"Well, what could he have done?" the old mother monkey said, sharply.
"You know what snakes are."
All the monkeys gathered together, shivered, and glanced round uneasily.
"You know what snakes are; what can you do when you are brought face to face with them like that, and both in a hut?"
Monica nodded gravely, and felt more thankful than ever that her baby had been spared to her.
"I told you he was unlucky," the old mother monkey said, gravely, "but
I also told you that he would never come to much harm."
And so it proved. For Mona, as life went on, was always unlucky, but he never came to much harm, although he had some exciting adventures.
As he grew up he became stronger, but always remained a quiet monkey, inclined to whimper.
Quiet monkeys, when inclined to whimper, always have a bad time. Their fellow-monkeys have no patience with their delicacy or whimpering, and do their very best to impress this upon their fellow-creatures as much as possible, in a practical manner. Slaps, sharp tweaks of the tail, and continual teazing, are considered good for both these complaints, and of these little Mona got the full benefit. Altogether, he had an extremely hard time of it.
To begin with, none of the other monkeys seemed to care to associate with him. They never gambolled about and let him join; never asked or even attempted to attend to his toilet for him; and the only part of his person which appeared to form any attraction was his tail, which, he being a Mona monkey, was an extremely long one.
There were times when Mona wished he had no tail; it was impossible to keep it still; he was busy all day long whisking it about out of the way of mischievous fingers.