thought he should find it his duty to do this
again, if the scales, as large as cheese-plates,
which the last sea-serpent had rubbed off in
scratching himself against an Irish light-house
the other day, were forwarded to him for
examination—as he hourly expected.

The Isabella Bear came forward at this
juncture, with clasped hands, and a moaning
voice. She endeavoured in a confused way,
wringing her hands continually, and being in
a state of great emotion, to complain of her
difference of diet compared with that of the
Hippopotamus. Nor was this all; for, whereas
all the other animals in her vicinity were fed
at six o'clock, she did not get her rice and
water till eight, and the cruelty of this
proceeding aggravated her sense of the
unprecedented luxuries heaped upon the Pig of Pigs.
What else she said could not be heard
distinctly; and she was led staggering out of
court by the Polar Bear, who said he was
ashamed of such weakness.

Lord Bumbleby (taking out his watch). The
Court has been sitting a long while. This is
rather a sharp morning. Mr. Mitchell, is it
nearly feeding time? (A laugh.)

A little bustle occurring in the Court, it
was found on inquiry to proceed from Mr.
Poot, who had had his pocket picked of his
veal-and-ham pie. He had no idea who could
have stolen it from him.

It being now intimated to Lord Bumblebee
that several other animals were desirous of
addressing the Court, his Lordship suggested that
they should depute some one from among the
number to represent the rest, with a view to
shortening the time, as he wanted some
refreshment.

After a little conference and discussion
among the group of animals, they unanimously
elected the Jack Daw; who accordingly
hopped and bowed himself forward, and
perching on the Secretary's table, close beside
his inkstand, with a grave look and a bright
round eye, proceeded to address the Court.

Accustomed as he was to public speaking,
he felt himself very unworthy of the honour
conferred upon him by this selection. He
would, however, fulfil the onerous and delicate
duty it imposed upon him in the best way—
his very humble abilities enabled him to do.
Jark! kark! He must apologise for his voice,
as he had a cold. Now, the great question
before them seemed to him to rest upon three
facts:—there was the Hippopotamack fact;
there was the merit and scarcity of many
other creatures; and there was the public
taste. As to the Hippopotamack fact,—the
expense lavished upon him, the pampering of
his vanity, and the attention bestowed upon
him by all classes, were matters of notoriety.
But the merit or scarcity of other creatures,
how was this overlooked? Jark! It was
abominable—kark! Not to mention those
who had already so ably represented their
own cases, how many others were injured!
Look at the Giraffes, for instance—creatures
who were so very tall and so very amiable.
All the world admired them. Yet, there
they were all day long, stretching out their
necks over the wooden barrier and gazing
with a large melancholy in their enquiring
eyes, down into the enclosure of the pampered
pig—their faces displaying an equal degree of
sadness at their own neglect, and of curiosity
to discover what it was that people found to
admire in the lounging weight that
perambulated the inclosure! Take two other
examples. There was the Tortoise, and his
solicitor, the Fox. For his own part, he, the
Jack Daw, had no sympathy with the
Tortoise,—notwithstanding his great scarcity,—
because, not content with this undoubted fact,
he had recently sought to make tortoises a
degree more scarce by endeavouring to murder,
by pressure into the earth, the other smaller
Tortoise which was in the same inclosure, so
that the keepers had been obliged to take the
latter away, and place him with the
Armadilloes. But for his friend the Fox, though
he, the Daw, did not exactly pretend to infer
that the Fox was a very scarce animal, yet how
various were the merits that entitled him to
consideration;—what intellect and presence of
mind—what eloquence, and what a fund of
anecdote, he possessed! But nobody who
came to the Gardens ever inquired after his
health, or cared for his existence. Rare birds
for beauty, or scarcity, or ugliness, or stupidity,
or wisdom, or for general knowledge, and
the gift of the" jark!—the "gift of the"
jark!—"gift of the" kark!—"of the gab,"
were all treated with the same neglect. Look
at the Flamingo!—had any other creature on
earth such ugly, long, thin, pink legs, with a
bass voice that seemed enough to shake him
clean off his legs every time he spoke? There
was the Indian Owl! Was there ever so fine
a pair of deep red eyes in any creature's head
—except on a locomotive steam-engine at
night? No—he was a matchless bird for
eyes. Then, there was the Barred Owl, in
the next cage, whom he, the Daw, felt
persuaded had seen better days—in fact, he was
sure, from the pensive air of his head and
wig, that he was a deposed Lord Chancellor
—all his hopes had been blighted.

Lord Bumbleby. Nothing offensive intended
in this last example, I suppose?

The Jack Daw assured the noble and
learned Lord, that he had intended no allusion
to any other owl. He spoke only of the
Barred Owl. There was yet a third owl of a
most wonderful expression, and deserving
marked attention. He was called the Eagle
Owl; but he ought—saving his Lordship's
presence—to be called the Devil's Owl, for if
ever a pair of eyes denoted the arch-enemy—

Lord Bumbleby. I cannot permit this
comparison to be made. It is out of order.

The Daw bowed so low as to strike his
bill upon the table, while his long black coat-
tails rose up in a way to express the highest
degree of respect. He gave the noble and