In vain did Rossetti "shoo" it out.
It refused to budge. This went on for days.
"The lovely creature won't respond to me," said Rossetti pathetically to
a friend.
The friend dragged out the bird.
"No wonder! It's _dead_!"
"Bulls don't like me," said Rossetti a few days later, "and peacocks
aren't homely."
It preyed on his mind so much that he tried to repair the failure by
buying some white dormice. He sat them up on tiny bamboo chairs, and
they looked sweet. When the winter was over, he invited a party to meet
them and congratulate them upon waking up from their long sleep.
"They are awake now," he said, "but how quiet they are! How full of
repose!"
One of the guests went to inspect the dormice more closely, and a
peculiar expression came over his face. It might almost have been
thought that he was holding his nose.
"Wake up, little dormice," said Rossetti, prodding them gently with a
quill pen.
"They'll never do _that_," said the guest. "They're _dead_. I believe
they have been dead some days!"
Do you think Rossetti gave up live stock after this? Not a bit of it. He
tried armadillos and tortoises.
"How are the tortoises?" he asked his man one day, after a long spell of
forgetfulness that he had any.
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