“His chief sin was tearing off slivers of wall-paper. I would then pick him up and say, ‘Oh, you naughty squirrel! what have you been doing?’ and carry him round the room. When I got near the place, his guilty conscience invariably compelled him to shriek. Then I would flick his nose, and say, ‘Go away, naughty squirrel!’ and he would fly to a corner of the room, and fling himself on his stomach, with his fore and hind legs stretched out to their extreme length, and his bushy tail curled over his back and down his nose, to conceal his shame.” Once he was ill for several weeks, and his teeth grew so long that in order to save his life it became necessary to take him to a dentist. He kicked furiously, but the operation was successful. “Although not much hurt, his rage and indignation at the whirligig thing dentists use were unbounded, and his shrieks brought people in from the streets to know what was happening.” The fate of this amusing patient we are not told. From the squirrel to the despised skunk is no very long step, nor is it an unpleasant one--popular prejudice to the contrary. One gentleman, at least, has had the courage to study its habits, and to introduce a number of young skunks into his home. At different times he had ten. From some he removed the scent-bags, but the majority retained them, and behaved with the utmost propriety. They were coaxing, kittenish little creatures, and responded to his caresses with delightful readiness. Crowley--late favorite in Central Park--was a chimpanzee of enlarged culture. He was often photographed, and once was painted by the artist J. H. Beard. He “took his reg’lar meals,” used spoon and napkin with propriety, understood the meaning of plate and cup, drank from a glass, and when his meal was ended, would assist digestion by a series of gymnastics, before which the feats of Milo pale. Like royalty of old, he dined in public, and a crowd was always present to witness the ceremony. Sally, who adorned the London “Zoo,” had not been so well trained in table refinements; but in other respects was quite as remarkable as Crowley. She seemed to understand every look and tone of her keeper; she performed many knowing little tricks, had a keen sense of humor, and crowned her achievements one day by sitting for her photograph. I remember her in exactly this pose, mutely examining with great critical eyes the crowd of visitors, and I could not help wishing I knew her thoughts. But she kept them to herself, and only by an occasional snicker did she betray the fact that we amused her. * * * * *