reason, and so will, I trust, become a protector of this poor little animal, as well as of all others of his kind instead of destroying them. Let your man stay and hear what I have to say.
G.—Stop here, John, while you hear what Mr. is going to tell us. If you convince me, Sir, I am sure I will always follow your advice.
C.—I am glad to know that you are disposed to do so in still more important matters; not that even such a thing as this is to be considered as unimportant; for wanton cruelty, or the wanton and needless destruction of any of His creatures cannot but be displeasing to Him that made them; and, on the other hand, the exercise of the gentle "quality of mercy," as Shakspeare, our great poet, calls it, must be correspondingly pleasing to Him, "because He delighteth in mercy." But to return to this poor little animal. What do you mean to do with it? I mean, what use do you intend to make of it after it is killed?
G.—None at all, Sir; it is good for nothing.
C.—I do not believe that it is, when dead, though I will presently tell you what good it may do you if you spare its life, whereas if you kill it, neither its skin, flesh, spines, nor any other part of it will be of the least use to any one.
G.—No, Sir. The farming lads would throw it into the road, and the carts and waggons would soon make an end of it.
C.—Exactly so. I have often seen them lying there, and never, I am happy to say, without a feeling of pity. But, as you allow that the hedgehog is of no use after it is killed, what harm do you suppose it does when alive, besides milking the cows, which you mentioned before.
G. (hesitating).—Why, Sir, I—I—I don't recollect anything else just at present.
C.—Then, if T convince you, not only that it does not, but that it cannot be guilty of this practice, will you—indeed I am sure that you will—let this one escape back to its nest, and prevent any others in future from being killed on your land by the ignorant or unthinking?
G.—Certainly Sir.
C.—Very well—let your man bring it here. The only difficulty with me is to think how so very mistaken and absurd an idea could ever have first originated, for it carries its own confutation. Now, John, try and undouble this poor animal. You see how it is rolled up like a ball, presenting its spines in every direction as a sort of defence. Poor little thing! I dare say you feel its heart beat. There,
