All the dogs, and cats and everything and everybody about our establishment, seemed to have a kindly feeling toward Humpy, with the exception of a little bantam hen of mine. She for some reason, possibly because she was rearing her first brood of chickens, took a dislike to him and flew at him every time he came in her neighborhood. One day as Horace and Wangie were sitting at dinner and I was blowing soap-bubbles out of the window, we heard a terrible squealing in the hen-yard, and on rushing out to see what was the matter, found the little bantam perched on Humpy's back, pecking away at his ears, like the little shrew that she was, and he, the little simpleton, was standing stock still, and squealing for dear life. Horace speedily rescued him from his perilous situation, but it was a long time before he could be coaxed into the hen-yard again.
Almost the funniest thing about little Humpy was his manner of sleeping. The day after his leg was broken, Horace had made a snug little low box for him, and filled it with wool for his bed, and though Wangie was very particular about her kitchen, she had become so attached to the little fellow during his sickness, that she suffered the box to remain, and as it drew near winter, she would even place it by the fire of nights. About eight o'clock in the evening, and often earlier, Humpy would scramble into this box, and instead of lying down on his belly or side, as little pigs all the world over do, he would turn over on his back, with his little legs sticking up, and so sleep all the night through. This always amused our visitors greatly; it seemed as though they never would be done laughing at it, and indeed it was extremely funny.
Fire, from first to last, seemed to be a profound and most fascinating mystery to Humpy. Frequently, in the early evening, he would station himself just in front of the great open kitchen fire-place, and stand by the half hour looking straight into the roaring flame. I used to say at such times, that he looked like the picture of Napoleon by his camp-fire, the night before Austerlitz, though nobody else could see the resemblance.
Snow was another thing which he never seemed to quite understand. Our first snow-storm that winter came in the night-time, and in the morning, when Wangie opened the door for him to take his airing, he seemed to be really frightened at first, and she had great difficulty to get him out. But he soon grew to like it, and finally nothing would please him better than to put him out where he could run and frisk and root in it, and he would look so cunning when he came in afterwards, with his eyelashes all filled, and his little black head and snout all stuck over with white patches. The sound of sleigh-bells, too, was evidently a great delight to him, and the sleigh never drove up to the door that he did not rouse up and frolic about till the door was opened, when he would rush out upon the piazza. Sometimes we would take him in the sleigh with us, when he would take his stand in the bottom with his snout resting on the side, and so ride for miles.
But, poor Humpy! his little troubled day of life was almost done.
"Hog-killing time" had come, and great kettles of water were kept constantly over the kitchen fire, to be heated for scalding the animals after they were killed. As Horace and Tom were lifting one of these off, it slipped and tilted over, pouring more than a gallon of the boiling contents right into Humpy's bed, which, owing to the busy tumult of the day, I suppose, had not been moved away.
The poor little fellow was just taking his morning nap.—I will spare you and myself pain, by telling the rest as briefly as possible.
In a few minutes the whole household had collected in the kitchen. Horace had wrapped the little fellow in a blanket, but I saw my father shake his head as he looked at him, and taking Horace aside, whisper something to him, to which the tender-hearted old man answered aloud,—