"Then quickly down he threw his own, And loud in anger cried, 'Take this one too, you thievish crew, Since you have all beside.' "But quick as thought the caps were thrown From every monkey's crown, For, like himself, each little elf Threw his directly down. "He then with ease did gather these, And in his pack did bind; Then through the woods conveyed his goods, And sold them to his mind." I daresay you could tell me the story of the monkeys who washed their hands and faces in pitch, and so were caught. But from all the stories which are told about monkeys, I fancy that we think of them too much as clever, and noisy, and mischievous, and sometimes very ill-tempered and revengeful; so I want to tell you something of their good and gentle ways, and especially of their love for their little ones. I used to watch a mother, in the monkey-house at the Gardens, nursing her baby--a tiny grey thing, with its hair parted down the middle, and the funniest, most knowing little face of its own. She nursed it in the tenderest way, with such a loving expression on her face the while. Then I have read of an American monkey driving away the flies which teased her little one; and of another good mother who was seen washing the faces of her family in a stream. And they are kind not only to their own; for if a poor little monkey is left an orphan, it is sure to be taken care of by some other monkey's father or mother. A gentleman who was coming home from India tells this story: There were on board two monkeys, one older than the other, but not its mother. One day the little one fell overboard. The other at once jumped over the side of the vessel to a part of the ship where she could stand, and holding on by one hand, with the other she held out to the poor little drowning monkey the end of the cord by which she was tied up, but which was then dangling from her waist. It was a wonderful plan for her to think of, was it not? But the cord was too short, and the little monkey was saved by a sailor who threw it a rope, which came near enough for it to catch at and cling to. I remember being told by a brother of mine who had once shot a young monkey, that he could not forget the reproachful look which the poor mother gave him, and he never again would shoot one. He said the little wounded monkey cried like a child.