THE ZOO IN A FROST 
ii 
perfect, that it was impossible to doubt that the colder 
climate had, if possible, added a lustre to its unrivalled 
wealth of ornament. It is to be regretted that the 
eggs laid in the previous summer were not fertile, else 
the development of perhaps the most perfect instance 
of animal pattern might have received further explan- 
ation from the processes of growth in the plumage of 
the young. One tender nestling from the tropics was 
being reared at the Zoo, though not exposed to the 
rigour of December frost. In October 1893 a young 
king vulture arrived from South America — a round, 
huffy ball of white down, with a smooth black head 
like a negro baby, and as helpless as a young pigeon. 
It grew rapidly, and at the time when this paper was 
written, was the most interesting and intelligent speci- 
men of a young carnivorous bird that the writer has 
yet seen. As a rule nothing could well be more 
morose and forbidding than the eaglet or the young 
of any hawk or falcon. They are helpless, savage, 
and unresponsive to any form of kindness. But the 
young vulture is almost as tame and intelligent as a 
puppy. It follows its keeper in the warm house, which 
it shares with the tortoises, sitting down when he stops, 
and rising and running with a half-bird, half-quadruped 
gait which is irresistibly comic. When frightened or 
shy in the presence of strangers, it lays its head on 
the ground and “shams dead,” like a young plover, 
though almost as large as a turkey. But it soon 
loses all fear, and takes food or pulls at the garments 
of its visitors with amusing confidence. But the 
