Note 57 — THE MIGRATIONS OF MAMMALS.

[Note 57] p. 240.—Migrations of Reindeer.

Of the reindeer in Spitzbergen, Nordenskiöld writes:—“During the summer it betakes itself to the grassy plains in the ice-free valleys of the island; in the late autumn it withdraws—according to the walrus-hunter’s statements—to the sea-coast, in order to eat the seaweed that is thrown up on the beach. In winter it goes back to the lichen-clad mountain heights in the interior of the country, where it appears to thrive exceedingly well, though the cold during winter must be excessively severe; for when the reindeer in spring return to the coast they are still very fat, but some weeks afterwards, when the snow has frozen on the surface, and a crust of ice makes it difficult for them to get at the mountain sides, they become so poor as to be scarcely eatable. In summer, however, they speedily eat themselves back into condition, and in autumn they are so fat that they would certainly take prizes at an exhibition of fat cattle.”

Wrangel describes migrations of thousands of reindeer in Eastern Siberia moving from the mountains to the forests, where they winter. He mentions his guide’s assertion that each body is led by a female of large size.

Perhaps we may take the liberty of quoting, with a tribute of admiration, Mr. F. Marion Crawford’s eloquent description of a wild rush of reindeer from the inland country to the shore. We confess to incredulity in regard to the reindeer’s longing to drink of the Polar Sea, but the splendid vividness of the description may excuse some slight inaccuracy.

“In the distant northern plains, a hundred miles from the sea, in the midst of the Laplander’s village, a young reindeer raises his broad muzzle to the north wind, and stares at the limitless distance while a man may count a hundred. He grows restless from that moment, but he is yet alone. The next day a dozen of the herd look up from the cropping of the moss, sniffing the breeze. Then the Laps nod to one another and the camp grows daily more unquiet. At times the whole herd of young deer stand at gaze, as it were, breathing hard through wide nostrils, then jostling each other and stamping the soft ground. They grow unruly, and it is hard to harness them in the light sledge. As the days pass, the Laps watch them more and more closely, well knowing what will happen sooner or later, and then at last, in the northern twilight, the great herd begins to move. The impulse is simultaneous, irresistible, their heads are all turned in one direction. They move slowly at first, biting still, here and there, at the rich moss. Presently the slow step becomes a trot, they crowd closely together, while the Laps hasten to gather up their last unpacked possessions—their cooking utensils and their wooden gods. The great herd break together from a trot to a gallop, from a gallop to a breakneck race, the distant thunder of their united tread reaches the camp during a few minutes, and they are gone to drink of the Polar Sea. The Laps follow after them, dragging painfully their laden sledges in the broad track left by the thousands of galloping beasts—a day’s journey, and they are yet far from the sea, and the trail is yet broad. On the second day it grows narrower, and there are stains of blood to be seen; far on the distant plain before them their sharp eyes distinguish in the direct line a dark motionless object, another, and another. The race has grown more desperate and more wild as the stampede neared the sea. The weaker reindeer have been thrown down and trampled to death by their stronger fellows. A thousand sharp hoofs have crushed and cut through hide and flesh and bone. Ever swifter and more terrible in their motion, the ruthless herd has raced onward, careless of the slain, careless of food, careless of any drink but the sharp salt water ahead of them. And when at last the Laplanders reach the shore their deer are once more quietly grazing, once more tame and docile, once more ready to drag the sledge whithersoever they are guided. Once in his life the reindeer must taste of the sea in one long, satisfying draught, and if he is hindered he perishes. Neither man nor beast dare stand before him in the hundred miles of his arrow-like path.”—A Cigarette-Maker’s Romance, vol. ii. pp. 23-25.