BARNUM'S SHOW IN WINTER-QUARTERS.

BY J. C. BEARD.

Last week, boys, I was too busy to tell you anything myself about my experiences among the birds and beasts so snugly located in the "Winter-Quarters." This time I am able to talk to you a little, as well as draw you some pictures.

Suppose we take a look at this party of cranes and pelicans and other queer birds. In spite of his long legs and clumsy bill, the pelican has more or less beauty to recommend him. The prevailing color of his feathers is a lovely rose shading off to white, while his breast wears an orange tinge. The cranes are also really handsome birds, in spite of their long thin legs. They have soft gray plumage, with snow-white crests, and two gracefully flowing plumes besides on the head.

But if you want to see a homely bird, look at the adjutant. Certainly the one that roams so confidently about the inclosure is the most hideous creature I ever saw. A great clumsy body, long legs, thick bare neck, and bare, ragged head make up a sum total of amazing ugliness. The adjutant's beak is the most remarkable feature about him, being nearly a yard long, and thick in proportion. This huge beak is strong enough to kill a man with one blow. As you see in our illustration, the keeper when feeding these birds is obliged to carry the dish of food upon his head; if held in his hands, those enormous beaks would make short work of dish, meat, and all. The adjutant acts the part of watch-dog, and cats and other stray animals that value their lives are careful to avoid this yard.

One of these birds reminded me of an expert at base-ball. Especially is he a good "catcher." The keeper stood fully fifteen feet from him, and tossed great pieces of meat toward him. Each time the bird's great beak opened exactly at the right moment, and closed with a snap upon the huge piece of raw meat. The bird seemed to enjoy the sport fully as much as the by-standers.

The adjutant in the lower sketch, whom we see apparently holding a confidential chat with his keeper, is a little fellow, quite tame, and even socially inclined. This position upon the keeper's knee, as the latter sits by the fire, is a favorite one with him.

The monkeys in Mr. Barnum's collection are well worth seeing. They are of various kinds. A blue-faced baboon named Napper is evidently the leader of monkey society at Bridgeport. He is a brilliant object to look at, for his cheeks are blue, his nose and eyebrows are bright scarlet, while his pointed beard is yellow. He is not a monkey of good character, and has actually been known to get intoxicated. Mr. Hodges, the keeper, is very fond of Napper, who seems to return affection. He will sit for hours upon his friend's knee before the fire, turning himself from side to side that he may receive the full benefit of the welcome heat. The monkeys suffer dreadfully from cold draughts, and are very apt to die of consumption.

Mr. Hodges assured me that most if not all of the cageful of monkeys would be dead before spring, and seemed much affected by the loss of his pets. Some of them seemed to be in the last stages now, coughing violently, and holding their slender hands affectedly to their chests. If the monkeys could be clothed, they would better endure the cold; but a jacket in the cage would remain whole on the back of the wearer just about five seconds.

A keeper fed the monkeys while I was there, and it was a funny sight. He put the pan of rice and sugar inside the cage, and I expected a general scramble, but instead of this I found the distribution of food to be a most orderly process. The big fellows calmly served themselves first. They ate as much as they could, then crammed their cheeks full, and grasping as much as their hands would hold, retired to a corner to finish at their leisure. The smaller monkeys now modestly proceeded to dine in the same fashion. They follow the example set them by their elders, and all is done in the most orderly manner.

Feeding the monkeys with pea-nuts is great fun. The instant they see a pea-nut they rush pell-mell to the front of the cage, eager to reach through the bars and catch the delicious morsel. The fortunate possessor retires with his prize to a corner, proceeds to crack the shell, and eats it with quite as much delight as you would, if presented with something you particularly like.

Aard-vark, or the "hog with a wart," is not a pretty name, and he is not a pretty animal. The domestic hog is quite a beauty in comparison, as this one has enormous tusks, stiff bristles, scarcely any eyes at all, and hideous lumps on his face and head; not one wart, but plenty of them. But he eats the pailful of carrots with as much relish as if he were the handsomest beast in the world.

The coach-dog which is such a favorite with the elephants is named Denver, and the huge animals take the entire charge of him. A gentleman saw the keeper put a piece of meat before one of the elephants near him, and the great creature seized it in his trunk, and gave the "mother-call" for Denver. This mother-call is the sound they make in calling their young ones. Denver understood in a moment, and rushed toward them; the elephant gently laid the meat on the ground before the dog, and watched him with great interest while he devoured it.

Denver was lost once for two weeks, and the elephants would not perform until he was found. The welcome he received from his huge friends on his return was nearly the death of him. They caressed him with their trunks, rolled him over and over, "purring" all the while like distant thunder, and stuffed him with all the meat he could eat.

The Bridgeport boys are very careful about their behavior to Denver, for if a howl of pain or annoyance is heard from him on the outside of the building, the elephants inside become so enraged that there is danger of their breaking their chains and avenging their favorite.

As I left the "quarters" I found a crowd of Bridgeport boys gathered about a small Irish jaunting-car with a beautiful striped zebra harnessed before it. This zebra's name is Sheik, and is often seen in the streets of the city, with some of the ladies belonging to the circus driving him. Sheik is gentle, swift, and has as much endurance as a mule. Zebras are generally supposed to be untamable, and Sheik's keeper deserves great credit for the wonderful manner in which he has succeeded in training this wild creature. Sheik is not, however, a "true zebra," but one of the species called asinus Burchelii. A "true zebra" has never been brought to this country. Bridgeport boys think Sheik driven in the jaunting-car a fine show.