The next day I hastened to their house, and their mother told me some interesting stories with regard to her children’s fondness for pets.
On one occasion they had taken this same little guineapig to the country, and had one afternoon gone four miles from home. Rather than spend the night away from their little pet, they walked back the four miles to get to her.
I waited until they arrived from school, and seeing me, they ran to get Piggy, who was a pretty, broken-colored, short-haired English pig that had been brought to them from the West Indies.
With some trepidation I saw this precious pig put into a basket and entrusted to my care. On arriving home I carried her to the aviary, where my solitary rabbit was rambling alone, and put her on the ground.
Happy little Guinea—she had lived so long away from other animals that she fell into an ecstasy on seeing Rab, and with grunts and squeals of delight ran about the aviary just as fast as her short legs would carry her.
Rab stopped short, stared at the demonstrative stranger, then, to my mingled amusement and dismay, gave her a decided kick.
The unfortunate Guinea drew back. Such a hint was not to be misunderstood. However, she continued to follow and admire the unfeeling Rab at a distance, Rab, meanwhile, pretending neither to see her nor to hear her. I pitied Guinea so much that I began to ransack the city for other guineapigs.
One day a boy told me to go to Grafton Street, and in a house there I found a woman with a family of children.
I asked them whether they had guineapigs.
They said yes, they had some nice white prize pigs, and they would be glad to part from some of them, for the winter was coming on, and hungry rats had already devoured several of the little ones.