caught one and made a pet of it.  It became very tame and had perfect confidence in the good intentions of its kind friend and master.  He always addressed it in speaking to it as a “little man.”  When it came running to him and jumped on his lap or climbed up his trousers, he would say, while patting its head as if it were a dog or a child, “Coonie, ma mannie, Coonie, ma mannie, hoo are ye the day?  I think you’re hungry,”—­as the comical pet began to examine his pockets for nuts and bits of bread,—­“Na, na, there’s nathing in my pooch for ye the day, my wee mannie, but I’ll get ye something.”  He would then fetch something it liked,—­bread, nuts, a carrot, or perhaps a piece of fresh meat.  Anything scattered for it on the floor it felt with its paw instead of looking at it, judging of its worth more by touch than sight.

The outlet of our Fountain Lake flowed past Mr. McRath’s door, and the coon was very fond of swimming in it and searching for frogs and mussels.  It seemed perfectly satisfied to stay about the house without being confined, occupied a comfortable bed in a section of a hollow tree, and never wandered far.  How long it lived after the death of its kind master I don’t know.

I suppose that almost any wild animal may be made a pet, simply by sympathizing with it and entering as much as possible into its life.  In Alaska I saw one of the common gray mountain marmots kept as a pet in an Indian family.  When its master entered the house it always seemed glad, almost like a dog, and when cold or tired it snuggled up in a fold of his blanket with the utmost confidence.

We have all heard of ferocious animals, lions and tigers, etc., that were fed and spoken to only by their masters, becoming perfectly tame; and, as is well known, the faithful dog that follows man and serves him, and looks up to him and loves him as if he were a god, is a descendant of the blood-thirsty wolf or jackal.  Even frogs and toads and fishes may be tamed, provided they have the uniform sympathy of one person, with whom they become intimately acquainted without the distracting and varying attentions of strangers.  And surely all God’s people, however serious and savage, great or small, like to play.  Whales and elephants, dancing, humming gnats, and invisibly small mischievous microbes,—­all are warm with divine radium and must have lots of fun in them.

As far as I know, all wild creatures keep themselves clean.  Birds, it seems to me, take more pains to bathe and dress themselves than any other animals.  Even ducks, though living so much in water, dip and scatter cleansing showers over their backs, and shake and preen their feathers as carefully as land-birds.  Watching small singers taking their morning baths is very interesting, particularly when the weather is cold.  Alighting in a shallow pool, they oftentimes show a sort of dread of dipping into it, like children hesitating about taking a plunge, as if they felt the same kind of shock, and this makes it easy for us to sympathize with the little feathered people.