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ONCE A WEEK,

[October 22,  1859.

monkey’s — and will  sometimes  lick  the  hand  of  his feeder. Though it  is  not  to  be  denied  he  has  his tempers, and  is  sometimes  surly,  and  consequently very prickly. He was  extremely  light  when  he first  came  into  our  possession,  but  after  a course  of good  feeding  he  became  quite  fat,  and  spread  consi- derably in his  proportions. In a fortnight  he  had cleared away  every  beetle  on  the  premises,  though previously we  had  without  effect  tried  every  known antidote to  destroy  these  pests; cucumber  parings which they  devoured,  and  which  did  not  kill  them — as we  had  been  assured  they  would — pans  of beer,  with  little  ladders  to  give  them  access  to the  liquor,  which  they  drank  and  ran  away  again; the topers,  instead  of,  as  we  fondly  hoped,  drowning themselves in  the  strong  drink. Peter knocked them all  off,  and  wanted  more,  judging  from the noise  he  made  every  night  after  dark,  resem- bling a cat walking  about  in  walnut-shells. Indeed, Peter at  first  alarmed  us  considerably  by  knocking about the  saucepans  and  kitchen  utensils  with  a force,  which  once  or  twice  convinced  us  that housebreakers were  on  a visit. He made  these noises, we  found,  in  researches  after  rats  and mice, with  which,  in  its  free  state,  the  hedgehog satisfies its  carnivorous  instincts. It is,  indeed, more valuable  in  the  destruction  of  rats  than either cat  or  dog. Descending one  morning  early into the  kitchen  inhabited  by  Peter,  we  were horrified on  seeing  the  floor  soiled  with  large  spots of blood,  and  marks  of  claw-like  feet  in  the  same sanguine colour. We examined  the  cat,  who  was suspected of  being  secretly  an  enemy  to  Peter,  but Pu$8 was  perfectly  serene  and  unwounded. Then the hedgehog  was  dragged  out  of  his  hole,  and,  to

our dismay,  we  found  the  poor  creature’s  eyes were closed,  one  of  them  being  apparently  torn out. The carcase  of  a rat,  half -devoured,  being discovered, we  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the creatures had  been  engaged  in  mortal  combat,  in which  poor  Peter  had  lost  his  beautiful  eyes, — eyes of  dark-blue,  which  though  not  over  bright were nice  intelligent  eyes. We were  sorry  to think  that,  for  the  rest  of  his  days,  he  must  grope in the  dark; but,  in  a month’s  time,  Peter  had perfectly recovered  his  eye -sight,  even  the  orb where only  a vacuum  could  be  seen.

Peter has  become  a household  pet,  but  truth demands we  should  not  conceal  his  faults. He is by  no  means  cleanly  in  his  habits; he  is  untidy in his  eating; and  is  positively  addicted  to  thiev- ing. In winter  he  never  appears  to  be  warm enough, but  goes  about  foraging  for  bed-clothes — stealing all  the  stray  towels,  house-flannels,  and pieces of  cloth  or  carpet  which  fall  in  his  way. These are  faults  intolerable  in  the  sight  of  tidy housewives; but somehow  Peter  has  grown  to  be a necessary  evil,  for  he  keeps  the  house  free  from vermin, and  therefore  is  quite  worth  the  trouble he gives. It is  said  that  this  animal  is  invul- nerable to any  poison,  and  that  he  can  feed  with impunity on  the  most  venomous  creatures. That he is  capable  of  being  tamed,  and  susceptible  of attachment,  the  writer  can  vouch  for. At the same time,  it  is  suggested  to  every  one  who  keeps or intends  to  keep  a hedgehog,  that  he  is  like  a good  many  human  beings,  he  prefers  good  eating and drinking  to  starvation,  and  that  his  existence  is prolonged  or  shortened  according  to  the  sufficiency of his  diet. A. J.

THE SONG  OF  THE  SURVIVOR.

here is  the  form  of  girlish  mould,

Under the  spread  of  the  branches  old,

At the  well-known  trysting  tree;

With the  sunset  lighting  her  tresses  of  gold, And the  breezes  waving  them  fold  upon  fold, Waiting for  me?

Where is  the  sweet  voice  with  cadence  deep Of one  that  singeth  our  babe  to  sleep,

And often  turns  to  see

How the  stars  through  the  lattice  begin  to  peep, And watches  the  lazy  dial  creep,

Waiting for  me?

Long since  those  locks  are  laid  i’the  clay, Long since  that  voice  hath  past  away,

On earth  no  more  to  be;

But still  in  the  spirit-world  afar She is  tho  dearest  of  those  that  are Waiting for  me.