Among the famous people who have interested themselves in hares may be mentioned the dashing Prince Rupert (Boy’s master), and the shy, melancholy poet, Cowper. The association was doubtless accidental with the Prince; but with Cowper it was the result of strong natural sympathy between himself and these timid creatures of the woodland. He contributed to the Gentleman’s Magazine, I believe, a delightful account of his pets; and was almost childishly pleased by the present of their picture, drawn for him by a friend. [Illustration: _Cowper’s Tame Hares._] “They look exactly like other hares,” said an undiscriminating lady; but the poet did not agree with her; for him each had its differing ways and whims, its own individuality. Little Puss, for instance, grew quite tame, was affectionate, and grateful for kindness; while Tiney would not suffer the slightest caress--being gruff and surly, a little Diogenes in fur; and Bess never had to be tamed, but was docile from the first, and took a humorous delight in playing tricks on her companions. Bess died young, surly Tiney lived nine years; and Puss, the best beloved of all, died of a hare’s old age when within a month of completing his twelfth year. Deep was his master’s grief; long and sincere his mourning. The slow tortoise has had almost as many friends as the agile hare, but none more famous than Mr. Gilbert White of Selborne. In 1770, while visiting an old friend, he observed in her garden a land tortoise, which had been there, she told him, for the last thirty years. Timothy, the pet’s name, spent nearly half of his life in retirement, but in the other half had learned to recognize his mistress and to come at her call. On her death, some ten years later, he passed into the possession of Mr. White; and in March was dug out of the ground to accompany his new master to Selborne. He took the transfer in high dudgeon; so much so that immediately on arriving he went into winter quarters again, and staid there until May. The fourteenth of this month he walked out in the garden, and found it more to his mind than he expected, with nice paths, soft, short grass, and plenty of succulent vegetables. He gained rapidly in health and spirits, and after a few months was able to dictate a letter for Miss Mulso, a letter almost as good as that of little Nero to Carlyle. After telling her that by birth he was a Virginian, and that he had been kidnapped into England, he speaks of his happy life with the lady now deceased, as contrasted with the disquietude he suffers in having a naturalist for a master, and being all the time a subject for experiments. “Your sorrowful reptile, Timothy,” he concludes. What became of him eventually, I cannot say. Turtles are proverbially long lived; but if Timothy is dead let us trust that he left a small reptilian ghost, still to wander through the garden of his fame.