With him we went to the Zoological Gardens.

The monkeys attracted me indescribably, and I seriously proposed to my father to adopt one or two of them as brothers for me.

I felt convinced that if they were properly dressed and taught they would be quite companionable, and I said so, to my father's great amusement, and to the scandal of Nurse Bundle, who was with us.
"I fear you would never teach them to talk, Regie," said my father; "and a friend who could neither speak to you nor understand you when you spoke to him would be a very poor companion, even if he could dance on the top of a barrel-organ and crack hard nuts." "But, papa, babies can't talk at first," said I; "they have to be taught." Now by good luck for my argument there stood near us a country woman with a child in her arms to whom she was holding out a biscuit, repeating as she did so, "Ta!" in that expectant tone which is supposed to encourage childish efforts to pronounce the abbreviated form of thanks.
"Now look, papa!" I cried, "that's the way I should teach a monkey.

If I were to hold out a bit of cake to him, and say, 'Ta,'"-- (and as I spoke I did so to a highly intelligent little gentleman who sat close to the bars of the cage with his eyes on my face, as if he were well aware that a question of deep importance to himself was being discussed)-- "He would probably snatch it out of your hand without further ceremony," said my father.

And, dashing his skinny fingers through the bars, this was, I regret to say, precisely what the little gentleman did.