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COMMUNITY LIFE
OUR old cowman Callaway was Cornish; he taught me to milk; he took a fatherly interest in my animals; he talked Cornished English, and I understood about a quarter of what he said. He had a wife who worked in the house of a neighbour of ours, and a very elegant daughter. I never could imagine how her hats and jackets and dresses got into the hovel in which the family lived; however, I suppose they must have got into it, for they certainly came out.
The wife’s employer’s daughter kept guinea-pigs; and Callaway promised to get us a white one. In due time he appeared with it. But to our delight, when the box was opened, out came two little white creatures, with shining red eyes, not weak bluish-pink eyes, but real good red ones like little jewels. They were named Ixtlilxochitl and Atahualpa, and installed in a wooden house with a wired-in yard under the laurel trees of the drying-ground. Here they rapidly became naturalised; burrowing under their wire fence, they found the way to the long, fresh grass beyond, and enjoyed as much liberty as they wished till nightfall, when the wooden slide of their house shut them safe from dogs and rats and cats.
I had many sympathisers in my amusements. Not only was there Callaway the cowman, who became house-builder to the community, but my old nurse used to take the guinea-pigs a breakfast of soaked bread every morning; and we had a butler sagacious about animals, to appeal to as a highest authority on all difficult questions. So when, one morning, I opened the slide, to find two new white things about as big as large mice gaily running about, the first thing I did was to run to the servants’ hall and summon the butler to advise in this difficult and delicate situation. Ixtlilxochitl was sent to a new hutch, hastily erected for him, and Atahualpa kept house for the babies.
This was very good for the development of Ixtlilxochitl’s character. He became very tame, learnt to sit up with his forepaws on my finger, and to “lie dead” on his back with his little pink hands and feet in the air; guinea-pigs’ forefeet are really small pink hands, with short claws on the fingers, and a rudimentary thumb.
Guinea-pigs grow up very soon; they have no helpless infancy at all. I have heard of a guinea-pig eating bran twenty minutes after it was born. I know we used to carry the infants about and let them run up our sleeves till they stuck, and had to be pulled back by their hind-legs; and though I would not recommend this practice, they never seemed to take any harm from it. Then, when they are about three months old they become heads of families. At first the family only consists of one or two members, but they increase in number until each family numbers seven or eight. You may expect a new family once every six or eight weeks. There is a nice sum in geometrical progression! And after this general statement of the matter you will hardly expect me to give you a history of each individual, though I made a chart of their genealogies. I will, however, give a short biographical notice of the most interesting characters.
The first two were Ulfias and Brastias. Ulfias was a nice, comely guinea-pig; he took after his father, and had brown whiskers. Brastias had pink ears, which were generally much bitten, and fierce red eyes; he was an ill-conditioned, cross little beast, and a great fighter. Moreover, he was a murderer.
It is the funniest thing in the world to see guinea-pigs fighting. They stand on the tips of their toes and raise their noses, until they present the chin only to their adversaries; then they begin to dance round, always chin to chin, gnashing their teeth; when they see a good opportunity they fly in and bite. It is a scientific way of fighting, like wrestling or fencing—quite different from the indiscriminate plunge of a cat, who rolls round in a heap with her adversary.