ed with springing lions and
pyramids of tigers. As I enter, a long roar from within tells me that
the animals are not all asleep. The roar, a lion's, comes three times
with increasing volume, and at the fourth is answered by another of
equal volume; then two lions roar together, the sounds coming quicker
and quicker, with an increasing staccato that ends finally in hoarse
barks.

Taking a little alarm-clock that the night watchman loans me, I go back
among the cages, where I am to keep strange vigil. A small wooden door
at the right takes me into an open space ranged with cages and wagons,
the former containing some barking dogs. From here I pass into a
circular shed, where are more wagons and dogs, and at the farther end by
the wet, sticky-looking seals I reach a small door leading into a low
passage, beyond which are the wild beasts.

I push aside a curtain covering the entrance against drafts, and see
before me a picture never dreamed of by humdrum New-Yorkers sleeping
within stone's throw. The cages, ranged in double row, form an alleyway,
divided at intervals by gas-stoves, on which water is heating. In front
of the big group of lions and tigers sleeps one of the grooms, stretched
on a cot bed. He wears a pink shirt and blue drawers, and his bare feet
are turned to the gas-stove, which burns night and day. Another groom
sleeps farther on, beside the Tibet goats, and still another near the
ponies, opposite the small cage of the lioness Mignon. They sleep so
soundly that a riot would scarcely waken them; yet, by some subtle
sense, they would be on the alert in an instant if anything were wrong
in the cages.

Three animals rouse themselves as I step into the darkness which shrouds
the big cage--the lion Yellow Prince is one of them--and as I approach
the bars three pairs of burning eyes glare at me through the shadows. I
venture to turn on the electric light and peer into the cage. Here are
three leopards, the three royal Bengal tigers, and a full-grown lion,
making no more noise between them than a sleeping child.

I return to the farther end of the shed, where the five-year-old lioness
Helena, alone in her cage, is walking back and forth drowsily, as if on
the point of dropping off for her night's rest. Indeed, she does this
presently, turning on her side, and stretching her legs out perfectly
straight, with no bend at the joints. It was Helena who, in a fit of
nervous fright a year or two ago, sprang upon Betty