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188
The Speech of Monkeys
·
R. L. Garner
162
When
I
was
only
a
few
weeks
old,
my
father
had
given
to
him
a
little
white
poodle,
which
he
called
Dash.
He
was
about
my
own
age,
and
we
grew
up
together.
In
those
days,
children
were
rocked
in
the
old-time
cradle,
and
I,
like
other
babies,
had
a
cradle.
When
I
was
a
few
months
old,
on
one
occasion
I
was
left
asleep
in
my
cradle,
and
no
one
was
in
the
room
but
Dash
and
myself.
Having
been
disturbed
in
my
sleep,
I
woke
up
and
cried,
and
Dash,
seeing
the
condition
of
things,
came
to
the
cradle,
and,
rearing
on
his
hind
feet,
rocked
it
with
his
paws,
and
whined
and
barked
until
I
had
gone
to
sleep
again.
My
mother
has
often
told
me
of
this,
and
assured
me
that
he
had
never
been
taught
to
do
this,
but
always
after
practised
it,
not
only
with
myself,
but
with
my
younger
brothers
and
sisters,
until,
at
the
age
of
thirteen,
he
came
to
an
untimely
death
at
the
hands
of
a
bull-dog,
whose
name
and
tribe
I
have
never
ceased
to
hate.
I
gave
Dash
the
burial
that
he
deserved,
and
had
a
long
procession
of
mourning
children
follow
his
remains
to
the
grave,
where
I
delivered
the
funeral
sermon,
and
we
all
sung
a
hymn.
About
three
years
ago,
in
company
with
an
older
sister,
I
visited
the
spot
for
the
first
time
in
nearly
thirty
years,
but
no
sign
of
the
little
grave
remained.
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