Mr. Wood speaks of a small one which he used to feed with bread and
milk. He kept it, not in a garden, but in his own room, where its favourite
place was the rug: for it enjoyed the heat so much, that it made many
attempts, with its short legs and heavy shell, to climb over the fender in
order to get nearer to the fire. I don't remember that our tortoise ever
made any noise; but this one, shortly before it died, went about mewing
like a young kitten. Far from living to be a hundred, Mr. Wood's pet died
so soon that he had no opportunity of seeing whether it would in time get
to know him; but a story is told of a tortoise who did take a fancy to one
person, and, though he would attend to no one else, would come creeping
along at her call, and tap the boot of his favourite with his beak, in
token, we may suppose, of his regard. One lady, who had a long-standing
acquaintance with a tortoise, having fed him for thirty years, said he
would come to her, and to no one else; which looked rather like "cupboard
love," you will say.
You may have often admired the tortoise-shell of which combs are made, with
its beautiful wavy lines and markings; it is taken from the outside of the
shell of the turtle or sea-tortoise, which is caught not only for the sake
of its shell, but because its flesh is so good to eat. You may perhaps have
seen, as I have, a small turtle at the door of a shop, and wondered where
it came from, and what brought it there.
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