T
HE lioness is much smaller than the lion, and her form is more slender and graceful. She is devoid of the mane of her lord and master, and has four or five cubs at a birth, which are all born blind. The young lions are at first obscurely striped and spotted. They mew like cats, and are as playful as kittens. As they get older, the uniform color is gradually assumed. The mane appears in the males at the end of ten or twelve months, and at the age of eighteen months it is very considerably developed, and they begin to roar. Both in nature and in a state of captivity the lioness is very savage as soon as she becomes a mother, and the lion himself is then most to be dreaded, as he will then brave almost any risk for the sake of his lioness and family.
A PET JACK.
T
HE first fish I ever saw in an aquarium, twenty years ago, was a “Jack,” as he is called when young, or a “Pike,” when he grows older; and ever since then I have contrived to have a pet one, and this, drawn from life by Mr. Harrison Weir, is an accurate portrait of the one I now possess in the Crystal Palace Aquarium. There he is, just as he steals round the corner of a bit of rock. He is glaring at a minnow, at which he is taking most accurate aim; he hardly seems to move, but yet he does by a very trifling motion of the edge of his back fin—sometimes resting a little on the tips of his two foremost fins, as they touch the ground, carefully calculating his distance; and then, at the very moment when the minnow has got into a position which leaves a space of clear water in front, so that Mr. Jack shall not hurt his nose against any hard substance when he gets carried on by the violence of his rush, he darts at the minnow with the speed of Shakspeare's Puck:—
“I go, I go! look, how I go!
Swifter than arrow from the Tartar's bow.”
