into boxing clubs should be
discouraged; especially of raw young kangaroos, ready to put on the
gloves with anybody and to lose their tempers. Beware of kangaroo
upper-cuts. Indeed, the boxing kangaroo should properly wear two pairs
of gloves, and the bigger and softer pair should go upon his hind feet.
For his is a form of _la savate_ which admits neither of duck, guard,
nor counter; and leaves its signature in a form long to be remembered
and hard to stitch up.

[Illustration: A NASTY WEAPON.]

[Illustration: RAW YOUTH--"YES, WILL I."]

The white kangaroo was much less of a boomer. He dared to be original as
to colour, and has been shivering and cowering and looking miserable
ever since in terror of his own independence; he looks only a sort of
unhappy white rabbit, overgrown in the hinder half. But there is
encouragement to be got from the case of the boxing boomer. The
kangaroo will never become clever of himself, but perhaps the showman
may teach him. There are many comic opportunities in the
kangaroo--particularly in the pouch. Let the showman see to it.

[Illustration: "PLEASE, CAN TOMMY COME OUT?"]

[Illustration: AN OLD MAID.]

The most entirely objectionable of all the marsupials is the Tasmanian
devil. It is only a little devil, a couple of feet or so long, but its
savagery is beyond measuring by anything like a two-foot rule. No
reasonable devils could wish to be treated with more indulgence than the
Zoological Society extends to these. A rolling blind is provided to keep
the sun out of their eyes, and they are politely labelled "Ursine
Dasyures," for fear of offending them. They ill deserve either
attention, and at any rate I should like to see the label changed. The
function of the Tasmanian devil in the economy of Nature is to bite,
scratch, tear and mangle whatever other work of Nature happens to be
within reach. It is touching to observe the preference exhibited by the
Tasmanian devil for its keeper, who feeds it; it tries to bite him much
oftener and more savagely than anybody else. Thus you observe that
kindness has some effect, even with the Tasmanian devil. Of course, by
its nature, it resents kindness more than anything else, but it will
also attack anybody for cruelty, or indifference, or admiration, or
curiosity, or for looking at it, or for not looking at it, or any other
injury. You can't drive it away with anything; it won't go for a stick
and it won't go for a gun; nevertheless it will