The old poet, Robert Herrick, had a pet pig, and did not find his affection for it at all inconsistent with writing lovely verses to violets, daffodils, roses and fair maidens. Sir Walter Scott had a similar pet; so had Miss Martineau, and so had Lord Gardenstone, of legal fame, who cultivated his favorite’s society to a degree quite unusual. In its pigdom it followed him everywhere, and even shared his bed. But, says Chambers, “when it attained the mature years and size of swinedom, this, of course, was inconvenient. However, his lordship, unwilling to part with his friend, continued to let it sleep in the same room, and, when he undressed, laid his clothes upon the floor as a bed for it. He said that he liked it, for it kept his clothes warm till the morning!” This was even outdoing Mr. Hawker, the clergyman, whose eccentric ways have been so delightfully described by Baring-Gould. Gyp, a black Berkshire pig, was one of his eccentricities. Being daily washed and curried, it grew up cleanly and intelligent, and followed its master exactly like a dog. It even followed him into ladies’ drawing-rooms--not always to the satisfaction of those present. In this case, he would order it to go home, and it would obey, slinking off with an air of conscious disgrace, and its tail hanging limply, out of curl. Gyp was not the only pet at the vicarage; birds, horses, a pair of stags and a family party of nine cats added considerable variety to the good clergyman’s life. Especially the cats! They convoyed him, like a bodyguard, to and from church, and either frisked in the chancel during service, or, rubbing up against him, purred an accompaniment to his prayers. One black-letter Sunday the best-loved cat of all yielded to temptation--forgetful of the day, she caught a mouse! Never again was this sinner allowed to enter the church its conduct had disgraced; hereafter, eight cats only formed their master’s escort--the ninth staid at home in solitary shame. How delighted Mr. Hawker would have been with a squirrel which was once chronicled in the New York Tribune. Its owner is a member of the great family Anonymous, but, thanks to his humorous, sympathetic observation, the personality of his(?) pet is more distinct. “He began life,” says the Unknown, “by tumbling out of the nest when an infant. He fell into the hands of my nephew, then at Harvard, and lived in his pockets. He could be put to sleep at any moment if made to stand on his head--which was odd but convenient. He always went to recitation, which must have been very gratifying to the professors.” The little fellow had a moral nature as well as keen wits, and knew perfectly well when he was doing wrong.