Old nature books: The Observer's Book of Wild Animals (1958), intro and Moles

This post is part of a series where I analyse old nature books and try to figure out why they're so magical.

This time I'm looking at The Observer's Book of Wild Animals of the British Isles (revised edition, 1958). It's an adorable pocket version, a faded mustard hardback with paint on the spine and the scrawls of various children inside the front cover (most recently: Julia Schofield, Moorcourt Fieldway, Ben-Rhydding, Ilkley).

It was compiled by W.J Stokoe and revised by Maurice Burton.

Introduction

The introduction talks about extinction as follows:

Consider: is this way of saying some of our mammals are extinct an overly-wordy waste of a few sentences, or does it give us more pause for thought?

'former notable members of that company' makes us think of a group of friends who have lost some of their number. It has more feeling than something cold like 'some species have gone extinct.'

'Extinct' is such a scientific word, removed from the human-to-human experience and therefore othering. Perhaps 'lost' would be a better word, as it conveys that we have been careless and ungrateful, that we once had something that we no longer do.

There's no sitting on the fence about the extinctions, either. There's no discussion as to whether the extinction of these species was extra bad depending upon whether they've been classed as keystone species, no talk of 'ecosystem services'. 'we have to regret the absence from our list'

We have to. Dear reader, before you embark on our collection of wild animals of the British Isles, you must pause a moment; you have to regret the absences. It's like when the officiant at a wedding acknowledges the empty seats set out for lost loved ones.

The default to a man is something I'd rather do without. A gender neutral term (like the initial 'sitter') would have suited better. It's a characteristic of some old nature books (and many modern ones) to refer to a man, he and him if talking of some hypothetical person, entrenching ideas that the outdoors is for men and not for women.

There is, at the end of the introduction, regrettably some talk of taxonomy, but it is mercifully brief.

I find taxonomy unbearably dull and I can't imagine it adds much for the casual reader. There is a certain type of folk who love taxonomy for the structure it provides and the ability to trace species' ancestry, but it is changed regularly and so often found to have been wildly incorrect that I put little sway by it. The difficult-to-remember Latin terms are alienating and categorisation of beings of little relevance to most readers.

The Mole

I've yet to read a chapter on the Mole that doesn't acknowledge an irritation felt by militant gardeners or green keepers towards the Mole, but thankfully the Observer's Book is still positive about these magical creatures.

It's nice to see the Mole referred to a 'the clever little excavator' although sadly this book seems to refer to beings as objects:

This is different to The Nature Book (1913), which uses he or she. I wonder if there was a trend over the intervening 45 years to refer to beings as it.

The Observer's Book, like the Nature Book, capitalises the common name of the animals.

The book also acknowledges when we don't know something by saying, for instance,

This is unlike the attitude of many modern nature writers, which is that we know all there is to know about the natural world.

The chapter remains positive about our Moles

Referring to species in some other, more endearing way (like 'little black engineer') is a common feature of old nature books and hardly ever seen in modern ones (particularly in identification books like this one). It gives the species character and personality.

A sombre acknowledgement of the harm wrought on the species by humans. Harm by humans is often acknowledged in modern nature books, but is sometimes conspicuously absent (again, particularly in identification books).

For more in this series see my post on the Nature Book (1913), on frogs.