may be Atkinson's after all; and he stretches and struggles
desperately. Some day Pontius Pilate will weave himself among those
bars, basket fashion, only to be extricated by a civil engineer and a
practical smith. Pontius Pilate is the sort of camel-gander that damages
the intellectual reputation of the species. Of course he would bury his
head to hide himself. Equally of course he would muzzle himself to
prevent you from biting him, or tie his legs together to prevent you
from running and catching him, or anything else equally clever. Pontius
Pilate, I have known you long--even loved you, in a way. But I have
observed you closely, and though, like Dogberry, you may have everything
fine about you, I am impelled sorrowfully to write you down an ass.

The ostrich is one of those birds whose whole command of facial
expression is carried in the neck. He can only express himself through
his features by offering you different views of his head. This is a
great disadvantage. It limits the range. You may express three
sentiments by the back, front, and side of the head, and something by
way of combination in a three-quarter face. Then you stop, and have no
further resource than standing on your head, one of the few things an
ostrich is not clever at. But with such materials as he has, the ostrich
does very well. Observe, his mouth is long, and droops at the corners;
but the corners are wide apart, for there the head is broad.

[Illustration]

Now you may present simple drama by the aid of this mouth--suitably
disposed and ordered by the neck. Take Atkinson, here, whose beak has a
certain tip-tinting distrusted of the teetotaler. Bend his head (only in
theory, because Atkinson won't stand any practical nonsense)--bend his
head to look downward, and let his neck wilt away sleepily. Now, viewed
from the side, where is a more lamentable picture of maudlin
intoxication? What could improve it, except, perhaps, a battered hat,
worn lop-sided, and a cigar-stump? He is a drunken old camel-gander,
coming home in the small hours, and having difficulties with his
latch-key. Straighten Atkinson's neck, open wide his eyes, and take a
three-quarter face view of him. Sober, sour, and indignant, there
stands, not the inebriated Atkinson, but the disturbed Mrs. Atkinson on
the stairs, with a candle, and a nightcap, and a lecture. That awful
mouth actually conjures that candle, that nightcap, and that lecture
into existence--you see and hear