Johann David Wyss: Swiss Family Robinson

I was seated with my wife and Fritz beneath the shade of the veranda, engaged in wickerwork and chatting pleasantly when suddenly Fritz got up, advanced a step or two, gazing fixedly along the avenue which led from Jackal River, then he exclaimed:

“I see something so strange in the distance, father! What in the world can it be? First it seems to be drawn in coils on the ground like a cable, then uprises as if it were a little mast, then that sinks, and the coils move along again. It is coming toward the bridge.”

My wife took alarm at this description, and calling the other boys, retreated into the cave, where I desired them to close up the entrances, and keep watch with firearms at the upper windows. These were openings we had made in the rock at some elevation, reached within by steps, and a kind of gallery which passed along the front of the rooms.

Fritz remained by me while I examined the object through my spyglass.

“It is, as I feared, an enormous serpent!” cried I. “It is advancing directly this way, and we shall be placed in the greatest possible danger, for it will cross the bridge to a certainty.”

“May we not attack it, father?” exclaimed the brave boy.

“Only with the greatest caution,” returned I. “It is far too formidable and too tenacious of life for us rashly to attempt its destruction. Thank God, we are at Rockburg, where we can keep in safe retreat, while we watch for an opportunity to destroy this frightful enemy. Go up to your mother now, and assist in loading the firearms. I will join you directly, but I must further observe the monster’s movements.”

Fritz left me unwillingly while I continued to watch the serpent, which was of gigantic size and already much too near the bridge to admit of the possibility of removing that means of access to our dwelling. I recollected, too, how easily it would pass through the walls. The reptile advanced with writhing and undulatory movements, from time to time rearing its head to the height of fifteen or twenty feet and slowly turning it about, as though on the lookout for prey.

As it crossed the bridge, with a slow, suspicious motion, I withdrew, and hastily rejoined my little party, which was preparing to garrison our fortress in warlike array, but with considerable trepidation, which my presence served in a measure to allay.

We placed ourselves at the upper openings, after strongly barricading everything below, and, ourselves unseen, awaited with beating hearts the further advance of the foe, which speedily became visible to us.

Its movements appeared to become uncertain, as though puzzled by the trace of human habitation. It turned in different directions, coiling and uncoiling, and frequently rearing its head, but keeping about the middle of the space in front of the cave. Suddenly, as though unable to resist doing so, one after another the boys fired, and even their mother discharged her gun. The shots took not the slightest effect beyond startling the monster, whose movements were accelerated. Fritz and I also fired with steadier aim, but with the same want of success, for the monster, passing on with a gliding motion, entered the reedy marsh to the left and entirely disappeared.

A wonderful weight seemed lifted from our hearts, while all eagerly discussed the vast length and awful though magnificent appearance of the serpent. I had recognized it as the boa constrictor. It was a vast specimen, upward of thirty feet in length.

The near neighborhood of this terrific reptile occasioned me the utmost anxiety; and I desired that no one should leave the house on any pretense whatever without my express permission.

During three whole days we were kept in suspense and fear, not daring to stir above a few hundred steps from the door, although during all that time the enemy showed no sign of his presence.

In fact, we might have been induced to think the boa had passed across the swamp and found his way by some cleft or chasm through the wall of cliffs beyond had not the restless behavior of our geese and ducks given proof that he still lurked in the thicket of reeds which they were accustomed to make their nightly resting place.

They swam anxiously about, and with much clapping of wings and disturbed cackling showed their uneasiness. Finally, taking wing they crossed the harbor and took up their quarters on Shark Island.

My embarrassment increased as time went on. I could not venture to attack with insufficient force a monstrous and formidable serpent concealed in dense thickets amidst dangerous swamps. Yet it was dreadful to live in a state of blockade, cut off from all the important duties in which we were engaged, and shut up with our animals in the unnatural light of the cave, enduring constant anxiety and perturbation.

Out of this painful state we were at last delivered by none other than our good old simplehearted donkey, Grizzle, not, however, by the exercise of a praiseworthy quality, such as the vigilance of the time-honored geese of the Capitol, but by sheer stupidity.

Our situation was rendered the more critical from having no great stock of provisions, or fodder for the animals; and the hay failing us on the evening of the third day, I determined to set them at liberty by sending them, under guidance of Fritz, across the river at the ford.

He was to ride Lightfoot, and they were to be fastened together until safely over.

Next morning we began to prepare for this by tying them in a line, and while so engaged my wife opened the door. Suddenly old Grizzle, who was fresh and frolicsome after the long rest and regular feeding, broke away from the halter, cut some awkward capers, then bolting out, careened at full gallop straight for the marsh.

In vain we called him by name. Fritz would even have rushed after him had not I held him back. In another moment the ass was close to the thicket, and with the cold shudder of horror, we beheld the snake rear itself from its lair, the fiery eyes glanced around, the dark, deadly jaws opened widely, the forked tongue darted greedily forth—poor Grizzle’s fate was sealed.

Becoming aware on a sudden of his danger, he stopped short, spread out all four legs, and set up the most piteous and discordant bray that ever wrung echo from the rocks.

Swift and straight as a fencer’s thrust, the destroyer was upon him, wound round him, entangled, enfolded, compressed him, all the while cunningly avoiding the convulsive kicks of the agonized animal.

A cry of horror arose from the spectators of this miserable tragedy.

“Shoot him, father! Oh, shoot him—do save poor Grizzle!”

“My children, it is impossible!” cried I. “Our old friend is lost to us forever! I have hopes, however, that when gorged with his prey we may be able to attack the snake with some chance of success.”

“But the horrible wretch is never going to swallow him all at once, father?” cried Jack. “That will be too shocking!”

“Snakes have no grinders, but only fangs, therefore they cannot chew their food, and must swallow it whole. But although the idea is startling, it is not really more shocking than the rending, tearing, and shedding of blood which occurs when the lions and tigers seize their prey.”

“But,” said Franz, “how can the snake separate the flesh from the bones without teeth? And is this kind of snake poisonous?”

“No, dear child,” said I, “only fearfully strong and ferocious. And it has no need to tear the flesh from the bones. It swallows them, skin, hair, and all, and digests everything in its stomach.”

“It seems utterly impossible that the broad ribs, the strong legs, hoofs, and all, should go down that throat,” exclaimed Fritz.

“Only see,” I replied, “how the monster deals with his victim. Closer and more tightly he curls his crushing folds, the bones give way, he is kneading him into a shapeless mass. He will soon begin to gorge his prey, and slowly but surely it will disappear down that distended maw!”

The mother, with little Franz, found the scene all too horrible, and hastened into the cave, trembling and distressed.

To the rest of us there seemed a fearful fascination in the dreadful sight, and we could not move from the spot. I expected that the boa, before swallowing his prey, would cover it with saliva, to aid in the operation, although it struck me that its very slender forked tongue was about the worst possible implement for such a purpose.

It was evident to us, however, that this popular idea was erroneous.

The act of lubricating the mass must have taken place during the process of swallowing; certainly nothing was applied beforehand.

This wonderful performance lasted from seven in the morning until noon. When the awkward morsel was entirely swallowed, the serpent lay stiff, distorted, and apparently insensible along the edge of the marsh.

I felt that now or never was the moment for attack!

Calling on my sons to maintain their courage and presence of mind, I left our retreat with a feeling of joyous emotion quite new to me, and approached with rapid steps and leveled gun the outstretched form of the serpent. Fritz followed me closely.

Jack, somewhat timidly, came several paces behind; while Ernest, after a little hesitation, remained where he was.

The monster’s body was stiff and motionless, which made its rolling and fiery eyes, and the slow, spasmodic undulations of its tail more fearful by contrast.

We fired together, and both balls entered the skull. The light of the eye was extinguished, and the only movement was in the further extremity of the body, which rolled, writhed, coiled, and lashed from side to side.

Advancing closer, we fired our pistols directly into its head, a convulsive quiver ran through the mighty frame, and the boa constrictor lay dead.

As we raised a cry of victory, Jack, desirous of a share in the glory of conquest, ran close to the creature, firing his pistol into its side, when he was sent sprawling over and over by a movement of its tail, excited to a last galvanic effort by the shot.

Being in no way hurt, he speedily recovered his feet, and declared he had given it its quietus.

“I hope the terrible noise you made just now was the signal of victory,” said my wife, drawing near with the utmost circumspection and holding Franz tightly by the hand. “I was half afraid to come, I assure you.”

“See this dreadful creature dead at our feet; and let us thank God that we have been able to destroy such an enemy.”

“What’s to be done with him now?” asked Jack.

“Let us get him stuffed,” said Fritz, “and set him up in the museum among our shells and corals.”

“Did anybody ever think of eating serpents?” inquired Franz.

“Of course not!” said his mother. “Why, child, serpents are poisonous—it would be very dangerous.”

“Excuse me, my dear wife,” said I. “First of all, the boa is not poisonous. And then, besides that, the flesh of even poisonous snakes can be eaten without danger; as, for instance, the rattlesnake, from which can be made a strong and nourishing soup, tasting very like good chicken broth—of course, the cook must be told to throw away the head, containing the deadly fangs.

“It is remarkable that pigs do not fear poisonous snakes, but can kill and eat them without injury. An instance of this occurs to my memory. A vessel on Lake Superior, in North America, was wrecked on a small island abounding in rattlesnakes, and for that reason uninhabited.

“The vessel had a cargo of live pigs. The crew escaped to the mainland in a boat, but the pigs had to be left for some time, till the owner could return to fetch them, but with the small hope of finding many left alive.

“To his surprise, the animals were not only alive, but remarkably fat and flourishing, while not a single rattlesnake remained on the island. The pigs had clearly eaten the serpents.”

My wife having gone to prepare dinner, we continued talking as we rested in the shade of some rocks, near the serpent, for a considerable time. The open air was welcome to us after our long imprisomnent: and we were, besides, desirous to drive off any birds of prey who might be attracted to the carcass, which we wished to preserve entire.

My boys questioned me closely on the subject of serpents in general. I described to them the action of the poison fangs: how they folded back on the sides of the upper jaw; and how the poison-secreting glands and reservoir are found at the back and sides of the head, giving to the venomous serpents that peculiar width of head which is so unfailing a characteristic.

“The fangs are hollow,” said I, “and when the creature bites, the pressure forces down a tiny drop of the liquid poison which enters the wound, and, through the veins, quickly spreads over the entire system. Sometimes, if taken in time, cures are effected, but in most cases the bite of a serpent is followed by speedy death.”

The children were much interested in my account of the snake charmers of India, how they fearlessly handle the most deadly of the serpent tribe, the cobra di capello—or hooded cobra—cause them to move in time to musical sounds from a small pipe, twine the reptile about their arms and bare necks, and then, to prove that the poison fangs have not been removed, make them bite a fowl, which soon dies from the effects.

“How is it possible to extract the fangs, father?” asked Ernest.

“No instrument is required,” replied I. “I have read the account written by a gentleman in India, who saw a snake charmer catch a large cobra in the jungle, and for the purpose of removing the fangs, hold up a cloth at which the irritated snake flew, and the fangs being caught in it, the man seized the reptile by the throat, extracted them, and then squeezed out the poison, a clear oily substance, upon a leaf.”

“What does the rattle of the rattlesnake look like? And how does it sound?”

“At the tip of the tail are a number of curious, loose, horny structures formed of the same substance as the scales. A very good idea of the structure of the rattle may be formed by slipping a number of thimbles loosely into each other.

“The rattlesnake lies coiled with its head flat, and the tip of its tail elevated. When alarmed or irritated it gives a quivering movement to the tail which causes the joints of the rattle to shake against each other with a peculiar sound not easily described. All animals, even horses newly brought from Europe, tremble at this noise, and try to escape.

“But now we must leave this fertile subject of discussion, and I can only say I sincerely trust we may never have cause to resume it from the appearance of another serpent here of any sort, size, or description.

“Come, Ernest, can you not give us an epitaph for our unfortunate friend the donkey?

“We must afford him more honorable sepulture than he enjoys at present, when we proceed, as we speedily must, to disembowel his murderer.”

Ernest took the matter quite seriously, and planting his elbows on his knees, he bent his thoughtful brow in his hands, and remained wrapt in poetic meditation for about two minutes.

“I have it!” cried he. “But perhaps you will all laugh at me?”

“No, no, don’t be shy, old fellow; spit it out!” Thus encouraged by his brother, Ernest, with the blush of a modest author, began:

“Hurrah for the epitaph! Well done, Ernest!” resounded on all sides, and taking out a large red pencil I used for marking wood, the lines were forthwith inscribed on a great flat stone, being, as I told the boy, the very best poetry that had even been written on our coast.

We then had dinner, and afterward went to work with the serpent.

The first operation was to recover the mangled remains of the ass, which being effected, he was buried in the soft marshy ground close by and the hole filled up with fragments of rock.

Then we yoked Storm and Grumble to the serpent, and dragged it to a convenient distance from Rockburg, where the process of skinning, stuffing, and sewing up again afforded occupation of the deepest interest to the boys for several days.

We took great pains to coil it round a pole in the museum, arranging the head with the jaws wide open, so as to look as alarming as possible, and contriving to make eyes and tongue sufficiently well to represent nature. In fact, our dogs never passed the monster without growling and must have wondered at our taste in keeping such a pet.

Over the entrance leading to the museum and library were inscribed these words:

The double meaning of this sentence pleased us all immensely.