Monkey Society.
By One of its Ornaments.
OME days ago I overheard two of those wretched descendants of our noble race—humans, I mean—talking outside my wires. They were telling each other about some fellow-human of theirs—his name was Garner who had, by years of slow study, arrived at
some sort of knowledge of three or four of the simpler words of our language—the ancient and eloquent tongue of the monkeys. Of course, this was only one more evidence of the human stupidity and conceit we chuckle over. Here were we monkeys for all these thousands of years perfectly understanding every syllable of human
language that we heard, and never letting on once to the silly men that we knew a word of what they were saying; and all the while talking freely in our own tongue without a chance of detection, and laughing at
them. And now, forsooth, because one of them has discovered—or thinks he has—two or three of our words, they are all cock-a-whoop with conceit, think themselves the finest creatures on this earth, and blurt out their discovery right and left, instead of keeping quiet and learning more! Is there a name for this kind of fool in any tongue whatever? I don't think there is. So that after listening to the two creatures till my patience gave way, I reached out and grabbed the flower from one of their button holes. It didn't taste particularly pleasant, but I had the gratification of hearing its late owner tell his friend that it had cost him eighteenpence. Besides which there was thin wire about the stem which has since been very handy for pricking the pig-faced baboon with, when he wasn't looking. I owe the pig-faced baboon one for himself.
I have owed a grudge to most of them in this cage at one time or another, but nearly all the accounts are settled. I have lived here rather a less time than might be imagined in view of the influential position which I now occupy. A few months ago, when I first came, I was not a very popular monkey—no new monkey is. I had been considerably elated at the docks when I learned that the London Zoological Gardens was to be my destination, because there's a certain tone about such a destination as that—very different from going merely to a dealer or a private owner, or even to a circus, such as did others of my fellow passengers. One even went to an organ-grinder, but he was a low monkey naturally. So I bossed it pretty considerably at the docks, I tell you, and patronised the others as offensively as I could. Still, I wasn't very comfortable when first they put me into this big cage.
"They all called at once."
You see, the others didn't show me the respect which was my due. I am green monkey, with a fine long Latin name; such
