A yet more wonderful pet has lately died in Edinburgh at the age of certainly sixty years, and very possibly more. Its name was Granny, and it was a sea-anemone. Found on the wild Berwickshire coast, in Scotland, in 1828, it remained with its discoverer until 1854, and then passed into the care of Prof. Flemming. By him it was placed in the Botanic Garden of Edinburgh, and there lived a peaceful if monotonous life. Every two weeks it was given half a mussel, which was the only food it required. But lack of incident was no drawback to fame; and, like “Helix desertorum,” Granny was sketched, described, and visited. More wonderful yet, it possessed an album, wherein famous visitors inscribed their names, and whose autographic treasures will long commemorate the tranquil fascinations of Granny! With these odd characters may be counted Sir John Lubbock’s wasp. We usually think of wasps, in the language of a modern humorist, as little creatures, very inflammable in their nature, and hasty in their conclusions, or end. The wasp in question seems to have been gentler-tempered or milder-mannered than the majority of her race; and came to be on sociable terms with her scientific friend. Like so many pets, she was short-lived. “In her last hours,” says Sir John, “she would take no food, though she still moved her legs, wings and abdomen. The following day, I offered her food for the last time, but both head and thorax were dead or paralyzed; she could but wag her tail. So far as I could judge, her death was quite painless, and she now occupies a place in the British Museum.” The quaintest, most pathetic pet in history, I take it, was the fly, which set out--very gaily, no doubt--with other flies, in a ship bound to Spitzbergen. One by one, with the increasing cold, his companions perished, until at last he was left alone. It was no great comfort that the sailors cherished him as never fly was cherished before; and erelong, despite the tenderest care, he turned over on his back and died. He was honored with burial, and even with tears, as the last frail link, at home’s antipodes, with home. To conclude this Odd Set, there can hardly be anything odder than the story of a toad with which formerly I was well acquainted. His summer residence was the shady, cool brick floor of a kitchen porch, with a cistern conveniently set in one corner. He was a portly, contemplative fellow, and had no objection to receiving flies from the human race. It was his habit to come out from retirement towards evening, and sitting on the well-curb, imbibe the evening air and insects. On one of these occasions he was seen by a grave college professor and a student of strong experimental bias who--noticing the June fireflies sparkling all around--were seized with the desire to give him a light meal.