Science: The Friendly Bat

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Naturalist Leonard Dubkin, who once wrote a nature column for the Chicago Tribune, is probably the only man who ever lost his heart to an albino bat. This esoteric affair, which took place in Chicago, is described in Dubkin's new book, The White Lady (Putnam; $3).

While hunting butterflies one afternoon, Dubkin explored a dense clump of trees near an outlying factory. One tree was so loaded with vines that it looked like a green igloo. He climbed to the top and fell through with a crash. The mound was hollow and dark inside, and full of squeaking bats. A great peace of soul descended over Dubkin; he had found a tribe of gay little friends, and he had also found a much-needed refuge from his widowed, too-possessive mother.

Three days later (it took time to soothe his mother), Dubkin spent the night in his "grotto." He arrived just before dark. The grown bats were away hunting insects, but the young ones were at home, hanging like furry grapes on the roof or taxiing on the musky-smelling floor. Lulled by their squeaks, he slept.

Better than Birds. When he awoke at dawn, the grotto was loud with big & little squeaks, the air thick with circling bats. The mother bats had returned, full of insects and milk. Some hung themselves up by their heels and squeaked for their youngsters to come. Some picked the little ones off the ceiling or scooped them off the floor.

All during summer and early fall, Dubkin visited the grotto, sometimes as often as three times a week. He watched the young bats at their games (they were as playful as kittens); he watched them learn to fly. Bats fly much better than birds, says Dubkin, and the young ones need no teaching. After a few trial flaps, they drop themselves into the air and perform from the first attempt with full adult virtuosity.

Mating Night. Early in September, when all the young bats were airworthy, the population of the grotto doubled to more than 650. The newcomers were males. Dubkin sensed procreation, but nothing happened for a while. Then one day (night, that is, for the bats) he noted a "nervous tension." The air was full of pairs of bats zigzagging round the tree trunk. After three days of pursuit and flight, the bats reached their understandings. They hung in pairs, by their feet, caressing each other with wings and tongues, then retired into the greenery. Dubkin had discovered from researches in the public library that actual fertilization would not be accomplished until spring, after the bats' hibernation.

In October the bats all vanished, to the delight of Dubkin's mother, who often remarked that "my darling son is going to the bats." When they returned in May, Dubkin was on hand to greet them. All were females and nearly all were gravid. Soon many of them had half-inch babies clinging to their fur.

White Baby. One day he saw a bat hanging from the vines by her wings (upside down for a bat). Gritting her teeth as if in pain, she bent her lower body, making a sort of hammock out of her tail membrane. Soon tiny white feet appeared; then a small white body and crumpled white wings. The young bat dropped into the hammock. When it gave a faint squeak, its mother picked it up with her teeth and attached it to the fur near one of her breasts. She turned herself upside down (right side up for a bat) and folded a wing around her offspring.