I Could Not But Admire The Sweetness Of Temper With Which He Took All This Tantalizing, And The Innocence With Which He Chewed His Cabbage Leaf After He Got It, Not Harboring A Single Revengeful Thought At Us For The Trouble We Had Given Him.

Of course the issue of the matter was, that we all paid a few sous for the sight - not to the chamois, which would have been the most equitable way, but to those who had appropriated his gifts and graces to eke out their own convenience.

"Where's his mother?" said I, desiring to enlarge my sphere of natural history as much as possible.

"_On a tue sa mere_" - "They have killed his mother," was the reply, cool enough.

There we had the whole story. His enterprising neighbors had invaded the domestic hearth, shot his mother, and eaten her up, made her skin into chamois leather, and were keeping him till he got big enough for the same disposition, using his talents meanwhile to turn a penny upon; yet not a word of all this thought he; not a bit the less heartily did he caper; never speculated a minute on why it was, on the origin of evil, or any thing of the sort; or, if he did, at least never said a word about it. I gave one good look into his soft, round, glassy eyes, and could see nothing there but the most tranquil contentment. He had finished his cabbage leaf, and we had finished our call; so we will go on.

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