tude of a hand. One of them met
with an awkward accident some time ago, which, had it not been for the
presence of mind of Mr. Hunt, the head keeper, who had the especial
charge of these animals, might have been attended with fatal
consequences. In rising quickly from the ground, the giraffe struck the
wall with such force that one of the horns was broken, and bent back
flat upon the head; Hunt seeing this, tempted him with a favorite dainty
with one hand, and taking the opportunity while his head was down,
grasped the fractured horn, and pulled it forward into its natural
position; union took place, and no ill effects followed. We may here
remark, that the horns are distinct bones, united to the frontal and
parietal bones by a suture, and exhibiting the same structure as other
bones. The protuberance on the forehead is not a horn (as supposed by
some), but merely a thickening of the bone. The horns of the male are
nearly double the size of those of the female, and their expanded bases
meet in the middle line of the skull, whereas, in the female, the bases
are two inches apart.

Each of the giraffes eats daily eighteen pounds of clover hay, and the
same quantity of a mixed vegetable diet, consisting of turnips,
mangel-wurzel, carrots, barley, and split beans; in spring they have
green tares and clover, and are exceedingly fond of onions. It was
curious to see the impatience they exhibited in our presence when a
basket of onions was placed in view; their mouths watered to a ludicrous
and very visible extent; they pawed with their fore legs, and rapidly
paced backward and forward, stretching their long necks and sniffing up
the pungent aroma with eager satisfaction. Each drinks about four
gallons of water a day.

Soon after the arrival of the giraffes at the Regent's Park, Mr. Warwick
obtained three for Mr. Cross, of the Surrey Gardens. These were
exhibited in an apartment in Regent-street, in the evening as well as by
day; their heads almost touched the ceiling, and the room being lighted
with gas, they were fully exposed to the influence of foul air, and, as
might be expected, did not long survive.

It has been stated that giraffes utter no sound; we have, however, heard
_Ibrahim Pasha_ make a sort of grunt, or forcible expiration, indicating
displeasure, and the little one which died bleated like a calf.

The extensibility, flexibility, and extraordinary command which the
giraffe possesses over the movements of its