A SICK BABY ORANG-OUTANG.
A BABY CAMEL WITH ITS MOTHER, THE “DUMBBELL BABY” OF THE MENAGERIE.
Instead, their sole amusement seems to be the gratifying of curiosity: a trait overdeveloped in childhood which departs entirely when they are grown. This, coupled with a desire to see how much rubbish, paper, trash, blankets and old bones their stomachs can stand, appears to be the only interesting part of childhood. Between the two, the circus man prefers the llama, for it at least is a gentle, pretty thing with some intelligence.
As for the baby camel—Here, ladies-s-s-s an’ gents, is the prize fool of the whole animal kingdom. When Nature devised the camel, somebody carried away the brains, leaving the finished article, especially in babyhood, the most idiotic, dunce-like goof that ever struggled about on four legs. For instance, in the cravings of its curiosity, the baby camel may walk to a brick wall. It doesn’t go round; it merely stands there, butting its head against the obstacle, or standing in amazement, waiting for the wall to move! When it isn’t doing something like that, it is getting in the way of the horses, the men, the elephants or anything else that happens to come along, not because it is obstinate, but simply because it doesn’t know enough to get out of the way. When that diversion fails to interest, it stands and bawls. Bawls for hours at a time, apparently taking a wonderful delight in the unmusical flatness of its voice.
While this is going on, the mother is bawling also for her prize numskull to come again to her side, a concert which continues for an hour or so before the child finally understands that somebody who feeds it desires its company at home. But does the poor idiot obey the command? It does not. Frantically, and with an added bawling, it goes to every other member of the camel herd before it finds its own mother!
As a reward for which, the camel mother promptly knocks down her senseless offspring, spits at it and then bites it on the head, probably knowing, in her motherly way, that there is less sensitiveness there than anywhere else!
Another dumb one of the menagerie, although in a different way, is the baby giraffe. There the dumbness is actual. From the time of birth until the time of death, not a sound ever comes from the throat of a giraffe, with the result that the beasts communicate evidently by some sign language, or by an undiscovered sense of smell, for in some strange way, the mother warns her baby of danger, and that baby comes hurrying to her side!
Taken all in all, the giraffe is a peculiar beast anyway. The cages in which those prized animals of the Ringling-Barnum show are transported are padded, top, side and bottom, and low enough to almost touch the ground. All because there’s danger at both ends. The giraffe’s legs are so long that a troublesome step may break one of them and cause the beast’s death. The useless horns, with which the giraffe is born, are united to the skull and so sensitive that a serious injury to one may mean death also. On top of this, the things are so awkward that they can stumble and fall while walking on smooth ground! Besides that, they are so rare and costly to catch and transport that the loss of one means the dissipation of a young fortune. But there’s one consoling thought, to the small boy, at least. Giraffes love slippery elm bark.