“In 1818, Doctor Arnold discovered, in the island of Sumatra, a flower which he named Rafflesia Arnoldi; and which an author has called with much justice, ‘the magnificent Titan of the vegetable kingdom.’ The human mind, indeed, had never conceived such a flower: the circumference of the full-expanded flower is nine feet, its nectarium is calculated to hold nine pints, the pistils are as large as cows’-horns, and the entire weight of the flower is calculated to be fifteen pounds.”
“Look, look, Helen!” exclaimed Edward, as soon as his father had ceased to read, “there must be a rabbit-warren near. There they go; two, three, four rabbits; and there are two men with guns on their shoulders coming up the side of the hill. Papa, I do wonder any one can like to make such a disturbance among the poor little creatures, just for their own amusement: it would be much more diverting to me, I am sure, to see them gambol and frolic over these green hillocks. Ah, there are their pretty young ones, running as fast as their little legs will carry them, by the side of their mother.”
“Run, run, little ones!” cried Helen, forgetting the wonderful flower, in her anxiety for the rabbits. “Now they have popped into a hole; but, oh! I am afraid it is of no use, for those sportsmen have a dog with them, and they will be sure to catch some of the innocent creatures.”
“Helen,” asked Lewis, archly, “do you never eat rabbit-pie when it comes to table?”
“Oh! yes,” said Helen, “I do, it is true; but, Lewis, I would rather not think about that now; and if the poor animals must be killed for our food, I am sure it might be done in a more humane manner than hunting them with dogs and guns.”
Lewis could not deny this.
“Papa,” said Helen, “once allowed me to keep rabbits, but you may be sure I never had any of my pets killed. It was such pleasure to watch the pretty creatures, and feed them every day; and then you cannot think how busy the old doe was in making a nest for her little ones. She chose the softest hay she could find, and when she had munched out all the hard parts, she stripped some of the thick warm down from her own breast to spread over it. At first, she covered up her young ones so closely that I could not see them; and papa told me not to disturb the nest: indeed, I should have been quite afraid to do so, for Minny, who was so gentle in common, used to try to bite me whenever I went near the nest, until her little ones grew larger and stronger and then she would let me take them in my hand and feed them.”
“This is the case with many animals, my dear Helen,” said her aunt; “indeed, the attachment which some creatures manifest to their young is so strong, that they will die rather than abandon them. I recollect once reading an anecdote respecting an American sow, which pleased me much; because in her care for her offspring she evinced a degree of sagacity, which we are apt not to give the species credit for possessing. This animal was accustomed to pass her days in the woods, with a numerous litter of pigs, but to return regularly to the house in the evening, to share with her family a substantial supper. One of her pigs was, however, quietly slipped away to be roasted; in a day or two afterwards, another; and then a third. It would appear that this careful mother knew the number of her offspring, and missed those that were taken from her; for after this she came alone to her evening meal. This occurring repeatedly, she was watched coming out of the wood, and observed to drive back her pigs from its extremity; grunting with so much earnestness, and in a manner so intelligible, that they retired at her command, and waited patiently for her return.”[2]
The children were much amused with this anecdote.
Edward asked Helen, what became of her rabbits at last.