate spots on its back. The Racer, of egg-stealing notoriety, is also a sad milk thief, and, like our own little ring snake, has been known to retrace its way into dairies. Such depredations were more frequent formerly when the snakes were more numerous. Of the Racer, Lawson[24] says, ‘This Whipster haunts the Dairies of careless Housewives, and never misses to skim the Milk clear of the Cream.’

The same love of warmth which takes the reptiles among cattle, guides them into dwellings, particularly during the night; and in hot countries where nursing-women of the poorer classes lie exposed, snakes have been found upon their breasts, and absurd stories have been told of their sucking the teats of women. In India, Australia, and America, such stories are common.

After all, it does not seem surprising that snakes should like milk. Being carnivorous by nature, they would at once detect an animal flavour in the liquid by the agency of their sensitive tongue.

Now turning to India, we find that the love of snakes for milk is mentioned by numerous writers on the manners and customs of the HindÛs, as well as by travellers and naturalists. Balfour[25] tells us ‘when a snake discovers how to get at the eggs and milk in a larder, no native will on any account kill it, because it is regarded as the good genius of the house.’ And again, ‘that the cobra is fed with milk in some of the temples where it is worshipped.’

Dr. Shortt of Madras keeps a man to attend to his cobras, and finds they thrive excellently on sour milk, which is administered once in ten or twelve days.[26] ‘Snakes feed on eggs and milk,’ says Sir J. Fayrer.

When we read similar facts mentioned incidentally, and with no especial object, we may give them credence even more than if a prejudiced writer were endeavouring to prove such or such a thing. For instance, during the visit of H.R.H. the Prince of Wales to India, the exhibition of snakes and snake-charming formed a not unimportant item in the programme, and furnished many columns of cobra performances and cobra traditions to the papers. More than one of the journalists unintentionally corroborated what Balfour and other writers tell us about the ‘good luck’ of having a cobra in the chuppur of the hut, the fearlessness with which the children regard their ‘uncle,’ as they call it, and their care in placing milk and eggs for it each evening.

But I am reminded of a singular case which came to me through a personal acquaintance from India who was present at the time.

Four officers sitting in a bungalow in India were deep in a game of whist. Suddenly one of them, turning deadly pale, made signs that no one should move or speak. In a hushed voice he exclaimed, ‘Keep still, for God’s sake! I feel a cobra crawling about my legs!’ He knew that timidity was one of the strongest characteristics of this snake, and that if not disturbed or alarmed, it would in due time depart of its own accord. All present were accustomed to the stealthy intruders, and did not, happily, lose their presence of mind. They very noiselessly bent down so as to take a survey beneath the table, when, sure enough, there was the unwelcome visitor, a full-sized cobra, twining and gliding about the legs of their hapless friend. Literally death was at his feet! A movement, a noise, even an agitated tremble might have been fatal.

Luckily one of the four was acquainted with the milk-loving habit of the cobra, and rising from his seat with quiet and cautious movements, not daring to hasten, yet dreading delay, he managed to steal from the room, while he signed the rest to remain motionless. Quickly he crept back with a saucer of milk in his hand, and still with noiseless movements set the saucer under the table as close to the terrible reptile as it was safe to venture.

That fearful strain on their nerves was happily of not long duration, for presently they were relieved by seeing the creature gradually untwine itself and go to the milk.

Never before or since did that officer leap from his seat as he did then, the moment he felt himself free from the coils of the cobra, and read in the faces of his comrades that he was saved. Short thrift, however, had Mr. Cobra, for sticks and whip-handles were freely administered, even before the saucer was reached.

The enemy got rid of, the game was resumed; and it is worth the while of those in India to bear this narrow escape in mind, and bring milk to the rescue in case of similar danger.

That snakes drink, and occasionally drink milk, is sufficiently established. Modern authorities now affirm it decidedly. Says Dr. GÜnther in his great work, published by the Ray Society,[27] ‘All snakes drink, and die when deprived of water.’ Dr. Edward Nicholson, another of our practical ophiologists, speaking of one of his pet snakes, a Tropidonotus, says ‘the offer of a drink of water will at once gain its heart.’ In watching snakes drinking, he has frequently counted one hundred gulps before the drinker is satisfied.[28] If Anguis fragilis, the common blindworm, from its snake-like form, may be cited here, I may mention one of my own, which, after being shut up in a box for safety during my absence from home for some days, drank for such a long while when first released from captivity, that I was really tired of waiting to watch her. She almost immediately went to a flower-pot saucer of water, with which she was familiar, and which I placed near her. For some time I watched the tongue thrown out and withdrawn, till I began to wonder how much longer she would remain dipping that little bifid organ. I then began to count, and she dipped it seventy-five times more, after drinking at least as long as that previously. Then she moved away, and explored among the books on the table, but soon returned to the saucer and dipped her tongue again upwards of seventy times. How much more I cannot affirm, as I could not remain any longer waiting for her, and left her still drinking. (‘Lizzie,’ thus named from her lizard nature, must claim a chapter to herself in this book, for she greatly distinguished herself in lacertine doings.)

While puzzling over this drinking question, I find a favourite author, P. H. Gosse, affirm, ‘Snakes drink by suction, not by lapping,’ and that ‘serpents are said to lap up fluids with their forked tongue, which, however, seems to be ill suited to such an operation.’[29]

Then one naturally turns to the encyclopedias, where we grow still more perplexed, for no two agree precisely on all points.

‘The use of the tongue in serpents is not exactly known.’[30] And again, ‘It is believed that serpents never drink.’[31] It is true that the compiler of the article Reptilia quotes Schlegel a good deal; but unfortunately that is the very point on which Schlegel speaks doubtfully. Nor do we presume to include the learned Schlegel as one of the inaccurately informed individuals, though he does discredit the milk-drinkers. Of him Dumeril thus writes, or of his work rather, which he pronounced to be ‘le plus detaillÉ et le plus complet qui ait paru jusqu’ici (1844), et auquel nous serons sans cesse obligÉ d’avoir recours.’ Schlegel is also quoted by Cantor, 1841; by Dr. J. E. Gray, 1849; by Dr. A. GÜnther, 1864; and, in fact, by most scientific ophiologists. Natural history is an ever-advancing science, more so, perhaps, than any other. LinnÆus and Cuvier were great in their day, but their systems obtain no longer.

Unfortunately, a dozen book-makers and a thousand journalists seek no farther than encyclopedias when they are ‘reading up’ a subject; and not until too late, if at all, or after long searchings and a realization of the importance of dates, do these wide spreaders of information discover the error. Compilers of articles for encyclopedias are always limited as to space, and often as to time; and life would not be long enough to wade through Zoological Records covering fifty years, or Annales des sciences naturelles which date from 1824 to the present time. Only, the compilers of articles on the Reptilia should surely have known of Mr. Bell’s Coluber natrix, and of the Paris python, and of the AmphisbÆna of the Zoological Gardens, all ophidian celebrities in their day.

The mention of the Zoological Gardens reminds me of my promise to conduct my readers thither as an agreeable change from the book-shelves. Therefore, without further wearying them with the conflicting statements of fifty writers, let us repair thither, and see what Holland, the keeper, tells us about his thirsty snakes.

First, we observe that most of the cages are furnished with a tank or a pan of water, and this not for the watersnakes only. Many of the others, also, are lying in their bath, coiled up in apparent enjoyment. Questioning the intelligent keeper, he tells us that when fresh ophidian inmates arrive, they almost invariably go to the water, and though for a time they refuse food, they always drink. On several occasions some have drunk so eagerly that the water has visibly sunk in the tank. These were the larger snakes, of course. He does ‘not believe they would live without water.’ He then tells us the story of the AmphisbÆna over again, the snake that lived for six months on milk only, and which was chronicled in the zoological magazines of the day, and has figured in books ever since.

Mr. Mann confirmed all these facts in his own ophidian pets, and going to see these interesting individuals, we felt no doubt about it when a saucer of water was in the way.

But I do feel inclined to doubt whether the use of the tongue in ‘lapping,’ as it has been called, is not rather to moisten that organ than to quench the thirst. We shall see in the following chapter what it does for its owner, and we shall see the necessity for this delicate organ to be well lubricated. Both it and its sheath require to be constantly moistened; how else could it glide in and out with that wonderful activity? how in a dry and parched condition could it retain its exceeding flexibility and delicacy of perception?

Unfortunately, the position of the tanks in the cages at the London Zoological Gardens, and the stone ledge in front of them, prevent the visitors from watching the actions of the snakes in the water, either when swimming or drinking. Occasionally one of the inmates of the larger cages may be seen in a pan of water, though their motions are necessarily restricted there. One day, however, the yellow Jamaica boa, when drinking from the pan, afforded an excellent opportunity for observation. And he was a long time imbibing. There was no perceptible action of the lips, which were barely parted. The snake kept its mouth just below the level of the water, and the only action or movement seen was at the back of the head, or on each side of the neck, like a pulsation, as the water passed down in short gulps. This is the ‘suction’ which writers describe, a drawing in of the liquid; but the lips do not take part in the act. When, therefore, we read that snakes drink both by lapping and also by suction, we may surmise that the former is for the benefit of the tongue, the latter of the body; and a large quantity of liquid is often drawn in by this sort of suction, very distinct from ‘sucking,’ the reputed way of enjoying milk from the living fountain, and a process impossible to creatures that have not soft lips and a broad tongue. The Jamaica boa drew in those perceptible gulps for a long time, then raised his head, and rested awhile, and presently drank again, and this several times while we were watching. It was what Dumeril described À la rÉgalade.

Mr. Sam Lockwood of New Jersey, writing in the American Naturalist, vol. ix. 1875, describes the pine snake drinking. ‘It lays its head flat upon the water, letting the lower jaw just sink a little below the surface, when with a very uniform movement the water is drawn up into the mouth and passed into the throat. It is true drinking, like that of a horse.’ One that he watched drank five minutes by the clock without taking breath. Then it paused, looked about for three minutes, and then drank again for five minutes more. ‘In all, it drank a little over a gill. Previously it has been without water for four weeks.’

In size this pine snake differs not much from the Jamaica boa (Chilobothrus inornatus), that we watched at the Gardens, and the manner and time were very similar. True, we did not time him by a watch, nor could we tell exactly how much he drank, nor how long previously he had been without drinking; but, at a guess, he could not have been much less than five minutes without taking breath. Anguis fragilis, that lapped seventy times, and stopped, and lapped again, must also have been some minutes without breathing, because hers was the most leisurely lapping I ever saw.