Every one's patience was now exhausted, and 'Poppet must be got rid of!' was the universal cry. A visit was paid to a celebrated menagerie then in the town; but the monkeys' quarters were found so cold and dirty, and their little faces looked so sad and anxious compared to Poppet's contented well-fed look, that we decided it was impossible to send her there. It was useless to offer her to our friends; her fame had blown far and wide, and how we could keep 'such a tiresome mischievous creature' was the wonder of all who knew us. At last it was decided it would be more merciful to poison her than to give her where she would be ill-used or ill-fed. It was a cruel resolve, but what were we to do? The error had consisted in our ever trying to domesticate such an untamable creature. Poppet must die, and in as simple a way as possible. Prussic acid being said to be instantaneous, was to be the agent of destruction; and as I was supposed to have the most nerve in the family, notwithstanding my objections it was unanimously resolved I should administer it. The poison remained under lock and key for some time; at last, worked up by several dreadful breakages, I gave it in some grapes, and retired from the room feeling like a murderer, leaving poor Poppet extended insensible on the rug. In about half an hour I returned, expecting to find her quite dead; but no; there she was, sitting on the fender, scratching her legs, and looking only a little languid. The revulsion of feeling was so great, and her invalid airs so comical and coaxing, that we felt rather ashamed of having attempted the life of so winning a creature. I may observe, however, that that feeling died away as she recovered and the old amount of mischief went on; and all looked very blue when some one read 'that monkeys frequently lived to be a hundred years old;' there seemed nothing for it but that Poppet should go as a family heirloom to the only son. Then it began to be whispered I might try another dose, but I steadily refused; till at the end of one hot summer afternoon which I had spent in my room, I went down-stairs, to find my mother looking very white, and hear her say: 'If I had known you were in the house I wouldn't have done it;' and to find that poor Poppet had been very effectually 'done for' at last; that for the first time in her little tricksy roguish life she was really quiet. She was buried in the garden, and a headstone with a suitable inscription erected to her memory.
Now that the anguish for the loss of old friends (in glass and china) has been blunted by time, as we sit round the fire 'between the lights,' the recital of Poppet's pranks is listened to with rapt attention by the children; and I often think, with Frank Buckland, that many a more valuable friend may be less missed and less sincerely mourned than a pet monkey.
[MY BABY.]
They made a little crown in heaven
When she was born—
Only the breath of angels on it;
Neither flower nor leaf upon it;
Never a single thorn.
Slowly it grew in form and beauty
As the days passed on—
Tinged her eyes with love-light's dawning;
Ruby lips to love-words forming;
Lisping future song.
Brighter still the crown was budding
As the year grew old;
And my simple heart beguiling,
Angels shewed it to me smiling:
So the days grew cold.
'Look! O mother! look upon it!'
(Baby lay asleep);
'In the heavens' sunny bowers
Twine we everlasting flowers;
Think upon it in the hours
When you will weep!'
'Look! O mother! fair we've made it
For an angel's head!'
There was something strange and wild
Struck my heart—the angels smiled:
I turned to look upon my child—
And she was dead.
F. Rochat.