Happy Days for Boys and Girls Part 56

"Mother, mother!"

Not with the joyous ring it had in the morning, but with an appeal in it which told her some trouble had come which mother could best heal.

All told the story separately and together, laying Blackhawk on her knees, and crying on her shoulder.

"And I'm going to hang Prig for a wicked, bad dog," said Willie, to conclude. "She is a murderer!" and he fiercely wiped his tears.

"My dear little boy, I don't think poor Prig was to blame at all."

"O, mother!" cried a mournful chorus.

"No; Dolly left the door open, you all excited her, and I begin to think you were having too much of what Willie calls a holiday."

"But it wasn't her holiday, and she's killed Blackhawk. O-o-o!" and they all cried again.

Mrs. Constant soothed them, and sympathized.

"Don't cry any more. You will be sick. I would not kill Prig, for then she would be gone too, and to-morrow you would be sorry. And besides, she was only trying to do as you wanted her to, and following out her doggish instinct."

But half convinced, the children went to the summer-house and called Prig; but she would not come. Then they drove her out, and as she stood trembling before them, reproached her, and raising their arms, shouted,--

"Go!"

Prig hesitated a moment, looked from one to another, then with her tail between her legs, her hair on end, she uttered an unearthly howl, and fled at full speed, crowded under the gate, and disappeared.

The children went to bed early, as Mrs. Constant thought the excitement was bad for them, and in the night she was called to the little girl's room. Dolly was feverish, and ill with a sore throat, and Ada in great pain. They were sick all night, and in the morning Mrs. Constant heard about the second piece of pie and Dolly's dam building. Her sleeves had been wet all the afternoon, and the grief, added to the pie and wet, had made them both ill.

They were not able to go out that day, and Willie buried Blackhawk alone, while they watched him sadly from the window. They took their last farewell of their pet at the kitchen door, and would have given all their yesterday's sport to have helped Willie with the funeral. He had meant that Prig should have attended as chief mourner, but she was nowhere to be found. No one had seen her since her flight, and for days they could find no trace of her. This added to their discomfort; for they all loved her, and Ada and Dolly were confined to the house for some time, and wanted her to play with them.

About a week after, on a rainy night, Bridget found her at the kitchen door, and with great difficulty persuaded her to come in. She was very thin and unhappy, and hid from the children, when they, already sorry for their harshness, were kind to her, and tried to play with her. It was a long time before she was the lively Prig she used to be, and was always a little lame in her left fore foot. Something had hurt her in those days of absence; and though after a while the children forgot their holiday and the consequences, I am afraid poor Prig never did.

SARA CONANT.

LET HIM LIVE.

When one sees a harmless snake, Lying torpid, scarce awake, On a chilly morning, Is it well his life to take Without leave or warning?

Pretty brown and yellow snake, Whom the sun doth gently wake In the lap of nature, Here is room for weed and brake-- Room for every creature.

Teach us, Nature, how to love, Not the flower and bird alone, Gracious man and woman-- Not the beautiful alone, Whether brute or human.

Teach us, that we may not wound Even a striped snake on the ground, Suns.h.i.+ne all around him!

We will go without a sound-- Leave him as we found him.

MARY R. WHITTLESEY.

MONKEYS.

Before the advent of man, and with him civilization, monkeys were spread over a much larger portion of the earth than at present. They lived in the south of Europe, in England, and in France. Except a few of the Paviane, those of the present time are found only in warm climates, and are very sensitive to cold.

Monkeys belong to the liveliest and most active of the mammalia. As everything eatable is acceptable to them, there is always something to catch, to dig, to gather--insects, fruits, roots, nuts, succulent herbs, buds, leaves, eggs, &c.

Many stories are told about the orang-outang, or pongo, an inhabitant of the islands of Borneo and Sumatra. It is the largest of the apes, being, in some cases, seven feet high.

Vosmarin, a Hollander, kept a tamed pongo for a long time. He says, "My pongo had rather a sad and downcast look, but was gentle and affectionate, and very fond of society, preferring those persons who busied themselves about it. Once it seized a bottle of Malaga, uncorked it, brought the wine to a secure place, recorked the bottle, and set it back again. This monkey was very fond of roasted and boiled meats, and sucked eggs with great delight; however it preferred fruits to all other food. After drinking, it was in the habit of wiping its mouth with the back of the hand, as men sometimes do, and it generally used a toothpick. It made great preparations before going to sleep, shaking the hay for its bed, and making a bundle for a pillow; it covered itself with any cloth or garment it could find.

"Seeing me unlock a door, it observed very attentively, then put a piece of wood in the keyhole, and tried to turn it round. Having been scratched by a cat with which it was playing, it could never be induced to touch p.u.s.s.y again. It untied knots easily, and regularly practised upon the shoes of those who came near. It could lift very heavy burdens, and made as good use of its hind as of its fore legs; for example, if it could not reach a thing with the fore hands, it lay on its back, and drew the object with the hind ones. It never cried except when left alone. At first the crying resembled the howling of a dog, then it became rougher, and at last resembled the noise of a wood-saw. It died of consumption."

Jeffries tells of an orang-outang which was very neat; it frequently washed the floor with a cloth, after carrying away all remnants of food. It also washed its face and hands like a man. This animal was very affectionate towards all who spoke kindly, and often kissed its owner and waiter.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE MONKEY.]

The chimpanzee is more like man, in shape, than any other animal. It is from four to five feet high; is found in the west part of Africa.

Its strength is astonis.h.i.+ng; one chimpanzee can break off branches of trees which two men cannot bend. It is kind and amiable, and very teachable. Captain Grantpret speaks of a chimpanzee, which he had on board s.h.i.+p, as follows: "It worked with the sailors, casting anchor, reefing sails, &c., and doing its full share of work faithfully. The s.h.i.+p's baker depended upon it to heat the oven, which it did with wonderful care and exactness, never letting the coals fall, and ever getting the right heat. It made a peculiar motion to show that the oven was ready, and the baker, fully confiding in its judgment, was not disappointed. The sailors were very fond of it, and treated it as a companion; but the pilot, a cruel, heartless man, abused the animal, despite its pitiful looks and gestures, as it placed its hand upon its heart, and then stretched it towards him, to tell the pain it felt.

However, it did not resent his continued ill-treatment, but refused to take any nourishment; five days after it died of hunger and a broken heart. The sailors bemoaned its loss as that of a companion."

We read of another chimpanzee, which sat at table, ate with knife, fork, and spoon, drank from a wine-gla.s.s, used a napkin, put sugar into a cup, poured out tea, stirred it with a spoon, and sipped from the cup until cool enough to drink.

A sick monkey is truly a pitiable object; it sits quiet and sad, and its look, as it seems to beg for help, in its distress, is almost human. The nearer it approaches its end, the gentler and milder it becomes; losing in its animal, it seems to gain in its spiritual nature. It perceives a benefactor in its attending physician, and thankfully acknowledges his kindness. If it has been relieved by bleeding, it invariably stretches out its arm at the doctor's approach, as if desiring to be bled again.

L. B. U.

MY MOTHER'S STORIES.

I recall a little verse my mother taught me one summer twilight, which, she remarked, she had taught the older children when they were little like me. It was this:--

"HAVE COMMUNION WITH FEW, BE INTIMATE WITH ONE, DEAL JUSTLY BY ALL, AND SPEAK EVIL OF NONE."

And then she added cheerfully, "It took some time to get your brother to repeat it correctly; he would say _untimate_ for intimate, and _justless_ instead of justly. But he learned it correctly at last, and, I may add, has never forgotten it." So with amus.e.m.e.nt were mother's good instructions blended; after the pleasant story about my brother's childhood it was impossible to forget the text.

But, alas, I have never taught it to my children; so many papers, books, and magazines made expressly for children of this generation, hasten the lighting of the evening lamp, and the twilight lessons of home become fewer. But in them all, I never read a more comprehensive paragraph, and one that would do to put in practice in every particular so thoroughly, and I hope if it gets into print, not only my children, but those of other households, will commit it to memory, imbibe its spirit, and put it in practice through life.

E. E.

[Ill.u.s.tration: SAILING THE BOATS.]