Because lions that you see at menageries are taken from their mothers before they are weaned. They are then carried away from their native forests, where they might have run about and grown hearty and strong, and fed, not on the milk of the old lioness, but on whatever their keepers see fit to give; then they are cramped up in close unwholesome cages, where they can scarce turn round; what chance have they of growing up to look like lions? Instead of that bold, kingly look, that magnificent form and flowing mane, which they would have had, if the old lioness had brought them up according to her notions, their shapes become mean and poor, their manes thin, their look unhappy and broken-spirited, and their whole appearance very miserable. Ah, a wild lion is quite another affair, as you would soon find, could he but crunch your little heads between his jaws.
Now I should like to see a real forest lion, at a safe distance of course; I should wish to be up on a tree, or on top of a high mountain perhaps. He is not afraid of any thing, not he! he comes tramping along, cracking the bushes as he goes, and sniffing round to find two or three big men to make a luncheon of. A little kid would be only a mouthful for him. Lions are like cats in one respect: they do not kill at once, and put the poor creature out of his misery, any more than pussy does the poor frantic little mouse. The lion stands and looks the man in the eye, and makes believe he is going to eat him in about a half a minute, and when he has frightened the poor fellow almost to death, he gives him a great slap with his paw, or flaps his great bushy tail in his face, as if to say, how do you like that? this is only the beginning, old fellow, I will chew you up pretty soon. I don’t like that in the lion; it is too petty and mean for such a great grand creature. A lion will never eat a dead body; he likes warm, live creatures, and if, when he has killed one for the fun of it, he finds that he is not hungry enough to eat the whole of him at one standing, he never goes back again afterward to take another meal, he would scorn to do that; he leaves such second-hand pickings to such poor miserable loafers as jackals and hyenas, and strides off with his great grand nose up in the air, as if to say, the best is good enough for me.
When a lion and lioness leave their home in the forest to take a ramble, the lioness always goes first and leads the way; and when she stops in her walk, the old lion stops too, till she is ready to go on. Ask your mother if she don’t think that’s about the proper way to do things? When they come to an Arab’s tent where they mean to get their supper, the lioness lies down a short distance off, while the old lion bounds in and snatches whatever he thinks madam will like best, and then lays it down at her feet. He looks on all the time she is eating it with a great deal of satisfaction, and never thinks of touching a bit till she has had enough. Just tell your father that!
When the lioness’s little baby-cubs are born, she does not leave them (even for an instant), for a great many days; the old lion goes to market, as he ought, and brings home the family dinner. When the little baby-lions are three months old, and have got all their teeth (a great many lion-babies, like other babies, die getting their teeth), when they have got all their teeth, not before, the affectionate mother lioness goes out for a walk to get them food; but she only stays two or three hours. I wish those foolish young mothers, who go to balls and dance till daylight, while their poor little hungry babies are screaming themselves sick, would take pattern by the old lioness. Well, when she comes back from her walk, she brings along some mutton (we won’t be particular about asking her where she got it, because she might give us a rough answer). Then she carefully skins the mutton, and after tearing it into small bits, she gives it to her baby-lions to eat.
The old pa-lion does not like to stay with his little babies, because their frolics disturb his dignity; so he won’t sleep in the same place with them and their mother, but chooses a place near by, where the old lady can roar after him if any thing happens. If I were she, some night, when the old fellow was fast asleep, I would take my little cubs, and creep off, where his “dignity” would never be disturbed by my babies again—what! not play with my pretty smart little babies? Solemn old goose, I say! When the old lion takes his young ones out to hunt, if the poor little things seem afraid of any strange noise they hear, he just puts his mouth close to their ear, and roars into it, loud as thunder, as if to say, stop that now, you cubs! or I’ll give you something worth while to be afraid of. And now I will tell you a curious thing: this lion, so strong, so grand, so terrible, whose roar makes the strongest man’s heart to quake, this lion has his deadly foe in the shape of flies. Often lions have ulcers on their bodies, the flies get into them, and make them very sore and corrupt; and the lion not knowing how to rid himself of them, they soon put an end to his life. Ah, you old forest Goliath! strong and brave as you are, you yet have your David!
THE CRIPPLE.
A crowd! a crowd! a crowd! Well, what of that? You must have come from the country, or you would not stop to look at a crowd in New York. Nothing short of an earthquake ever astonishes a New Yorker. Ah, but this is a very serious matter; a little girl has been run over by the street-cars, and lies there on the pavement, maimed, bleeding, and senseless. Well, she should have been more careful; well, she should not have been playing in the street; well, she should have been at home with her mother. Suppose she had no home which deserved the name? Suppose she had no mother? What is a mother? You throw your little arms around the neck of that sweet gentle woman near you, who has loved you, cared for you, watched over you, ever since you can remember; and that is your answer. Well, then, by that touching reply, I tell you, that the poor little crippled Lucy, though she has a mother, is motherless. Ah, I see by the tear in your eye that you have rightly read my riddle. You look pityingly in my face, and say, Oh what will become of her? What will she do now that she is hurt so badly, perhaps dying, if her own mother does not love her? You remember when you had the measles, how you were moved into your mamma’s room, and had a nice soft bed to lie on, with snowy pillows and quilt, and how gently your mother glided about you, now stooping to kiss your hot forehead, now bathing your feverish hands, or moistening with cool drink your parched lips; how she was never tired waiting on you, though her face was so very pale; how she brought you every little toy you fancied you wanted, although she knew that the moment you had it you would want it taken away again; you remember, when she brought you your medicine, that she did not deceive you into swallowing it by telling you it was “sweet” or “good;” but that she said it was very disagreeable indeed to take, and that she did not wonder you did not like it, and that she wished she could take it for you; and you remember how pitiful she looked as she said this, and how it gave you courage to drink it down at one swallow, without making a single complaint. And then you remember the good old doctor whom your mother sent for to come and see you; that kind old man, with snow-white hair, and a big old-fashioned watch-chain and seals that he gave you to play with, and shoes that did not creak a bit; that pleasant old doctor, who was acquainted with you as long back as your mother was, and who knew the history of every tooth in your head. How nice it was to have him walk up to your bed, beside your mother, and say so cheerfully, “Mary, my dear, we will soon have you driving hoop and picking dandelion blossoms in the park;” and then, when he went away, you remember how your mother drew the window-curtain, and, seating herself by the bed, sang very, very low, almost as low as a little humming-bird’s drowsy hum, some pretty little song, to lull you to sleep!
Oh, yes, you have not forgotten it, and you ask me again, What will poor little crippled Lucy do, without all this love and comfort, and without a kind mother?
Now just suppose it to be several weeks from the time when little Lucy was run over. Take hold of my hand and come with me. You see that large house yonder, standing back from the street? You see those bright green grassy banks in front of it, and those fine old trees? Well, that is the Hospital, where people who meet with sad accidents are carried, to be cured by the doctors, who do not make them pay money for it, unless they can afford it. There poor little Lucy has been seven long weeks. Let us go in and see her. Up, up the steep steps; I am glad the house stands back so far from the street, because the noise of the passing carriages will not disturb those sick people. Queen Anne gave them this house. I had as lief kiss the hem of her robe as not, for doing it. Up—up—there you are; now step into the hall; what a nice wide one it is, and how deliciously the cool summer breeze plays through it. Oh how glad I am the sick have such a nice place! “All right!” the porter says, as we show him a paper which one of the doctors has given us, to admit us whenever we please;—“all right!”—yes, all right; right that there should be such a fat, wholesome-looking, smiling, pleasant-voiced head-nurse for the sick to look at and draw strength from: I am very sure that, were I sick, the sight of her roly-poly limbs, and rosy face, would make me better every time her clean gingham dress and snow-white apron swept past.
