Part 15 (1/2)

Lizard, through such forms as _lesarde_, _lezard_, _lagarto_, _lacerto_, is from the Latin _lacertus_, a lizard; while closely related is the word alligator by way of _lagarto_, _aligarto_, to alligator. The prefix may have arisen as a corruption of an article and a noun, as in the modern Spanish _el lagarto_,--a lizard.

Monitor is Latin for one who reminds, these lizards being so called because they are supposed to give warning of the approach of crocodiles.

Asp can be carried back to the _aspis_ of the Romans, no trace being found in the dim vistas of preceding tongues.

Gecko, the name of certain wall-hunting lizards, is derived from their croaking cry; while iguana is a Spanish name taken from the old native Haytian appellation _biuana_.

Of the word frog we know nothing, although through the medium of many languages it has had as thorough an evolution as in its physical life. We must also admit our ignorance in regard to toad, backward search revealing only _tade_, _tode_, _ted_, _toode_, and _tadie_, the root baffling all study. Polliwog and tadpole are delightfully easy. Old forms of polliwog are _pollywig_, _polewiggle_, and _pollwiggle_. This last gives us the clew to our spelling--_pollwiggle_, which, reversed and interpreted in a modern way, is wigglehead, a most appropriate name for these lively little black fellows. Tadpole is somewhat similar; toad-pole, or toad's-head, also very apt when we think of these small-bodied larval forms.

Salamander, which is a Greek word of Eastern origin, was applied in the earliest times to a lizard considered to have the power of extinguis.h.i.+ng fire. Newt has a strange history; originating in a wrong division of two words, ”_an ewte_,” the latter being derived from _eft_, which is far more correct than newt, though in use now in only a few places. Few fishermen have ever thought of the interesting derivation of the names which they know so well. Of course there are a host of fishes named from a fancied resemblance to familiar terrestrial animals or other things; such as the catfish, and those named after the dog, hog, horse, cow, trunk, devil, angel, sun, and moon.

The word fish has pa.s.sed through many varied forms since it was _piscis_ in the old Latin tongue, and the same is true of shark and skate, which in the same language were _carcharus_ and _squatus_. Trout was originally _tructa_, which in turn is lost in a very old Greek word, meaning eat or gnaw. Perch harks back to the Latin _perca_, and the Romans had it from the Greeks, among whom it meant spotted. The Romans said _minutus_ when they meant small, and nowadays when we speak of any very small fish we say minnow. Alewife in old English was applied to the women, usually very stout dames, who kept alehouses. The corpulency of the fish to which the same term is given explains its derivation.

The pike is so named from the sharp, pointed snout and long, slim body, bringing to mind the old-time weapon of that name; while pickerel means doubly a little pike, the _er_ and _el_ (as in c.o.c.k and c.o.c.kerel) both being diminutives. Smelt was formerly applied to any small fish and comes, perhaps, from the Anglo-Saxon _smeolt_, which meant smooth--the smoothness and slipperiness of the fish suggesting the name.

Salmon comes directly from the Latin _salmo_, a salmon, which literally meant the leaper, from _salire_--to leap. Sturgeon, from the Saxon was _stiriga_, literally a stirrer, from the habit of the fish of stirring up the mud at the bottom of the water. Dace, through its mediaeval forms _darce_ and _dars_, is from the same root as our word dart, given on account of the swiftness of the fish.

Anchovy is interesting as perhaps from the Basque word _antzua_, meaning dry; hence the dried fish; and mullet is from the Latin _mullus_. Herring is well worth following back to its origin. We know that the most marked habit of fishes of this type is their herding together in great schools or ma.s.ses or armies. In the very high German _heri_ meant an army or host; hence our word harry and, with a suffix, herring.

_Hake_ in Norwegian means hook, and the term hake or hook-fish was given because of the hooked character of the under-jaw. Mackerel comes from _macarellus_ and originally the Latin _macula_--spotted, from the dark spots on the body. Roach and ray both come from the Latin _raria_, applied then as in the latter case now to bottom-living sharks.

Flounder comes from the verb, which in turn is derived from flounce, a word which is lost in antiquity. Tarpon (and the form _tarpum_) may be an Indian word; while there is no doubt as to grouper coming from _garrupa_, a native Mexican name. Chubb (a form of cub) meant a chunky ma.s.s or lump, referring to the body of the fish. Shad is lost in _sceadda_, Anglo-Saxon for the same fish.

Lamprey and halibut both have histories, which, at first glance, we would never suspect, although the forms have changed but little. The former have a habit of fastening themselves for hours to stones and rocks, by means of their strong, sucking mouths. So the Latin form of the word _lampetra_, or literally lick-rock, is very appropriate. Halibut is equally so. _But_ or _bot_ in several languages means a certain flounder-like fish, and in olden times this fish was eaten only on holidays (_i.e._, holy days).

Hence the combination halibut means really holy-flounder.

The meaning of these words and many others are worth knowing, and it is well to be able to answer with other than ignorance the question ”What's in a name?”

THE DYING YEAR

When a radical change of habits occurs, as in the sapsucker, deviating so sharply from the ancient principles of its family, many other forms of life about it are influenced, indirectly, but in a most interesting way.

In its tippling operations it wastes quant.i.ties of sap which exudes from the numerous holes and trickles down the bark of the wounded tree. This proves a veritable feast for the forlorn remnant of wasps and b.u.t.terflies,--the year's end stragglers whose flower calyces have fallen and given place to swelling seeds.

Swiftly up wind they come on the scent, eager as hounds on the trail, and they drink and drink of the sweets until they become almost incapable of flying. But, after all, the new lease of life is a vain semblance of better things. Their eggs have long since been laid and their mission in life ended, and at the best their existence is but a matter of days.

It is a sad thing this, and sometimes our heart hardens against Nature for the seeming cruelty of it all. Forever and always, year after year, century upon century, the same tale unfolds itself,--the sacrifice of the individual for the good of the race. A hundred drones are tended and reared, all but one to die in vain; a thousand seeds are sown to rot or to sprout and wither; a million little codfish hatch and begin life hopefully, perhaps all to succ.u.mb save one; a million million shrimp and pteropods paddle themselves here and there in the ocean, and every one is devoured by fish or swept into the whalebone tangle from which none ever return. And if a lucky one which survives does so because it has some little advantage over its fellows,--some added quality which gives just the opportunity to escape at the critical moment,--then the race will advance to the extent of that trifle and so carry out the precept of evolution. But even though we may owe every character of body and mind to the fulfilment of some such inexorable law in the past, yet the witnessing of the operation brings ever a feeling of cruelty, of injustice somewhere.

How pitiful the weak flight of the last yellow b.u.t.terfly of the year, as with tattered and battered wings it vainly seeks for a final sip of sweets! The fallen petals and the hard seeds are black and odourless, the drops of sap are hardened. Little by little the wings weaken, the tiny feet clutch convulsively at a dried weed stalk, and the four golden wings drift quietly down among the yellow leaves, soon to merge into the dark mould beneath. As the b.u.t.terfly dies, a stiffened Katydid scratches a last requiem on his wing covers--”_katy-didn't--katy-did--kate--y_”--and the succeeding moment of silence is broken by the sharp rattle of a woodp.e.c.k.e.r. We shake off every dream of the summer and brace ourselves to meet and enjoy the keen, invigorating pleasures of winter.

NOVEMBER

NOVEMBER'S BIRDS OF THE HEAVENS