h-century boy could see us. But we made no collections of eggs.
We ate them.

I remember--but I out-run my story. First let me tell of Lop-Ear and our
friendship. Very early in my life, I separated from my mother. Possibly
this was because, after the death of my father, she took to herself a
second husband. I have few recollections of him, and they are not of the
best. He was a light fellow. There was no solidity to him. He was too
voluble. His infernal chattering worries me even now as I think of
it. His mind was too inconsequential to permit him to possess purpose.
Monkeys in their cages always remind me of him. He was monkeyish. That
is the best description I can give of him.

He hated me from the first. And I quickly learned to be afraid of him
and his malicious pranks. Whenever he came in sight I crept close to my
mother and clung to her. But I was growing older all the time, and it
was inevitable that I should from time to time stray from her, and stray
farther and farther. And these were the opportunities that the Chatterer
waited for. (I may as well explain that we bore no names in those days;
were not known by any name. For the sake of convenience I have myself
given names to the various Folk I was more closely in contact with,
and the "Chatterer" is the most fitting description I can find for that
precious stepfather of mine. As for me, I have named myself "Big-Tooth."
My eye-teeth were pronouncedly large.)

But to return to the Chatterer. He persistently terrorized me. He was
always pinching me and cuffing me, and on occasion he was not above
biting me. Often my mother interfered, and the way she made his fur
fly was a joy to see. But the result of all this was a beautiful and
unending family quarrel, in which I was the bone of contention.

No, my home-life was not happy. I smile to myself as I write the phrase.
Home-life! Home! I had no home in the modern sense of the term. My home
was an association, not a habitation. I lived in my mother's care, not
in a house. And my mother lived anywhere, so long as when night came she
was above the ground.

My mother was old-fashioned. She still clung to her trees. It is true,
the more progressive members of our horde lived in the caves above the
river. But my mother was suspicious and unprogressive. The trees were
good enough for her. Of course, we had one particular tree in which we
usually roosted, though we often roosted in other trees when nightfall
caught us.