The Rattler (the passage)
After sunset...l walked out into the desert...Light was thinning; the scrub's
dry savory odors were sweet on the cooler air. In this, the first pleasant moment
for a walk after long blazing hours, I thought I was the only thing abroad.
Abruptly I stopped short.
The other lay rigid, as suddenly arrested, his body undulant; the head was not
drawn back to strike, but was merely turned a little to watch what I would do.
It was a rattlesnake--and knew it. I mean that where a six-foot blacksnake thick
as my wrist, capable of long-range attack and armed with powerful fangs, will
flee at sight of a man, the rattler felt no necessity of getting out of anybody's
path. He held his ground in calm watchfulness; he was not even rattling yet,
much less was he toiled; he was waiting for me to show my intentions. My first
instinct was to lee him go his way and I would go mine, and with this he would
have been well content. I have never killed an animal I was not obliged to kill;
the sport in taking life is a satisfaction I can't feel. But I reflected that
there were children, dogs, horses at the ranch, as well as men and women lightly
shod; my duty, plainly, was to kill the snake. I went back to the ranch house,
got a hoe, and returned.
The rattler had not moved; he lay there like a live wire. But he saw the hoe.
Now indeed his tail twitched, the little tocsin sounded; he drew back his head
and I raised my weapon. Quicker than I could strike, he shot into a dense bush
and set up his rattling. He shook and shook his fair but furious signal, quite
sportingly warning me that I had made an unprovoked attack, attempted to cake
his life, and that if I persisted he would have no choice but to take mine if
he could. I listened for a minute to this little song of death. It was not ugly,
though it was ominous. It said that life was dear, and would be dearly sold.
And I reached into the paper-bag bush with my hoe and, hacking about, soon dragged
him out of it with his back broken.
He struck passionately once more at the hoe; but a moment later his neck was
broken and he was soon dead. Technically, that is; he was still twitching, and
when I picked him up by the tail, some consequent jar, some mechanical reflex
made his jaws gape and snap once more-proving that a dead snake may still bite.
There was blood in his mouth and poison dripping from his fangs; it was all
a nasty sight, pitiful now that it was done.
I did not cut off the rattles for a trophy; I let him drop into the close green
guardian-ship of the paper-bag bush. Then for a moment I could see him as I
might have let him go, sinuous and self-respecting in departure over the twilit
sands.
Duty and Respect (the essay)
Imagine a butterfly presented in a passage as a malicious, virulent creature. What kind of author would establish that idea for a butterfly? The same kind of author that presented this idea of a respectable, calm, careful snake. Carefully choosing his words and structures, the author of the passage, the Rattler, gives respect to the rattlesnake and contrasts it with the duties of the rancher.
He sets the scene for us: serene, "sweet", peaceful, "savory", "pleasant." The
narrator is enjoying his evening; he is relaxing in his solitude--but is startled
by some mysterious thing. In the early stages of describing that thing, the
author doesn't use any animal-like attributes at all. The first phrase reads:
"The other lay rigid, his body undulant." Without reading the title of the passage,
this startling thing could as well be a human. The snake is holding his ground
in "calm watchfulness." He does not act until provoked. The narrator describes
him as a wise, worthy adversary. In addition to that, he names him as "he,"
instead of "it." This is out-of-the-ordinary; snakes are often treated as pesty
serpents. In the English language, the term "snake" is used as an insult, along
with skunk, or toad. Using description, the author anthropomorphizes the snake
to human in our minds.
The lack of description, however, leads us away from disliking the narrator.
"His neck was broken." We don't feel the need to blame the rancher. He claims
that he didn't murder the snake "for a trophy," and that he only did it out
of duty for his family. The reader feels sorry for the snake, but when the narrator
defends his position, we don't blame anyone. The only perspective we have access
to is the author's, and whatever he tells us will probably cause us to agree
and sympathize. We mirror the regret the author conveys.
We leave the snake with the rancher, and we can still see the snake "sinuous
and self-respecting in our own minds as a result of the author's use of imagery.
The snake lay--respected, alone, the way he should have been. (Note that "should
have" indicates regret.) We have reversed our bias against this rattlesnake,
and wish he could have lived. He is a worthy adversary, dead after battle, only
because of a man upholding his duty.