"Not a monkey! what is it, then?"
"An ape."
"An ape! 'taint an ape. Don't I know a monkey when I see it?"
"No, if you say that is a monkey."
"I do know a monkey. I've seen lots of them in the street with the organs. I know a monkey better than you do, 'cause I always go out into the street to see them when they come by, and you don't."
"But, Tad, listen to me. An ape is a species of the monkey. It looks like a monkey, but it is not a monkey."
"It shouldn't look like a monkey, then. Here, Yib"—he always called me Yib—"isn't this a monkey, and don't A-p-e spell monkey? Ma don't know anything about it;" and he thrust his book into my face in an earnest, excited manner.
I could not longer restrain myself, and burst out laughing. Tad looked very much offended, and I hastened to say: "I beg your pardon, Master Tad; I hope that you will excuse my want of politeness."
He bowed his head in a patronizing way, and returned to the original question: "Isn't this a monkey? Don't A-p-e spell monkey?"
"No, Tad; your mother is right. A-p-e spells ape."