now you have its head out, try and open its mouth, and just consider for one moment, is it possible for that little mouth to suck the udder of a cow, either having crawled up its legs, or having gone to it when it was lying down?
G.—Indeed, Sir, it is not! I am sorry I have allowed a vulgar prejudice to satisfy me, without examining or thinking for myself. I wish I had never killed one, or had one killed.
C.—You are quite right. The food of the hedgehog in the summer consists of worms, snails, slugs, beetles and other insects. In the autumn, when insects have become scarce, it is glad to pick up hips and haws, crab-apples, and other wild fruits; and in the winter it goes into a torpid state, coiled up in its hole or nest, having first (as is said) rolled itself on the dry leaves, which stick to its spines, and make it a sort of outer covering. In the spring the warm weather again sets its blood into circulation, and it comes out from its winter retreat, to renew its good offices to you by destroying many insects, which if not prevented by such means as this from becoming too numerous, would do the farmers more injury than they do at present. In the mild summer evenings it is a very pretty sight to see it, as I often have, stealing up the hedge-row sides in search of its food, but the least noise scares it away, and it runs off to its lair, or if you come very suddenly close upon it, it crouches down, in hope of escaping observation.
G.—John, bring the hedgehog here:—take the string off its leg: now put it down, and let it run away; and when you go home, mind you tell your children what the priest has said. Be sure you never worry another.
John.—I'll never molest another, Master, as long as I live; and I'll be certain to tell my bairns the same.
(The hedgehog runs off, limping a little, but evidently most happy to escape, and is soon lost sight of in some long grass).
Crambe Vicarage, August 1, 1843.
