The Speech of Monkeys

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.