I kept him for his humor's sake, For he would oft beguile My heart of thought, that made it ache, And force me to a smile.

But now beneath this walnut shade, He finds his long, last home, And waits, in snug concealment laid, Till gentler Puss shall come.

He, still more aged, feels the shocks, From which no power can save, And, partner once of Tiney's box, Must soon partake his grave.



The Goat.

Goats have been taught to perform a great many wonderful exploits. The celebrated traveler, Dr. Clarke, gives a very curious account of a goat which he came across in Arabia. This goat would perform some most surprising feats of dexterity. "We met," he says, "an Arab with a goat, which he led about the country to exhibit, in order to gain a livelihood. He had taught this animal, while he accompanied its movements with a song, to mount upon little cylindrical blocks of wood, placed successively one above another, and resembling in shape the dice belonging to a backgammon table. In this manner the goat stood, first on the top of two; afterward of three, four, five, and six, until it remained balanced upon the summit of them all, elevated several feet above the ground, and with its fore feet collected upon a single point, without throwing down the disjointed fabric on which it stood. The diameter of the upper cylinder, on which its four feet alternately remained until the Arab had ended his ditty, was only two inches, and the length of each was six inches. The most curious part of the performance took place afterward; for the Arab, to convince us of the animal's attention to the turn of the air, sometimes interrupted the ordinary da capo, or repeat, and as often as he did so, the goat tottered, and appeared uneasy. When the man suddenly stopped, in the middle of his song, the animal fell to the ground."



A farmer in Scotland missed one of his goats, when his flock came home at night. Being afraid the missing animal would get among the young trees in his nursery, he sent two boys, wrapped up warm in their plaid cloaks, to watch all night. In the morning, these boys climbed up the brow of a hill near by, to hunt for the wanderer. They found her after a long search. She was on the brow of a hill, and her young kid was by her side. This faithful mother was defending the kid from the attack of a fox. The enemy was using all the cunning and art he was master of, to get possession of the little fellow, while the old goat was presenting her horns in every direction, as he made his sallies. The boys shouted at the top of their voices, in order to drive the fox away. But Master Renard was probably aware that they would not dare to touch him. At any rate, he kept up the assault. At last, getting out of patience with the goat, he made a more resolute effort to seize the kid; and in an instant all three of the animals rolled off the precipice, and were killed by the fall. The fox was found at the bottom of the gorge, with the goat's horns piercing his body.

A story is told by Mr. Bingley, which illustrates, in a very forcible manner, the gratitude and affection of the goat. After the final suppression of the Scottish rebellion of 1715, by the decisive battle of Preston, a gentleman who had taken a very active share in it escaped to the West Highlands, to the residence of a female relative, who afforded him an asylum. As, in consequence of the strict search which was made after the ringleaders, it was soon judged unsafe for him to remain in the house of his friend, he was conducted to a cavern in a sequestered situation, and furnished with a supply of food. The approach to this lonely abode consisted of a small aperture, through which he crept, dragging his provisions along with him. A little way from the mouth of the cave the roof became elevated, but on advancing, an obstacle obstructed his progress. He soon perceived that, whatever it might be, the object was a living one; but unwilling to strike at a venture with his dirk, he stooped down, and discovered a goat and her kid lying on the ground. The animal was evidently in great pain, and feeling her body and limbs, he ascertained that one of her legs had been fractured. He bound it up with his garter, and offered her some of his bread; but she refused to eat, and stretched out her tongue, as if intimating that her mouth was parched with thirst. He gave her water, which she drank greedily, and then she ate the bread. At midnight he ventured from the cave, pulled a quantity of grass and the tender branches of trees, and carried them to the poor sufferer, which received them with demonstrations of gratitude. The only thing which this fugitive had to arrest his attention in this dreary abode, was administering comfort to the goat; and he was, indeed, thankful to have any living creature beside him. She quickly recovered, and became tenderly attached to him. It happened that the servant who was intrusted with the secret of his retreat fell sick, when it became necessary to send another with provisions. The goat, on this occasion, happening to be lying near the mouth of the cavern, opposed his entrance with all her might, butting him furiously; the fugitive, hearing a disturbance, went forward, and receiving the watchword from his new attendant, interposed, and the faithful goat permitted him to pass. So resolute was the animal on this occasion, that the gentleman was convinced she would have died in his defence.



The Tiger.

Such of my readers as have had an opportunity to look a little into natural history, are probably aware that the tiger belongs to the cat family. Many of its habits are very like those of the domestic cat. Did you ever see an old cat preparing to make a spring at a mouse or a bird? If you have, you have noticed that she crouches on the ground, and creeps stealthily along toward her victim, without making the least noise, until she is near enough, and then suddenly springs upon her prey. The tiger pursues the same course.

A British officer, who lived for awhile in India, where tigers abound, was returning, in the evening, to the house where he resided, after dining with another officer, when he was met by his servants, who were making a great noise, in order to frighten away a tiger which was known to be prowling about the neighborhood. Although he had been some years in India, the young officer had never seen a tiger, as it happened, except from a distance; and he determined he would gratify his curiosity, if possible, and have a good view of the animal. So he dismissed his servants, and seated himself opposite the jungle, where the tiger was supposed to be, and there looked out for the enemy. It was moonlight, and the ferocious beast soon discovered the officer. The latter could distinctly see all the motions of his savage foe. He approached so slowly as scarcely to make the least noise. Then, crouching down, he prepared to make the fatal spring at his victim. At this instant, however, the officer, taking off a bear skin cap which he wore, swung it in the air, and shouted as loudly as he could. This so frightened the tiger that he made off with himself, and was soon out of sight in the bushes.

A European gentleman, who has spent some time in Java, tells us a thrilling story about the adventure of a criminal with a tiger. The poor man was condemned, as is the custom in that country, to fight a large royal tiger, whose ferocity was raised to the highest point by want of food and artificial irritation. The only weapon allowed to the human combatant was a lance, with the point broken off. After wrapping a cloth round his left fist and arm, the man entered the arena with an air of undaunted calmness, and fixed a steady, menacing gaze upon the brute. The tiger sprang furiously upon his intended victim, who, with extraordinary boldness and rapidity, thrust his left fist into the gaping jaws, and at the same moment, with his keen, pointless dagger, ripped up the breast to the very heart. In less than a minute the tiger lay dead at his conqueror's feet. The criminal was forgiven.



Several years ago, an Englishman, by the name of Munro, was killed by a tiger in the East Indies. The particulars of this distressing scene are given by an eye-witness. "We went on shore," says the writer of the narrative, "to shoot deer, of which we saw innumerable tracks, as well as of tigers; notwithstanding which, we continued our diversion till near three o'clock, when, sitting down by the side of a jungle to refresh ourselves, a roar like thunder was heard, and an immense tiger seized on our unfortunate friend, and rushed again into the jungle, dragging him through the thickest bushes and trees, every thing giving way to his monstrous strength; a tigress accompanied his progress. The united agonies of horror, regret, and fear, rushed at once upon us. I fired on the tiger; he seemed agitated; my companion fired also, and, in a few minutes after this, our unfortunate friend came up to us bathed in blood. Every medical assistance was vain, and he expired in the space of twenty-four hours, having received such deep wounds from the teeth and claws of the animal, as rendered his recovery hopeless. A large fire, consisting of ten or twelve whole trees, was blazing by us at the time this accident took place, and ten or more natives were with us. The human mind can scarce form any idea of the scene of horror. We had hardly pushed our boat from that accursed shore, when the tigress made her appearance, almost raging mad, and remained on the sand, exhibiting signs of the utmost ferocity, all the while we continued in sight."

There is an account given of a small party who entered a cave, to seek shelter from a terrible storm, in South America. The storm raged with such violence, that they could not hear each other speak; the cedar-trees were struck down, and the torrents of rain rushed from the mountains. Suddenly a growling noise was heard at the end of the cave. They soon found, to their amazement and horror, that they had taken refuge in a tiger's cave, and that the growling proceeded from two young cubs. At this moment the Indians who attended them gave the alarm that a tiger was approaching. The Indians mounted a tree, and the party in the cave blocked up the mouth of it with a large and heavy stone, which fortunately lay near. A dreadful roar was heard, which was replied to by the growling of the two cubs, and the flaming eyes of a tremendous tiger were seen glowing with fury between the top of the stone and the rock just above it. The tiger attempted to remove the stone, but his prodigious strength was unequal to the attempt, and he howled more tremendously than before. Several of the party had leveled their muskets and pistols at the head of the tiger, through the narrow opening left by the stone; but the storm had damped the powder, and the pieces could not be discharged. The young cubs were then killed and thrust through the hole to the tiger on the outside, who, after turning them over and examining them, broke afresh into the wildest fury. The Indians discharged several arrows at the infuriated animal, but his thick skin repelled them. The storm ceased, and the thunder was heard only in the distance, but the tiger laid himself down at the mouth of the cave. In a short time a roar was heard near, which was answered by the tiger, who sprang up directly on his feet. The Indians in the tree gave a wild shriek, as a tigress bounded toward the cave. The howling of the two animals, after the tigress had examined her cubs, was truly terrible, and every one in the cavern gave himself over for lost. A powder-flask, containing their whole stock of gunpowder, had been upset in turning out the young cubs, so that they were reduced to despair. The tigress, after staring wildly at the stone at the opening of the cavern, sprang against it with all her force, and would probably have displaced it, had not the party joined together to hold it in its place. Suddenly the two tigers turned their heads toward the forest, and disappeared. The Indians descended the tree, and urged the party in the cave to take the opportunity of escaping, for that the tigers had ascended the heights to find another way into the cave. No time was to be lost; they hurried through the forest till they came to a wide chasm with a rushing stream below it. A bridge of reeds had been thrown across the chasm, and over this bridge they passed, but the tigers were close in pursuit. The last of the party who crossed the bridge cut the fastenings which tied it to the rock, and hoped by this means to secure safety, when the tigress rushed toward the chasm, made a spring, and fell down upon the pointed rocks below, and from thence into the torrent at the bottom. It was a fearful sight to see this ferocious animal for a moment in the air, without knowing whether she would be able to clear the chasm. The tiger paused not a moment, but making an amazing spring, reached the opposite side with his fore paws. As he clung to the rock, one of the party plunged his sword into the breast of the furious beast, while another struck him a blow on the head with the butt-end of his gun. The tiger let go his hold, and fell back into the abyss. This was a dreadful moment! for the man who struck the tiger on the head could not recover himself; he reeled over the edge of the fearful precipice, stretched out his hand in vain to seize hold of something with which to save himself, and then was precipitated into the horrid gulf below!

A novel exhibition was presented in the city of Boston, not long ago, which attracted the attention of every body, old and young. Herr Driesbach, the famous tamer of wild animals, made his appearance in an elegant sleigh, with his pet tiger by his side. In this manner he rode through the streets. The tiger, it is said, seemed to enjoy the sleighing mightily, and leaped upon his master, from time to time, licking his face, and showing other signs of excitement. Driesbach had to strike him several times, to keep him from making too enthusiastic demonstrations. After astonishing the citizens for a considerable time, Driesbach alighted at his hotel, with his tiger, and taking him into one of the apartments, invited gentlemen to walk in and be introduced, though there were very few who seemed willing to avail themselves of the privilege.



The Rhinoceros.

From the accounts of those who are best acquainted with the rhinoceros, it appears that the animal is tamed only with great difficulty, and never to such an extent that it is always safe to approach him. Sir Everard Home gives the following account of one in a menagerie in London: "He was so savage, that about a month after he came, he endeavored to kill the keeper, and nearly succeeded. He ran at him with the greatest fury; but, fortunately, the horn of the animal passed between the keeper's thighs, and threw him on the head of the rhinoceros. The horn struck a wooden partition, into which it was forced to such a depth, that the animal, for a minute, was unable to withdraw it; and during this interval, the man escaped. By discipline, the keeper afterward got the management of him; but frequently, more especially in the middle of the night, fits of phrensy came on, and while these lasted, nothing could control his rage. He ran, with great swiftness, round his den, playing all kinds of antics, making hideous noises, breaking every thing to pieces, and disturbing the whole neighborhood. While this fit was on, the keeper never dared to come near him."

When the rhinoceros is quietly pursuing his way through his favorite glades of mimosa bushes (which his hooked upper lip enables him readily to seize, and his powerful grinders to masticate), his horns, fixed loosely in his skin, make a clapping noise by striking one against the other; but on the approach of danger, if his quick ear or keen scent makes him aware of the vicinity of a hunter, the head is quickly raised, and the horns stand stiff, and ready for combat on his terrible front. The rhinoceros is often accompanied by a sentinel, to give him warning—a beautiful green-backed and blue-winged bird, about the size of a jay—which sits on one of his horns.

The following account of the perils of a party hunting for the rhinoceros is given by Mr. Bruce, a traveler of celebrity: "We were on horseback, at the dawn of the day, in search of the rhinoceros; and after having searched about an hour in the thickest part of the forest, one of these animals rushed out with great violence, and crossed the plain toward a thicket of canes, at the distance of nearly two miles. But though he ran, or rather trotted, with surprising speed, considering his bulk, he was in a short time pierced with thirty or forty javelins. This attack so confounded him, that he left his purpose of going to the thicket, and ran into a deep ravine, without outlet, breaking about a dozen of the javelins as he entered. Here we thought he was caught in a trap—for he had scarcely room to turn—and a servant, who had a gun, standing directly over him, fired at his head. The animal fell immediately, to all appearance dead. All those on foot now jumped into the ravine, to cut him up. But they had scarcely begun, when the animal recovered himself so far as to rise upon his knees; and he would undoubtedly have destroyed several of the men, had not one of them, with great presence of mind, cut the sinew of the animal's hind leg. To this precaution they were indebted, under God, for their lives."

The rhinoceros and the elephant have been known to engage in a pitched battle, in which case the former always comes off victor. The combat, however, is a very furious one.

There are two species of the rhinoceros. The one which is represented in the engraving is the double-horned rhinoceros. It is perhaps the largest of land animals, with the exception of the elephant. When pursued, notwithstanding its large, unwieldy body, it can run with astonishing swiftness.



The Alligator.

On the whole, though the alligator can hardly claim any attention from us in these stories, owing to his manner of locomotion, and some other circumstances, yet I think I will introduce him to the reader, as I have two or three anecdotes about his tribe, which are worth reading, and as he comes within the qualifications for introduction to our present company of animals, so far as to possess the specific number of locomotive organs.

A British medical officer, many years a resident in the East Indies, relates the following painful incident: "A native, being employed in repairing a ship lying in the Bengal river, carelessly put his legs off the stage upon which he was seated, at the side of the vessel, and being engaged in conversation with his wife and child, who were on board, forgot the danger of his situation. As he proceeded in his labors, it was necessary to lower the stage, until it came within a few feet only of the water. He had not been in this position many minutes, when a monstrous alligator rose suddenly above the surface of the river, and before the poor man perceived the animal, seized one of his legs, snapped it off, just above the knee, and descended into the water. The man then tried to get on board the ship, but in vain. The pain, the terror, the loss of his limb, so entirely prostrated his strength, that all his efforts were useless. The wife hung terror-stricken over the side of the vessel, not knowing what to do, calling for assistance, and shrieking distractedly. The boy, with more presence of mind, clung to his father, and endeavored, with all his little strength, to lift him up. The cries of the woman at length brought some persons to ascertain what was the matter. At this moment the monster appeared again. The son redoubled his exertions to drag his father from his terrible situation, but with as little success as before. Some of the people who were attracted to the spot, threw stones, sticks, or any thing that happened to be in their way, at the alligator, while the wife, thinking that the deliverance of her husband was now certain, hastened to the shore to seek the surgeon. As the monster advanced, the child became convulsed with terror, and at length was hardly able, by his exertions, to sustain the weight of his father's body. He called loudly for assistance, but either through surprise or fear, his cries were unheeded. Still continuing to defend himself in a measure from the attacks of the alligator, the sufferer became exhausted from pain and loss of blood. The terrible animal seized the other leg. The boy still kept his hold, and contrived to throw a rope round the body of his nearly expiring father, so as to prevent him from being pulled into the river. At this instant the wife returned with the surgeon. But, alas! they came too late. The poor Indian recognized his wife, gave one parting look, then sunk in death on the bosom of his child."



Mr. Audubon, the distinguished naturalist, has given some of the most interesting facts in connection with the alligator that have come to my knowledge. He says: "A friend having intimated a wish to have the heart of one of these animals, to study its comparative anatomy, I one afternoon went out about half a mile from the plantation, and seeing an alligator that I thought I could put whole into a hogshead of spirits, I shot it immediately on the skull-bone. It tumbled over from the log on which it had been basking into the water, and, with the assistance of two negroes, I had it out in a few minutes, apparently dead. A strong rope was fastened round its neck, and in this condition, I had it dragged home across logs, thrown over fences, and handled without the least fear. Some young ladies there, anxious to see the inside of its mouth, requested that the mouth should be propped open with a stick put vertically; this was attempted, but at this instant the first stunning effect of the wound was over, and the animal thrashed and snapped its jaws furiously, although it did not advance a foot. I have frequently been very much amused when fishing in a bayou, where alligators were numerous, by throwing a blown bladder on the water toward the nearest one. The alligator makes for it, flaps it toward its mouth, or attempts seizing it at once, but all in vain. The light bladder slides off; in a few minutes many alligators are trying to seize this, and their evolutions are quite interesting. They then put one in mind of a crowd of boys running after a football. A black bottle is sometimes thrown in also, tightly corked; but the alligator seizes this easily, and you hear the glass give way under its teeth, as if ground in a coarse mill. They are easily caught by negroes, who most expertly throw a rope over their heads when swimming close to shore, and haul them out instantly."

A writer in the Liberia Herald, according to his account of the matter, had a pretty good opportunity to observe some of the habits of the alligator. "Coming down the river," he says, "a few days ago, we espied an alligator lying with his body on the sloping margin of the river, his lower jaw submerged in the water, while the upper was extended in the air, showing a formidable array of teeth. We stopped to gaze at him. Anon, a hapless fish ventured within the dread chasm, when the treacherous jaws suddenly closed, and severed the fish asunder. The native boys who were with us, took the occasion to assign the reason of some of the alligator's movements. They say he lies with his mouth open, to attract a certain insect which floats upon the surface of the water. These collect in large numbers around his mouth; fishes feed upon them, and when lured by the desired prey within the vortex, they become a prey themselves."

There is a singular adventure with an alligator recorded by the captain of a vessel on the coast of Guinea. It is as follows: "The ocean was very smooth, and the heat very great. Campbell, who had been drinking too much, was obstinately bent on going overboard to bathe, and although we used every means in our power to persuade him to the contrary, he dashed into the water, and had swam some distance from the vessel, when we on board discovered an alligator making toward him, behind a rock that stood some distance from the shore. His escape I now considered impossible, and I applied to Johnson to know how we should act, who, like myself, affirmed the impossibility of saving him, and instantly seized upon a loaded musket, to shoot the poor fellow before he fell into the jaws of the monster. I did not, however, consent to this, but waited, with horror, the event; yet, willing to do all in my power, I ordered the boat to be hoisted out, and we fired two shots at the approaching alligator, but without effect, for they glided over his scaly covering like hail-stones on a tiled house, and the progress of the creature was by no means impeded. The report of the piece, and the noise of the blacks from the sloop, soon made Campbell acquainted with his danger; he saw the creature making toward him, and, with all the strength and skill he was master of, he made for the shore. And now the moment arrived, in which a scene was exhibited beyond the power of my pen to describe. On approaching within a very short distance of some canes and shrubs that covered the bank, while closely pursued by the alligator, a fierce and ferocious tiger sprang toward him, at the instant the jaws of his first enemy were extended to devour him. At this awful moment Campbell was preserved. The eager tiger, by overleaping, fell into the gripe of the alligator. A horrible conflict then ensued. The water was colored with the blood of the tiger, whose efforts to tear the scaly covering of the alligator were unavailing, while the latter had also the advantage of keeping his adversary under water, by which the victory was presently obtained; for the tiger's death was now effected. They both sank to the bottom, and we saw no more of the alligator. Campbell was recovered, and instantly conveyed on board; he did not speak while in the boat, though his danger had completely sobered him. But the moment he leaped on the deck, he fell on his knees, and returned thanks to the Providence who had so protected him; and, what is most singular, from that moment to the time I am now writing, he has never been seen the least intoxicated, nor has been heard to utter a single oath."



The Cat.

Cats, say what you will against them, have some excellent traits of character. They are capable of the strongest attachment. A cat which had been brought up in a family, became extremely attached to the oldest child, a little boy who was very fond of playing with her. She bore with the utmost patience all the rough treatment of the mischievous child, without ever making the least resistance. As the cat grew up, she used to catch mice, and bring them alive into the room where the little boy was, to amuse him with her prey. If he showed an inclination to take the mouse from her, she let it run, and waited to see whether he was able to catch it. If he did not, she darted at it, caught it, and again laid it before him. In this manner the sport continued, as long as the child showed any taste for it.

At length, the boy was attacked with the small-pox, and during the early stages of his disorder, the cat rarely left his bed-side; but as his danger increased, it was thought necessary to remove the cat, and lock her up. The child died. On the following day, the cat, having escaped from her confinement, immediately ran to the apartment where she hoped to find her playmate. Disappointed in her expectations, she sought for him, with symptoms of great uneasiness and loud lamentations, all over the house, till she came to the door of the room in which the corpse lay. Here she lay down in silent grief, till she was again locked up. As soon as the child was buried, and the cat set at liberty, she disappeared; and it was not till a fortnight after that event, that she returned to the well-known apartment, sad and emaciated. She refused to take any nourishment, and soon ran away again, with dismal cries. At length, compelled by hunger, she made her appearance one day at dinner-time, and continued to visit the house after that, every day, at about the same hour, but always left as soon as she had eaten the food that was given her. No one knew where she spent the rest of her time, until she was found, one day, under the wall of the burying-ground, close to the grave of her favorite; and so strong was the attachment of the cat to her lost friend, that, till his parents removed to another place, nearly five years afterward, she never, except in the severest winter weather, passed the night any where else than in the burying-ground, at her little friend's grave.

Here is another story of a cat who exhibited in a similar way her love for her deceased master. The incidents of this story, which, it is believed, are strictly true, occurred in the north of Scotland. Some years ago, a poor man residing in that country, whose habits of life had always been of the most retired description, giving way to the natural despondency of his disposition, put an end to his existence. The only other inmate of his cottage was a favorite cat. When the deed was discovered, the cat was found assiduously watching over her late master's body, and it was with some difficulty she could be driven away. The appalling deed naturally excited a great deal of attention in the surrounding neighborhood; and on the day after the body was deposited in the grave, which was made at the outside of the church-yard, a number of school-boys ventured thither, to view the resting-place of one who had at times been the subject of village wonder, and whose recent act of self-destruction was invested with additional interest. At first, no one was brave enough to venture near; but at last, the appearance of a hole in the side of the grave irresistibly attracted their attention. Having been minutely examined, it was at length determined that it must have been the work of some body-snatcher; and the story having spread, the grave was minutely examined, but as the body had not been removed, the community considered themselves fortunate in having made so narrow an escape. The turf was replaced, and the grave again carefully covered up. On the following morning the turf was again displaced, and a hole, deeper than before, yawned in the side of the sad receptacle. Speculation was soon busy at work, and all sorts of explanations were suggested. In the midst of their speculations, alarmed, perhaps, by the noise of the disputants, poor Puss darted from the hole, much to the confusion of some of the most noisy and dogmatic expounders of the mystery. Again the turf was replaced, and again and again was it removed by the unceasing efforts of the faithful cat to share the resting-place of her deceased master. It was at last found necessary to shoot her, it being found impossible otherwise to put a stop to her unceasing importunities.

The enmity of the cat and dog is proverbial. Yet instances have been known in which the closest friendship has been formed between them. A French author of a work on the Language of Brutes tells the following story: "I had a cat and dog, which became so attached to each other, that they would never willingly be asunder. Whenever the dog got any choice morsel of food, he was sure to divide it with his whiskered friend. They always ate sociably out of one plate, slept in the same bed, and daily walked out together. Wishing to put this apparently sincere friendship to the proof, I one day took the cat by herself into my room, while I had the dog guarded in another apartment. I entertained the cat in a most sumptuous manner, being desirous to see what sort of a meal she would make without her friend, who had hitherto been her constant table companion. The cat enjoyed the treat with great glee, and seemed to have entirely forgotten the dog. I had had a partridge for dinner, half of which I intended to keep for supper. My wife covered it with a plate, and put it into a cupboard, the door of which she did not lock. The cat left the room, and I walked out upon business. My wife, meanwhile, sat at work in an adjoining apartment. When I returned home, she related to me the following circumstances: The cat, having hastily left the dining-room, went to the dog, and mewed uncommonly loud, and in different tones of voice; which the dog, from time to time, answered with a short bark. They both then went to the door of the room where the cat had dined, and waited till it was opened. One of my children opened the door, and immediately the two friends entered the apartment. The mewing of the cat excited my wife's attention. She rose from her seat, and stepped softly up to the door, which stood ajar, to observe what was going on. The cat led the dog to the cupboard which contained the partridge, pushed off the plate which covered it, and, taking out my intended supper, laid it before her canine friend, who devoured it greedily. Probably the cat, by her mewing, had given the dog to understand what an excellent meal she had made, and how sorry she was that he had not participated in it; but, at the same time, had explained to him that something was left for him in the cupboard, and persuaded him to follow her thither."



In Lawrence's History of the Horse occurs the following anecdote, in which the cat is quite as much concerned as the horse: "A celebrated Arabian horse and a black cat were for many years the warmest friends. When the horse died in 1753, the cat sat upon his carcass until it was buried; and then, creeping slowly and reluctantly away, was never seen again, till her dead body was found in a hay-loft."

Henry Wriothsly, earl of Southampton, having been some time confined in the tower of London, was one day surprised by a visit from his favorite cat, who must have reached her master by descending from the chimney of the edifice.

The following instance of a cat's courage and maternal affection is recorded in the Naturalist's Cabinet: "A cat who had a family of kittens, was playing with them one sunny day in spring, near the door of a farm-house, when a hawk darted swiftly down and caught one of the kittens. The assassin was endeavoring to rise with his prey, when the mother, seeing the danger of the little one, flew at the common enemy, who, to defend himself, let the kitten fall. The battle presently became dreadful to both parties; for the hawk, by the power of his wings, the sharpness of his talons, and the keenness of his beak, had for awhile the advantage, cruelly lacerating the poor cat, and actually deprived her of one eye in the conflict. But Puss, not at all daunted by this accident, strove with all her cunning and strength to protect her little ones, till she had broken a wing of her adversary. In this state she got him more within the power of her claws, the hawk still defending himself, however, according to the best of his ability. The fight continued for a long time. But at last victory favored the mother; and by a sudden movement, she laid the hawk motionless beneath her feet, when, as if exulting in her victory, she tore off the head of her vanquished enemy. Disregarding the loss of her eye, she immediately ran to her bleeding kitten, licked the wounds inflicted by the talons of the hawk, purring, while she caressed the little one, with the same affection as if nothing had happened to her."

Here is an instance of the ingenuity of a cat. Tabby was in the habit of visiting a closet, the door of which was fastened by a common iron latch. A window was situated near the door. When the door was shut, the cat, as soon as she was tired of her confinement, mounted on the sill of the window, and with her paws dexterously lifted the latch, opened the door, and came out of the room. This practice she continued for years.

A cat belonging to a monastery in France was still more ingenious. She was accustomed to have her meals served to her at the same time that the inmates of the monastery had theirs. These hours were announced by the ringing of the bell. One day it so happened that Puss was shut up in a room by herself, when the bell rang for dinner, so that she was not able to avail herself of the invitation. Some hours afterward she was released from her confinement, and instantly ran to the spot where dinner was always left for her; but no dinner was to be found. In the afternoon the bell was heard ringing at an unusual hour. When the inmates of the cloister came to see what was the cause of it, they found the hungry cat clinging to the bell-rope, and setting it in motion as well as she was able, in order that she might have her dinner served up for her. Was not this act of the cat the result of something very nearly related to what we call reason, when exhibited in man?

A French naturalist gives us an amusing incident connected with a cat in Prussia. This animal was quietly sleeping on the hearth, when one of the children in the family where she lived set up a boisterous crying. Puss left the place where she was lying, marched up to the child, and gave her such a smart blow with her paw as to draw blood. Then she walked back, with the greatest composure and gravity, as if satisfied with having punished the child for crying, and with the hope of indulging in a comfortable nap. No doubt she had often seen the child punished in this manner for peevishness; and as there was no one near who seemed disposed to administer correction in this instance, Puss determined to take the law into her own hand.

This story brings to my mind one which I saw in a newspaper the other day, about a cat who took it upon her to punish her children in a very singular manner. The story runs thus: "One Sabbath, a motherly old cat, belonging to one of our citizens, left her little family in quiet repose, while she went forth in pursuit of something to eat. On returning, she found them quarreling. She then very deliberately took the one most eagerly engaged in the combat by the nape of the neck, and not seeing any convenient place near by to administer what she considered a salutary reproof, went to a tub of water, upon the edge of which she raised her feet, and dropped the kitten into the water. She resisted all attempts at escape, and after repeatedly sousing it in the water till sufficiently punished, she took it again by the neck as before, and carried it back again, doubtless a thorough repentant for the wrong it had done. There has been no contention in the family since."

It must be a very difficult thing for a cat, when a tame bird is within her reach, to resist the temptation to make a dinner from it. But there are not wanting instances in which this disposition has been entirely overcome. More than this: a cat has been known to become the protector of a bird, when it was in danger. A lady had a tame canary, which she was in the habit of letting out of its cage every day. One morning, as it was picking crumbs of bread off the carpet, her cat, who had always before showed the bird the utmost kindness, seized it suddenly, and jumped with it in her mouth upon a table. The lady was much alarmed for the fate of her favorite; but on turning about, she instantly perceived the cause. The door had been left open, and another cat, a stranger, had just come into the room! After the lady turned out the neighbor, her own cat came down from the table, and dropped the bird, without doing it the smallest injury.

The following story was told me by my friend Dr. Alcott: A cat, in Northborough, Mass., with three very young kittens, having been removed to Shrewsbury, a distance of about four miles, continued to elude the vigilance of her mistress, and, during the hours of sleep, to transport these three kittens to their old mansion in Northborough.

Here is a story about a cat who was for some time supposed to be a musical ghost: A family residing a few miles from Aberdeen, Scotland—so says the Aberdeen Herald—and at the time consisting of females, were recently thrown for one or two successive nights into no small consternation, by the unaccountable circumstance of a piano being set a strumming about midnight, after all the inmates of the house were in bed. The first night the lady of the house rose when she heard the unseasonable sounds, thinking some member of the family had set about "practicing her music" over night. She went cautiously to the room door, which she found shut; but although she heard the tones of the instrument when her hand was upon the handle of the door, on entering she was astonished to find no one in the room. The piano was indeed open, as it was generally, for a young girl to practice when she had a mind. But where was the midnight musician? The room was searched, but to no purpose—there was no musician visible. Next night the same sounds were heard, and a search was made, but with no better success. One or two nights of quietude might intervene between those on which such sounds were heard; but they still broke at intervals through the stillness of midnight—at one time with note by note, slowly—at another, like the quick, loud thundering of a battle-piece; till the horrible conviction filled every mind, that the house was haunted. One morning, the piano was heard sounding away much louder than usual; and the dawn having begun to peep through the window-blinds, one or two of the family, summoning up the courage that comes with the light of day, resolved that, "ghost, if ghost it were," they should at all risks have a peep at it, and cautiously descended to the door of the apartment, which was slightly ajar. The musician was fingering the instrument with the greatest industry and energy, and apparently at his own entire satisfaction. Well, after much demurring, in they peeped; and most assuredly, through the dim dusk of the morning, a gray figure was seen exerting itself most strenuously. They looked closer, when, behold, there was—what think you?—the cat, pawing away, first with her fore feet, and then with her hind; now touching one note gently, and then dancing with all fours across the keys. There was a solution of the enigma—a bringing to light of the imagined ghost.

A traveler in one of the Western States relates the following humorous anecdote of a wild cat: "I was plodding once in a wagon from Toledo to Maumee, over an execrably level road, in the hot noon sun of a mid-June day. The driver was a hardy fellow, who looked as though he could outhug a bear, and loosen the tightest Maumee ague with a single shake, and yet he owned he had been frightened by a wild cat, so that he ran from it, and then he told the story, which I give you partly in his own words: 'I was driving along this road in a buggy, with as fast a horse as ever scorned the whip, when some ten rods ahead of us, just by that big oak, a wild cat, leading three kittens, came out of the wood, crossed the road, and went into those bushes on our left, and I thought what nice pets they would make, and wished I had one. When I came up, I noticed one of the young ones in the edge of the bushes, but a few feet off, and I heard, or thought I heard, the old one stealing along deep in the woods. I sprang out, snatched up the kitten, threw it into the buggy, jumped in, and started. When I laid hands on it, it mewed, and kept mewing, and, as I grasped the reins, I heard a sharp growl and a thrashing through the brush. I knew the old one was coming, and the next instant she streamed over a log, and alighted in the road. She ran with her eyes flaming, her hair bristling, and her teeth grinning. She turned as on a pivot, and gave an unearthly squall, as she saw me racing away, and bounded after, with such yells and fury, and gained on me so fast, that for very fear I threw the kitten out, and lashed the flying horse; but she scarcely paused for that, but bounded on a while, as though recovery of her young would not suffice without revenge. When I saw her at my very back, I scarcely breathed until her crying child recalled her. Here, at the top of this pitch, I looked back, and saw her standing, with her young one in her mouth, looking after me, as though she had half a mind to drop the kitten and give chase again. I gave the horse a cut, and did not feel quite safe until I had got some miles away. I made up my mind from that time forward to let young kittens alone, and mind my own business.'"



The Jackal.

Like the hyena, the jackal derives its principal notoriety from its ferocious and untameable disposition. It is found in Southern Asia, in many parts of Africa, and, to some extent, in Syria and Persia. There is not much difference in the jackal and the dog, except in some of the habits of the two, and there is a great deal of similarity between the former and the wolf. By many Biblical commentators, it is thought that the three hundred foxes to which the sacred penman alludes in the book of Judges, as performing a singular and mischievous exploit in the standing corn of the Philistines, were jackals; and their habit of assembling together in large companies, so as to be taken in considerable numbers, seems to justify this conclusion—the fox being, on the other hand, a solitary animal, and in the habit of living for the most part in small families. To the inhabitants of hot countries, the jackal is of the same service as the vulture and the hyena. He does not scruple to feed upon putrid flesh. Wherever there is an animal in a state of putrefaction, he scents it out from a great distance, and soon devours it. In this way the air is often freed from substances in the highest degree unwholesome and deadly. Nor is this all. One of the habits of this animal is to enter grave-yards, and dig up the bodies that have been buried there. In countries where jackals abound, great care needs to be taken in protecting graves, newly opened, on this account. People frequently mix the earth on the mound raised over a grave with thorns and other sharp substances, to prevent the jackal from accomplishing the deed.



Still the jackal makes his living, in a great measure, by hunting other beasts. Indeed, he not only makes his own living, but, if the stories that are told about him are true, he helps other animals in getting their living, though it is very doubtful whether he means to do so. He has been called the "lion's provider," you know; and some have represented him as a humble slave of the lion, obeying his will in every thing, hunting for him, and only receiving for his portion what his majesty is pleased to leave. But this notion is probably somewhat fabulous. The upshot of the matter seems to be this: that the jackal, having about as much wit as some other servants of kings, chases after his prey, yelling with all his might, very industriously, and without hardly stopping to take breath, until the poor hare, or fawn, or whatever the animal may be, gets tired out, and then the jackal catches him. But the hunter, by his yelling, starts the lion, as soon as he gets upon the scent. The lion knows well enough that there is game somewhere in that region; and so he is on the look-out, while the jackal is running it down. Well, the jackal has to go over a great deal more ground than the lion—for these animals, when they are pursued, never go in a straight direction—and when the game is caught, he has had little more to do than to look on and enjoy the sport, and he comes up, at his leisure, just at the right time, to the spot where the jackals are going to have a feast over their well-earned prey. Then the lion thanks his dear friends, the jackals, and gives them liberty to retire a few moments, until he has tasted of their dinner, in order, perhaps he tells them, to see whether they have made a good selection. After satisfying his appetite, the jackals have unrestrained liberty to lick the bones, just as much and as long as they please.

In Captain Beechey's account of his expedition to explore the northern coasts of Africa, we have an interesting description of this animal. He does not give a very favorable account of the music made by a band of jackals. "As they usually come in packs," he says, "the first shriek which is uttered is always a signal for a general chorus. We hardly know a sound which is further removed from pleasant harmony than their yells. The sudden burst of the long-protracted scream, succeeding immediately to the opening note, is scarcely less impressive than the roll of the thunder clap after a flash of lightning. The effect of this music is very much increased when the first note is heard in the distance—a circumstance which frequently occurs—and the answering yell bursts out from several points at once, within a few yards of the place where the auditors are sleeping, or trying to sleep."

It sometimes happens that a jackal ventures near a house, and perhaps enters a hen-roost, to steal a hen. But in such cases, he often shows himself to be as stupid as he is impudent; for even then, if he hears the yelling of his comrades chasing their game, he forgets himself, and yells as lustily as the rest of them. The result is as might be expected. The inmates of the house are awakened, and they take such measures with the poor jackal, as effectually to prevent his repetition of the blunder.



The Sheep.

Sheep, as well as many other animals, show a great fondness for music. The following anecdote in proof of such a taste, is given on the authority of the celebrated musician, Haydn. He and several other gentlemen were making a tour through a mountainous part of Lombardy, when they fell in with a flock of sheep, which a shepherd was driving homeward. One of the gentlemen, having a flute with him, commenced playing, and immediately the sheep, which were following the shepherd, raised their heads, and turned with haste to the spot whence the music proceeded. They gradually flocked around the musician, and listened with the utmost silence and attention. He stopped playing. But the sheep did not stir. The shepherd, with his staff, now obliged them to move on; but no sooner did the fluter begin to play again, than his interested audience returned to him. The shepherd got out of patience, and pelted the sheep with pieces of turf; but not one of them moved. The fluter played still more sweet and beautiful strains. The shepherd worked himself up into a storm of passion. He scolded, and pelted the poor creatures with stones. Some of the sheep were hit, and they made up their minds to go on; but the rest remained spell-bound by the music. At last the shepherd was forced to entreat the flute-player to stop his music. He did stop, and the sheep moved off, but still they continued to look behind them occasionally, and to manifest a desire to return, as often as the musician resumed his playing.

The life of a shepherd is very favorable for study and for improvement in knowledge, if one has the natural genius and the industry to make use of his spare time. Some of the most eminent men the world ever saw began their career by the care of a flock of sheep. Did you ever hear of Giotto, the great painter Giotto? No doubt you have. He was the man who made that famous design for a church, at the request of Pope Benedict IX. The messengers of the pope entered the artist's studio, and communicated the wish of their master. Giotto took a sheet of paper, fixed his elbow at his side, to keep his hand steady, and instantly drew a perfect circle. "Tell his holiness that this is my design," said he. His friends tried to persuade him not to send such a thing to the pope; but he persisted in doing so. Pope Benedict was a learned man, and he saw that Giotto had given the best evidence of perfection in his art. He invited the painter to Rome, and honored and rewarded him. "Round as Giotto's O," from that time, became an Italian proverb. But I must give a glance at the early history of this man. In the year 1276—according to that invaluable publication, "Chambers' Miscellany of Useful and Entertaining Knowledge"—about forty miles from Florence, in the town of Vespignano, there lived a poor laboring man named Bondone. This man had a son whom he brought up in the ignorance usual to the lowly condition of a peasant boy. But the extraordinary powers of the child, uncultivated as they necessarily were, and his surprising quickness of perception and never-failing vivacity, made him the delight of his father, and of the unsophisticated people among whom he lived. At the age of ten, his father intrusted him with the care of a flock. Now the happy little shepherd-boy strolled at his will over meadow and plain with his woolly charge, and amused himself with lying on the grass, and sketching, as fancy led him, the surrounding objects, on broad flat stones, sand, or soft earth. His sole pencils were a hard stick, or a sharp piece of stone; his chief models were his flock, which he used to copy as they gathered around him in various attitudes. One day, as the shepherd-boy lay in the midst of his flock, earnestly sketching something on a stone, there came by a traveler. Struck with the boy's deep attention to his work, and the unconscious grace of his attitude, the stranger stopped, and went to look at his work. It was a sketch of a sheep, drawn with such freedom and truth of nature, that the traveler beheld it with astonishment. "Whose son are you?" cried he, with eagerness. The startled boy looked up in the face of his questioner. "My father is Bondone the laborer, and I am his little Giotto, so please the signor," said he. "Well, then, Giotto, should you like to come and live with me, and learn how to draw, and paint sheep like this, and horses, and even men?" The child's eyes flashed with delight, "I will go with you any where to learn that," said he; "but," he added, as a sudden thought made him change color, "I must first go and ask my father; I can do nothing without his leave." "That is quite right, my boy, and so we will go to him together, and ask him," said the stranger. It was the celebrated painter, Cimabue. Old Bondone consented to the wish of his son, and the boy went to Florence with Cimabue. Giotto soon went beyond his master in his sketches. His former familiarity with nature, while tending his sheep, doubtless contributed a good deal to his astonishing progress. One morning the master came into his studio, and looking at a half finished head, saw a fly resting on the nose. He tried to brush it off with his hand, when he discovered that it was only painted, and that it was one of the tricks of his young pupil. It was not long before the fame of the new artist spread all over Europe.



The author of that pleasant little book, called "Stories of the Instinct of Animals," relates a pleasing anecdote of a sheep in England. "One afternoon, in summer," he says, "after an illness which had confined me some time to the house, I went out into the field, to enjoy awhile the luxury of a walk at leisure among the beauties of nature. I had not been long in the field, before my attention was attracted by the motions of one of the sheep that were grazing there. She came up close to me, bleating in a piteous manner; and after looking wishfully in my face, ran off toward a brook which flowed through the pasture. At first I took but little notice of the creature; but as her entreaties became more importunate, I followed her. Delighted at having attracted my notice, she ran with all her speed, frequently looking back, to see if I was following her. When I reached the spot where she led me, I discovered the cause of all her anxiety. Her lamb had fallen into the brook, and the banks being steep, the poor little creature was unable to escape. Fortunately, the water, though up to the back of the lamb, was not sufficient to drown it. I rescued the sufferer with the utmost pleasure, and to the great gratification of its affectionate mother, who licked it with her tongue, to dry it, now and then skipping about, and making noisy demonstrations of joy. I watched her with interest, till she lay down with her little one, caressing it with the utmost fondness, and apparently trying to show me how much she was indebted to me, for my friendly aid."



A man was once passing through a lonely part of the Highlands in Scotland, when he perceived a sheep hurrying toward the road before him. She was bleating most piteously at the time; and as the man approached nearer, she redoubled her cries, looked earnestly into his face, and seemed to be imploring his assistance. He stopped, left his wagon, and followed the sheep. She led him quite a distance from the road, to a solitary spot, and at length she stopped. When the traveler came up, he found a lamb completely wedged in between two large stones, and struggling, in vain, to extricate himself. The gentleman immediately set the little sufferer free, and placed him on his feet, when the mother poured out her thanks and joy, in a long-continued and animated strain of bleating.

I am indebted to a correspondent of mine—Dr. Charles Burr, residing in the state of Pennsylvania—for a good story about a sheep which belonged to his father a number of years ago. This sheep, he says, was a cosset, was quite tame, and very much of a pet. One day, a young lamb of hers was wounded; and "my father (I must let the doctor tell his story in his own words) being out of the door, noticed the mother upon the hill by the barn, being as near the house as she could come. She appeared to be in great distress, running about, looking toward him, and bleating; evidently wishing to attract his attention. Supposing that something must be wrong, my father started to see what was the matter. The old sheep waited till he had got almost up to her, when she started and ran a few rods from him and stopped, turned round, looked at him, and bleated. My father followed on. The old sheep waited until he had got nearly up to her again, when she ran on, and went through the same operation as before. In this way she led my father to the farthest end of the pasture, where lay her lamb, bleeding and helpless. The little thing had bled so much that it could not raise its head, or help itself in the least. My father took the lamb, stanched the bleeding wound, took it in his arms and carried it home—the old sheep, in the mean time, following, and expressing her joy and gratitude, not by words, it is true, but by looks and actions more truthful, and which were not to be mistaken. Suffice it to say, that with proper care and nursing, the lamb was saved, and restored to health and strength, to the great satisfaction of both parties concerned."

I have a mind to tell you one of my own youthful adventures, in which a poor wight of a sheep had a prominent share. The adventure proved of immense service to me, as you will see in the sequel. Perhaps the story of it will be valuable to you, in the same manner.

I shall never forget the first time I sallied out into the woods to try my hand at hunting. Rover, the old family dog, went with me, and he was about as green in the matter of securing game as myself. We were pretty well matched, I think. I played the part of Hudibras, as nearly as I can recollect, and Rover was a second Ralph. I had a most excellent fowling-piece; so they said. It began its career in the French war, and was a very veteran in service. Besides this ancient and honorable weapon, I was provided with all the means and appliances necessary for successful hunting. I was "armed and equipped as the law directs," to employ the words of those semi-annual documents that used to summon me to training.

Well, it was some time before we—Rover and I—started any game. Wind-mills were scarce. For one, I began to fear we should have to return without any adventure to call forth our skill and courage. But the brightest time is just before day, and so it was in this instance. Rover began presently to bark, and I heard a slight rustling among the leaves in the woods. Sure enough, there was visible a large animal of some kind, though I could not determine precisely what it was, on account of the underbrush. However, I satisfied myself it was rare game, at any rate; and that point being settled, I took aim and fired.

Rover immediately ran to the poor victim. He was a courageous fellow, that Rover, especially after the danger was over. Many a time I have known him make demonstrations as fierce as a tiger when people rode by our house, though he generally took care not to insult them until they were at a convenient distance. Rover had no notion of being killed, knowing very well that if he were dead, he could be of no farther service whatever to the world. Hudibras said well when he said,

"That he who fights and runs away, May live to fight another day."

That was good logic. But Rover went farther than this, even. He was for running away before he fought at all; and so he always did, except when the enemy ran away first, in which case he ran after him, as every chivalrous dog should. In the case of the animal which I shot at, Rover bounded to his side when the gun was discharged, as I said before. For myself, I did not venture quite so soon, remembering that caution is the parent of safety. By and by, however, I mustered courage, and advanced to the spot. There lay the victim of my first shot. It was one of my father's sheep! Poor creature! She was sick, I believe, and went into the thicket, near a stream of water, where she could die in peace. I don't know whether I hit her or not. I didn't look to see, but ran home as fast as my legs would carry me. Thus ended the first hunting excursion in which I ever engaged; and though I was a mere boy then, and am approaching the meridian of life now, it proved to be my last.



The Deer.

There are several species of the deer—the moose, stag, rein-deer, elk, and others. Of these, the stag is one of the most interesting. He is said to love music, and to show great delight in hearing a person sing. "Traveling some years since," says a gentleman whose statements may be relied on, "I met a bevy of about twenty stags, following a bagpipe and violin. While the music continued, they proceeded; when it ceased, they all stood still."

As Captain Smith, a British officer in Bengal, was out one day in a shooting party, very early in the morning, they observed a tiger steal out of a jungle, in pursuit of a herd of deer. Having selected one as his object, it was quickly deserted by the herd. The tiger advanced with such amazing swiftness, that the stag in vain attempted to escape, and at the moment the officer expected to see the animal make the fatal spring, the deer gallantly faced his enemy, and for some minutes kept him at bay; and it was not till after three attacks, that the tiger succeeded in securing his prey. He was supposed to have been considerably injured by the horns of the stag, as, on the advance of Captain Smith, he abandoned the carcass, having only sucked the blood from the throat.



The following account of a remarkably intelligent stag, is given by Delacroix, a French gentleman: "When I was at Compiegne, my friends took me to a German, who exhibited a wonderful stag. As soon as we had taken our seats in a large room, the stag was introduced. He was of an elegant form, and majestic stature, and his aspect animated and gentle. The first trick he performed, was to make a profound bow to the company, as he entered, after which he paid his respects to each individual of us, in the same manner. He next carried about a small stick in his mouth, to each end of which a small wax taper was attached. He was then blindfolded, and at the beat of a drum, fell upon his knees, and laid his head upon the ground. As soon as the word pardon was pronounced, he instantly sprang upon his feet. Dice were then thrown upon the head of a drum, and he told the numbers that were thrown up, by bowing his head as many times as there were numbers indicated. He discharged a pistol, by drawing with his teeth a string that was fastened to the trigger. He fired a small cannon by means of a match which was attached to his right foot, and he exhibited no signs of fear at the report of the cannon. He leaped through a hoop several times, with the greatest agility—his master holding the hoop at the height of his head above the floor. At length the exhibition was closed, by his eating a handfull of oats from the head of a drum, which a person was beating all the time, with the utmost violence."

We must wind up what we have to say about this animal with a fable. Perhaps my little friends have seen it before. But it will bear reading again, and I should not be sorry to hear that many of you had committed it to memory; for there is a moral in it which you cannot fail to perceive, and which may be of service to you one of these days:

"A stag, quenching his thirst in a clear lake, was struck with the beauty of his horns, which he saw reflected in the water. At the same time, observing the extreme length and slenderness of his legs, 'What a pity it is,' said he, 'that so fine a creature should be furnished with so despicable a set of spindle-shanks! What a noble animal I should be, were my legs answerable to my horns!'

"In the midst of this vain talk, the stag was alarmed by the cry of a pack of hounds. He immediately bounded over the ground, and left his pursuers so far behind that he might have escaped; but going into a thick wood, his horns were entangled in the branches of the trees, where he was held till the hounds came up, and tore him in pieces.

"In his last moments he thus exclaimed: 'How ill do we judge of our own true advantages! The legs which I despised would have borne me away in safety, had not my favorite antlers brought me to ruin.'"



The Hippopotamus.

Every traveler, who has seen the hippopotamus in his native haunts, and who has attempted to give a description of the animal, represents him as exceedingly formidable, when he is irritated, and when he can get a chance to fight his battle in the water. On land, he is unwieldy and awkward; so that, when he is pursued by an enemy, he usually takes to his favorite element. There he plunges in head foremost, and sinks to the bottom, where it is said he finds no difficulty in moving with the same pace as when upon land, in the open air. He cannot, however, continue under water for any great length of time. He is obliged to rise to the surface, to take breath. Severe battles sometimes take place between the males, and they make sad havoc before they get through.



Great masses of flesh, torn out by their terrible jaws, mark the spot where one of these encounters has occurred. It not unfrequently happens that one or even both perish on the spot. On the banks of the Nile, whole fields of grain and sugar cane are sometimes destroyed by these animals.

Clapperton, the enterprising traveler, informs us that, when on a warlike expedition, he had convincing evidence that the hippopotamus is fond of music. "As the expedition passed along the banks of the lake at sunrise," says he, "these uncouth and stupendous animals followed the sound of the drums the whole length of the water, sometimes approaching so close to the shore, that the spray they spouted from their mouths reached the people, who were passing along the banks. I counted fifteen, at one time, sporting on the surface of the water."

The following account of hunting the hippopotamus is given by Dr. Edward Russell: "One of the animals we killed was of an enormous size. We fought with him for four good hours by night, and came very near losing our large boat, and probably our lives too, owing to the fury of the animal. As soon as he spied the hunters in the small canoe, he dashed at them with all his might, dragged the canoe with him under the water, and smashed it to pieces. The two hunters escaped with difficulty. Of twenty-five musket balls aimed at the head, only one pierced the skin and the bones of the nose. At each snorting, the animal spouted out large streams of blood on the boat. The rest of the balls stuck in the thick hide. At last, we availed ourselves of a swivel; but it was not until we had discharged five balls from it, at the distance of a few feet, that the huge animal gave up the ghost. The darkness of the night increased the danger of the contest, for this gigantic enemy tossed our boat about in the stream at his pleasure; and it was a fortunate moment for us that he gave up the struggle, as he had carried us into a complete labyrinth of rocks, which, in the midst of the confusion, none of our crew had observed."

In Egypt they have a singular mode of catching the hippopotamus. They throw large quantities of dried peas on the bank of the river along which the animal is expected to pass. He devours these peas greedily. The dry food disposes the animal to drink; and after drinking, the peas swell in his stomach, and the poor fellow is destroyed.

"I have seen," says a traveler, "a hippopotamus open his mouth, fix one tooth on the side of a boat, and another on the second plank under the keel—that is, four feet distant from each other—pierce the side through and through, and in this manner sink the boat." When the negroes go a-fishing, the same traveler informs us, "in their canoes, and meet with a hippopotamus, they throw fish to him; and then he passes on, without disturbing their fishing any more. Once, when our boat was near shore, I saw a hippopotamus get underneath it, lift it above the water upon his back, and overset it, with six men who were in it."

"We dare not," says another traveler, "irritate the hippopotamus in the water, since an adventure happened which came near proving fatal to the men. They were going in a small canoe, to kill one of these animals in a river, where there were some eight or ten feet of water. After they had discovered him walking at the bottom of the river, according to his custom, they wounded him with a long lance, which so greatly irritated him, that he rose immediately to the surface of the water, regarded them with a terrible look, opened his mouth, and with one bite took a great piece out of the side of the canoe, and very nearly overturned it, but he plunged again almost directly to the bottom of the river."



The Weasel.

Great numbers of weasels, it seems, sometimes unite together, and defend themselves pretty resolutely against the attacks of men. A laborer in Scotland was one day suddenly attacked by six weasels, who rushed upon him from an old wall near the place where he was at work at the time. The man, alarmed, as well he might have been, by such a furious onset, took to his heels; but he soon found he was closely pursued. Although he had in his hand a large horse-whip, with which he endeavored to frighten back his enemies, yet so eager were they in pursuing him, that he was on the point of being seized by the throat, when he fortunately noticed the fallen branch of a tree, at a little distance, which he reached, and snatching it up as fiercely as possible, rallied upon his enemies, and killed three of them, when the remainder thought it best to give up the battle, and left the field.



A similar case occurred some years ago near Edinburgh, when a gentleman, observing another leaping about in an extraordinary manner, made up to him, and found him beset and dreadfully bitten by about fifteen weasels, who still continued their attack. Both of the men being strong and courageous, they succeeded in killing quite a number of the animals, and the rest escaped and ran into the fissures of a neighboring rock. The account the unfortunate man gave of the beginning of the affray was, that, walking through the park, he ran at a weasel which he saw, and made several attempts to strike it, remaining between it and the rock, to which it tried to retreat. The animal, in this situation, squeaked loudly, when a sudden attack was made by the whole colony of weasels, who came to the rescue of their companion, determined to conquer or die.

Mr. Miller, in his Boy's Summer Book, tells us a little about what he had seen and heard of the habits and disposition of this family. He says, "They are a destructive race of little savages; and one has been known, before now, to attack a child in his cradle, and inflict a deep wound upon his neck, where it clung, and sucked like a leech. They are very fond of blood, and to obtain this, they will sometimes destroy the occupants of a whole hen-roost, not caring to feed upon the bodies of the poultry which they have killed. They will climb trees, attack the old bird on its nest, suck the eggs, or carry off the young; for nothing of this kind seems to come amiss to them. They are great hunters of mice; and their long, slender bodies are well adapted for following these destructive little animals in their rambles among the corn-stalks in the field. In this way, the weasel renders the farmer a good service occasionally, though he never asks to be rewarded with a duck or chicken, always choosing to help himself without asking, whenever he can get a chance. Oh! if you could but see a weasel attack a mouse, as I have done. By just one single bite of the head, which is done in a moment, and which pierces the brain before you can say 'Jack Robinson,' the mouse is killed as dead as a red herring, before he has time to squeak or struggle. It is no joke, I can tell you, to be bitten by a weasel; and if you thought, when you caught hold of one by the back, that you had him safe, you would soon find your mistake out; for his neck is as pliable as a piece of India rubber. He would have hold of your hand in a moment."



I have just come across a funny story about the adventure of a weasel and a hawk. It seems that a hawk took an especial fancy to a weasel that he saw prowling about a farm-yard. His hawkship happened to be pretty hungry at the time, and concluded he would carry off the weasel, and make a dinner of him at his leisure. So he pounced upon the fellow, and set out on his journey home. I should not wonder if he had a nest in the woods not far off. The weasel, however, submitted to his fate with no very good grace. He thought that two could play at that game. He twisted around his elastic neck—to use the language of the writer I mentioned—poked up his pointed nose, and in he went, with his sharp teeth, right under the wings of the hawk, making such a hole in an instant, that you might have thrust your finger in. The hawk tried to pick at him with his hooked beak, but it was no use.

The weasel kept eating away, and licking his lips as if he enjoyed himself; and the hawk soon came wheeling down to the ground, which he no sooner touched, than away ran the weasel, having got an excellent dinner at the expense of the hawk. He was not a bit the worse for the ride; while Mr. Hawk lay there as dead as a nail. The biter was bitten that time, wasn't he? It was a pretty good lesson to the hawk family not to be so greedy, though whether they ever profited by it is more than I can say. From the account that a little girl gave me of the incursions recently made upon her chickens, I judge that they did not all profit by it.



The Squirrel.

I had a pretty little red squirrel of my own, when I was a little boy. My father bought a cage for him, with a wheel in it; and Billy, as we used to call him, would get inside the wheel, and whirl it around for a half hour at a time. It was amusing, too, to see him stand up on his hind feet, and eat the nuts we gave him. Billy was a great favorite with me and my brother. By and by, we let him go out of the cage, and ramble wherever he pleased. He became as tame as a kitten. He would go out into the corn-field in autumn, and come home with his mouth filled with corn, and this he would lay up in a safe place for further use. Once the old cat caught him, and the poor fellow would have been killed, if some one had not been near and rescued him from the grasp of his enemy.

We indulged Billy a good deal. We had a box of hickory nuts in the garret, and he was allowed to go and help himself whenever he pleased. He was pleased to go pretty often, too; and he was not satisfied with eating what he wanted out of the box. The greedy fellow! One day he carried off nearly all the nuts there were in the box, and hid them away under the floor, through a hole he had gnawed in the boards.

He was a great pet though, for all that. We could not help loving him, mischievous as he was. He used to climb up often on my shoulder, and down into my pockets; and if there was any thing good to eat thereabout, he would help himself without ceremony. Sometimes, when he felt particularly frolicksome, he leaped from one person's shoulder to another, all around the room.

The more we petted this little fellow, and the more good things we gave him, the more roguish he became. At length he exhausted all my father's patience by his mischief. One of his last tricks was this. He gnawed a hole in a bag of meal, and after eating as much as he could (and this was but little, for we fed him as often as he needed to eat, and oftener too) he carried away large quantities of the meal, and wasted it. He never worked harder in his life, not even when he was trying to get away from the jaws of the old cat, than he did when he was scattering this meal over the yard. Well, we had a sort of a court about Billy, after this. My father's corn-house was the court room, and my father himself was the judge. We all agreed that Billy was guilty, though we differed as to the punishment that ought to be inflicted. The question seemed to be, according to the language they use in courts of law, whether the theft was a petty larceny or a grand larceny. Alas for Billy and Billy's friends! My father decided, in his charge to the jury, that the crime must be ranked under the head of grand larceny, and the jury brought in a verdict accordingly. My father pronounced the sentence, which was that the offending squirrel must die that same day. Billy seemed to be aware of what was going on, for he did not come near the house again till almost night; and when he did come, one of my father's men shot him, and just as the sun was going down he died. For a long time after that, I cried whenever I thought of poor Billy.

Among the many juvenile friends with whom I have had more or less correspondence, as the editor of a young people's magazine, is one who resides at Saratoga Springs. I passed a few days at this watering-place last summer, and called on Master William, for that is the name of my friend—who introduced to me a pet squirrel of his, called Dick. Dick did not perform many very surprising feats while I was present, though I did not at the time set that circumstance down as any evidence of a want of smartness on the part of the squirrel; for I well remembered that it was a very common thing for pets sustaining even a much higher rank in the scale of intelligence, to disappoint the expectations of those persons who think all the world of them, when they—the pets—are ushered into the presence of strangers, for the purpose of being exhibited, and, indeed, I have some faint recollection of thus disappointing an over-fond nurse, not unfrequently, on similar occasions. There are some propositions the truth of which it is quite as well to assent to, when one hears them stated, without waiting for proof; and among these propositions I class those which relate to the unheard-of sagacity and genius of a darling pet. I make it a point to admit, without demonstration or argument, that there never was another such a creature in all the world. Moreover, I saw plainly enough in Dick's keen, black eye, that he knew a thing or two, and I could easily understand how he might greatly endear himself to his little patron. Nor was I at all surprised when I recently heard of the death of this favorite, that my young friend cried a great deal; and I am sure I shared in some measure his grief. Poor Dick! I immediately wrote to Willy, to solicit a short biography of his favorite, for my stories about animals. The request was kindly responded to by Willy's aunt, from whom I received the following sketch:

"When Dick first became a member of the family, he was shy, resentful, and very capricious; but by degrees all these faults gave place to a sort of playful drollery, that called out many a laugh. His cage was a fine, large, commodious place, well lined with tiers, and furnished with every convenience that he could have desired in a habitation, not excepting a big wheel, which is by general consent esteemed a great luxury for a squirrel. But he often liked a change, and when the door was left loose, he would soon find his way out. Then he had many hair-breadth escapes—sometimes from dogs, who looked upon him as lawful prey; sometimes from frolicsome and thoughtless boys, who forgot how much a squirrel suffers who is worried almost to death. Sometimes he has been nearly abducted by strangers, who saw with surprise so small an individual at large, and quite unconscious of the perils of a public street in a watering-place. On one of these occasions, when he was playing with his little master, and skipping from bough to bough on the large trees that sheltered his home, he bounded from a branch to the roof of a three-storied house adjoining, and running across, jumped from one of the angles to the court below, landed on all fours, stopped a second or two to decide if he were really alive or not, then quietly trudged home to his cage. If he wanted a change, Dick had odd ways of showing himself dissatisfied with his condition. In the summer, when his house was too much exposed to the rays of the sun, he would give a queer little cry, which, if no one heeded, he would lie down flat, all extended, and gasp, as if each moment was his last; and no coaxing could bring him to himself, until he was removed, cage and all; then immediately he would jump up, frisk about, sit on his haunches, and laugh out of his eye as merrily as if he had said, 'I know a thing or two—don't I, though?' These manoeuvres were a clear sham; he could fall into one in a twinkling, at any time. How many times he has led the children of the family, and the big children too, through beds of beans, beets, and cucumbers, and through the tomato vines and rose-bushes; and when we were in full chase, just ready to believe that he had eluded us quite, and was gone forever, lo! there sat Dick in his wheel, as demure as a judge, and looking as wise as possible at those very silly people, who would be running about so fast, on such a warm day. He never liked any infringement upon his personal liberty; this he always resented; but he would pretend to hide away, and come and peep at you, or jump up behind you, stand on the top of your head or shoulder, play all manner of pranks about your person, get clear into the pocket of any friend, who was likely to have a supply of nuts. He would answer to his name, follow when called, in the house, out of the house, any where, play all about the large house-dog, Tom—pat him on the ear, gently pinch his tail, poise himself on his back, and pretend to sleep by the side of him. But if any one caught him, or held him, as if he were imprisoned—alas! what a struggle ensued—and then, I grieve to say it—he would bite."



The most common squirrels in this country are the gray, the red, and the striped, or chipping squirrel. The latter is the smallest of the three; and as that species are not hunted so much as the rest of the genus, they are very abundant in the woods. Many and many a time, when a child, have I been deceived by the cunning of the chipping squirrel. The little fellow has a hole and nest in the ground. The hole is very frequently either directly under or very near the stump of a tree which has been cut down or was blown over by the wind. Well, the little fellow is accustomed, or he was accustomed, when I was a little boy, to sit good-humoredly on this stump, and sing for hours together. His song has nothing very exquisite in it—it is simply "chip, chip, chip," from the beginning to the end; and his notes are not only all on the same key—a monotony which one might pardon, if he was particularly good-natured—but they are all on the same point in the diatonic scale. However, like many other indifferent singers that I have met in my day, our striped vocalist goes on with his music, as if he thought there never was another, or certainly not more than one other quite as finished a singer as himself. Well, the boy who is unacquainted with the tricks of this little fellow, as was once my own case, steals along carefully toward the stump, thinking that the squirrel is so busy with his music, that he is perfectly unconscious of any thing else that is going on, and that it is just the easiest matter in the world to catch him. Half a dozen times, at least, I have tried this experiment, before I became satisfied that I was not the only interested party who was wide awake. "Chip, chip, chip," sings the squirrel. He does not move an inch. He does not vary his song. His eyes seem half closed. The boy advances within a few feet of the squirrel. He reaches out his hand to secure his prize, when down goes the striped vocalist into his hole, always uttering a sort of laugh, as he enters his door, and seeming pretty plainly to say, though in rather poor Anglo-Saxon, it must be confessed, "No, you don't."

Whoever takes the pains to dig into the earth, where the striped squirrel has made his nest, will find something that will amply repay him for his trouble. The hole goes down pretty straight for some feet; then it turns, and takes a horizontal direction, and runs sometimes a great distance. Little chambers are seen leading out from this horizontal passage, each chamber connected by a door with the passage, and sometimes with other chambers. In each of these rooms, the squirrel stores up different varieties of nuts and other provisions. In one you will find acorns; in another hickory nuts—real shag-barks, for our chipping squirrel is a good judge in these matters; and in another chestnuts, a whole hat-full of them, sometimes. There is quite as much order and regularity in the store-houses of the chipping squirrel, as there seems to be about the premises of some lazy and careless farmers one meets with occasionally.

Accounts are given of the ingenuity of the squirrels in Lapland, which would be too astonishing for belief, were they not credited by such men as Linnaeus, on whose authority we have them. It seems that the squirrels in that country are in the habit of emigrating, in large parties, and that they sometimes travel hundreds of miles in this way, and that when they meet with broad or rapid lakes in their travels, they take a very extraordinary method of crossing them. On approaching the banks, and perceiving the breadth of the water, they return, as if by common consent, into the neighboring forest, each in quest of a piece of bark, which answers all the purpose of boats for wafting them over. When the whole company are fitted in this manner, they boldly commit their little fleet to the waves—every squirrel sitting on its own piece of bark, and fanning the air with its tail, to drive the vessel to the desired port. In this orderly manner they set forward, and often cross lakes several miles broad. But it occasionally happens that the poor mariners are not aware of the dangers of their navigation; for although at the edge of the water it is generally calm, in the middle it is always more rough. The slightest additional gust of wind often oversets the little sailor and his vessel altogether. The entire navy, that perhaps but a few minutes before rode proudly and securely along, is now overturned, and a shipwreck of two or three thousand vessels is the consequence. This wreck, which is so unfortunate for the little animal, is generally the most lucky accident in the world for the Laplander on shore; who gathers up the dead bodies as they are thrown in by the waves, eats the flesh, and sells the skins.

I read an interesting story, awhile ago, which came from the Gentleman's Magazine, about a squirrel who was charmed by a rattle-snake. The substance of the story was something like this: A gentleman was traveling by the side of a creek, where he saw a squirrel running backward and forward between the creek and a large tree a few yards distant. The squirrel's hair looked very rough, showing that he was very much terrified about something. His circuit became shorter and shorter, and the man stopped to see what could be the cause of this strange state of things. He soon discovered the head and neck of a rattle-snake pointing directly at the squirrel, through a hole of the tree, which was hollow. The squirrel at length gave over running, and laid himself down quietly, with his head close to the snake's. The snake then opened his mouth wide, and took in the squirrel's head; upon which the man gave the snake a blow across the neck with his whip, by which the squirrel was released. You will see by this story, which comes to us well authenticated, that snakes possess the power of charming, whatever some people may think or say to the contrary. This is only one among a multitude of facts which I could relate in proof of the existence of such a power among many of the serpent race. But we are conversing about quadrupeds now, and we must not go out of our way to chase after snakes.

A squirrel, sitting on a hickory-tree, was once observed to weigh the nuts he got in each paw, to find out which were good and which were bad. The light ones he invariably threw away, retaining only those which were heavier. It was found, on examining those he had thrown away, that he had not made a mistake in a single instance. They were all bad nuts.



The Giraffe.

Leaving our friends the squirrels, to whom we have certainly devoted quite sufficient attention, we pass along to quite a different race of animals—that of the giraffe or camelopard. This is a noble-looking animal, as you see plainly enough by the engraving. The tongue of the giraffe is exquisitely contrived for grasping. In its native deserts, the animal uses it to hook down branches which are beyond the reach of its muzzle; and in the menagerie at Regent's Park, many a fair lady has been robbed of the artificial flowers which adorned her bonnet, by the nimble and filching tongue of the rare object of her admiration. When attacked, notwithstanding the natural defence of horns and hoofs, the camelopard always seeks escape in flight, and will not turn to do battle except at the last extremity. In such cases, he sometimes makes a successful defence by striking out his powerful armed feet; and the king of beasts is frequently repelled and disabled by the wounds which the giraffe has thus inflicted with his hoofs. His horns are also used with effect, and a side-long sweep of his neck sometimes does fatal execution.

Some years ago, a giraffe was sent from Egypt to Constantinople. His keeper used to exercise him in an open square, where the Turks flocked daily, in great crowds, to see the extraordinary animal. Seeing how inoffensive he was, and how domestic he became, the keeper took the animal with him through the city; and wherever he appeared, a number of friendly hands were held out of the latticed windows, to offer him something to eat. When he came to a house where he had been well treated, if no one was at the window, he would tap gently against the wooden lattice, as if to announce his visit. He was extremely docile and affectionate; and if left to himself, he always frequented the streets where he had the most and best friends.



The Monkey Tribe.

Of course my readers are in some measure familiar with the tricks of this large and notorious family of animals. But one is not easily wearied with their antics. They afford us, the most sober and sedate of us, an immense amount of material for amusement. I confess I have stopped in the street, many a time, to see a sage monkey go through his grotesque manoeuvres, under the direction of a tutor who ground out music from a wheezing hand-organ, and have been willing to undergo the penance of hearing the music of the master, for the sake of witnessing the genius of the pupil. I can conceive of nothing more excessively ludicrous than many of these exhibitions. But I must not detain the reader from the stories any longer.

A foreign gentleman of distinction having to attend the court of Louis XVI. of France, took with him his favorite monkey. Soon after his arrival, he was invited to attend a great ball at Versailles; and anxious to perform his part with credit in that fashionable country, he engaged one of the first dancing-masters in the city to teach him the latest mode. Every day he employed several hours in practicing his lessons with the tutor, so as to be au fait, as the French people have it—quite at home in the ball-room. Pug made his observations very attentively, watching all his motions. He also scrutinized the musician very closely, as he was engaged in instructing the gentleman, and playing on his violin. At the close of his lesson, the foreigner was in the habit of going to his mirror, and of practicing before it, by himself, for a considerable time, till he was in a measure satisfied with his performances, and pretty sure, we may suppose, that he would make a fine figure at court when the ball should come off. One day, after the gentleman had been exercising in this manner, and had just left the room, the monkey, who had been looking on with interest, as usual, left his post of observation, took up the violin, which had been left there by the musician, and commenced playing and imitating the dancing of his master, before the mirror. There is no knowing how much of a dancer he would have become, if he had been allowed to practice as much as he desired. As it was, however, his training for the ball was very suddenly terminated by the entrance of a servant into the room, while the student was in the midst of his performances.

A monkey tied to a stake was robbed by the crows, in the West Indies, of his food, and he conceived the following plan of punishing the thieves. He feigned death, and lay perfectly motionless on the ground near to his stake. The birds approached by degrees, and got near enough to steal his food, which he allowed them to do. This he repeated several times, till they became so bold as to come within the reach of his claws. He calculated his distance, and laid hold of one of them. Death was not his plan of punishment. He was more refined in his cruelty. He plucked every feather out of the bird, and then let him go and show himself to his companions. He made a man of him according to the ancient definition of a "biped without feathers."

An organ-grinder, with his monkey, being taken before the mayor of New Orleans, for exhibiting themselves without a license, the monkey was so polite to the mayor, took off his cap and made so many bows to his honor, that the two were permitted to depart in peace. It is said that no lawyer would have managed the case better than the monkey did.

A gentleman living in Bath, England, had a monkey who used to perform a great many very amusing tricks, in imitation of his master. The gentleman was a great politician, and was in the habit of reading his newspaper very punctually every morning, at the breakfast-table. One day, business having compelled him to leave the table earlier than usual, Pug was found, seated in his chair, with his master's spectacles on, and the Courier newspaper upside down, reading as gravely, and with as much apparent interest, as the politician. Once in a while he looked off his paper, and chattered, and made significant gestures, as his master was in the habit of doing, when he came across any thing very especially interesting.

A farmer in the West Indies had planted a field with Indian corn. Numerous monkeys inhabited a forest near by, who had attentively observed the planting process, and the method by which it was cultivated. They seemed to take not a little interest in the whole matter. The farmer had the pleasure of seeing his crop of corn nearly ready for harvesting. But the monkeys took care that he should not have the trouble of harvesting it. One night, they issued from the forest in vast numbers, forming themselves into long lines between it and the corn-field. All was conducted in silence. Each was intent on the business in hand. Those in front of the lines plucked off the ears of corn with great dexterity, and passed them to his nearest companion, who handed them forward from one to another, till they reached the woods. In this manner the work proceeded till daylight, when the slaves found the thieves finishing the operation. It had been a very profitable night's labor for the mischievous fellows. The corn was pretty nearly all disposed of. Before the owner of it could get his workmen together, with suitable weapons of defence, the whole troop had disappeared in the forest. What a chattering there must have been among them, when they all met at their rendezvous! How knowing they must have looked, as they said one to another, "Wasn't that thing managed pretty nicely?"