We often heard their curious, quavering,
whinnying cries on still evenings, but only once succeeded in tracing
an unfortunate family through our corn-field to their den in a big oak
and catching them all. One of our neighbors, Mr. McRath, a Highland
Scotchman, 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.
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