We both sprang out of the window_"There's your thimble," I shouted, "full of wet mould!" "And here are your scissors," cried my sister," in Jacky's drinking saucer! And there is your half-made shirt, hanging on the rose bush beneath the window!" Poor cook could not forbear laughing. "Well," said she, "he must have been right-down busy to take off all these things in about five minutes. Gather up my things for me, like good bairns." So we ran about picking up the things; the cotton reels were restored with about half their supply of cotton, as he had twisted them all round about the stems of different plants; the pen was stuck into the earth, and as for the account-book, the leaves were all about the garden, some he had even carried down to the cucumber frame, quite at the other end. But he was such a favourite, that even this sort of trick was allowed to pass unpunished. He furnished us with much amusement; and I am now coming to his sad end.

The wall which separated our garden from the road, was very rough and old, full of holes and crumbling mortar. Once or twice, when sitting at the windows, we had seen a small animal run across the gravel walk; we could not discern whether it was most like a rat or a weasel, and probably it came in through one of the holes in the wall. We did think of Jacky; but knowing that he always roosted at the top of the lilac bush, we supposed that he was quite out of the reach of rat or weasel. One morning quite early, our Papa whose window was open, heard a very strange sort of chattering from poor Jacky, so unlike his usual language, that he got up and looked out of his window. Seeing nothing, and hearing no more, he went to

bed again; but when Mamma went as usual to give Jacky his breakfast, no call of pleasure came from the bush, no Jacky was there, and he was no where to be seen.

"Then a weasel has taken him," said Papa, when we told him; "the singular cry he made this morning, was doubtless when the weasel seized him." And when we searched about the garden, there we found on a grass bank, at some distance, the remains of our poor pet. The weasel had bitten him behind the ear, and sucked the blood; his feathers were a good deal ruffled, but no other bite had been made. We blamed ourselves much, for not having safely fastened him in a cage every night in the house. But now we could do nothing but bury the body of poor Jacky.

E

50

PRICKER, THE HEDGEHOG.

SHORTLY after poor Jacky's death, Papa called us into the garden.

"Children!" he said, "Here is something for you in my handkerchief. Guess what it is; but don't touch."

The handkerchief looked as if something very heavy was in it; and we guessed all sorts of things, but in vain.

At last Papa let us feel, and my sister grasped it rather roughly; but withdrew her hand quickly, with five or six sharp pricks.

"Oh! it is a nasty hedgehog," cried she; "look how my fingers are bleeding!"

"Not a nasty hedgehog," I said, "but a curious nice creature; where did you get it, Papa?"

"It was given to me this morning for you," he replied; "It will live in the garden; and you must sometimes give it a little milk, and it will do very well; and perhaps become quite tame.”

The little creature, when placed on the grass, did not curl itself up and appear affrighted, but looked about him, and ran quickly to and fro. We brought some milk out in a saucer, but he could not manage to get his nose over the side; so we made a little pond of the milk on the grass, and he dipped his black snout into it, and then sucked it up greedily.

This hedgehog soon became very tame; when we took him up in our hands, he did not curl up in afright, but let us look at his feet, and touch and pat his curious little pig's face. He helped himself to what he liked best in the garden; and we never found that he rooted up anything, or did the slightest damage; he liked the milk which we gave him daily; and when we were playing on the grass, he used to run about us, as if he liked our

company.

We had been told that we should never be able to keep a hedgehog; that they always climbed over the walls, and escaped to the fields and hedges.

But although we did not in any way confine Pricker, he never attempted to leave us, being apparently quite content with his run of the kitchen garden, flower garden and house; for we sometimes carried him into the kitchen, and up stairs into the nursery, where he would roll himself up into some snug corner, and remain apparently asleep for an hour or more.

When we had had Pricker for some weeks, we received a present of a second hedgehog. He was larger, but never became so tame as our first friend; he did not like to be taken up in our hands, and we never could obtain a good look at his black face and legs, as he rolled up on the slightest touch; and when Pricker was running about on the grass, his shy companion used to remain hidden beneath the leaves and plants.

We had, at this time, a very favourite dog; and at the first coming of the hedgehogs, we were in some fear that Tawney would kill them, for he was a most eager hunter of

rats, weasels, rabbits, cats; in short, of anything that would run from him.

But every one assured us that a dog would not kill a hedgehog, on account of his sharp prickles; and the first time that we showed Pricker to Tawney, he made a sort of dart at him, and received, of course, a violent prick on the nose; at this he retreated, barking and licking his lips, and dancing round poor Pricker, with every desire to attack again; but hoping to find a spot unprotected by the formidable spikes.

Pricker, however, having tightly rolled himself up, such a spot was not to be found; and, after a great deal of noise and excitement, Tawney retired, and we never observed him to venture again.

When Pricker was running on the grass, or when we were feeding him with milk, Tawney used to play about without condescending to take the slightest notice of the little animal; in short, he pretended not to see him. So that we felt quite easy about the safety of Pricker and his comrade.

What it was that induced Tawney not only to see Pricker, but to attack him again, we do not know, as nobody was witness of the catastrophe.

On going into the garden one brilliant morning, Tawney made his appearance in a very excited state, bounding about our feet with a short delighted bark, that was not usually his morning salutation; and on looking more closely at him, we saw that his nose was bleeding; indeed, his whole head and ears were much ruffled and marked.

We did not at first think of Pricker; but on wiping