Ch. 4: Some Curious Animal Weapons

Strictly speaking, the only weapons of vertebrates are teeth, claws,
horns, and spurs. Horns belong only to the ruminants, and the spur is a
rare weapon. There are also many animals in which teeth and claws are
not suited to inflict injury, or in which the proper instincts and
courage to use and develop them are wanted; and these would seem, to be
in a very defenceless condition. Defenceless they are in one sense, but
as a fact they are no worse off than the well-armed species, having
either a protective colouring or a greater swiftness or cunning to
assist them in escaping from their enemies. And there are also many of
these practically toothless and clawless species which have yet been
provided with other organs and means of offence and defence out of
Nature's curious armoury, and concerning a few of these species I
propose to speak in this place.

Probably such distinctive weapons as horns, spurs, tusks and spines
would be much more common in nature if the conditions of life always
remained the same. But these things are long in fashioning; meanwhile,
conditions are changing; climate, soil, vegetation vary; foes and rivals
diminish or increase; the old go, and others with different weapons and
a new strategy take their place; and just as a skilful man "fighting the
wilderness" fashions a plough from a hunting-knife, turns his implements
into weapons of war, and for everything he possesses discovers a use
never contemplated by its maker, so does Nature--only with an ingenuity
exceeding that of man--use the means she has to meet all contingencies,
and enable her creatures, seemingly so ill-provided, to maintain their
fight for life. Natural selection, like an angry man, can make a weapon
of anything; and, using the word in this wide sense, the mucous
secretions the huanaco discharges into the face of an adversary, and the
pestilential drops "distilled" by the skunk, are weapons, and may be as
effectual in defensive warfare as spines, fangs and tushes.

I do not know of a more striking instance in the animal kingdom of
adaptation of structure to habit than is afforded by the hairy
armadillo--Dasypus villosus. He appears to us, roughly speaking, to
resemble an ant-eater saddled with a dish cover; yet this creature, with
the cunning Avhich Nature has given it to supplement all deficiencies,
has discovered in its bony encumbrance a highly efficient weapon of
offence. Most other edentates are diurnal and almost exclusively
insectivorous, some feeding only on ants; they have unchangeable habits,
very limited intelligence, and vanish before civilization. The hairy
armadillo alone has struck out a line for itself. Like its fast
disappearing congeners, it is an insect-eater still, but does not