REMINISCENCES FROM THE MELBOURNE ZOO. 
25 
up to see what all the noise was about, and when he saw the keeper 
struggling desperately with the little savage, he laughed: 
“Don’t let the little beggar beat you, old man. Let me hold it 
for you.” 
He quickly found he had reckoned without his host. It was 
a much harder proposition than he had anticipated even to hold him 
while the other man tried to get the collar off, and as he did his best to 
bite and scratch both of them at once, it was even then a tedious affair 
to accomplish the task. When at last it was done, it was only by 
holding the active resister a good deal tighter than was comfortable for 
him. When he was put back in his cage, unadorned, his fury burst 
all bounds, and although he was exhausted from his fight, he fiew from 
ceiling to fioor and from floor to ceiling with almost the rapidity of 
thought, yelling his hate and spitting his defiance at the despoilers. He 
has never forgotten and never forgiven it. If anything, his venom 
grows by what it lives upon, and if Mr. Wilkie appears within his range 
of vision, he instantly forgets all else and indulges in unbridled abuse. 
It is one of the strangest sights in the gardens to see the intensity of 
the little creature’s anger as Mr. Wilkie passes. Crowds of people may 
be around him, giving him nuts and fruit to his heart’s content, when 
they are astonished to see him suddenly bound off up the netting and 
begin spitting and gnashing his teeth in ungovernable fury. He will 
hang up near the roof, a personification of blind hate, until the figure 
of his enemy has disappeared from view. No one else interests him 
while Mr. Wilkie is near. Although he will not refuse to take a proffered 
dainty from his hands, he will take it with a snarl and at once rush 
back to croak out his undying defiance. His daily hate is the business 
of his life. 
THIRTEEN TO ONE. 
Years ago there were thirteen little Rhesus monkeys in a cage 
together, and it was the sport of the gardens to see them indulging in 
a fight. Their usual mode of punishment was biting, and more than 
once the result of a bite would be a missing finger. When monkeys 
are injured like this, they rush about the cage like streaks of lightning, 
rubbing the hurt member on the ground to get rid of the blood, and, if 
possible, the pain, for they apparently imagine the hurt is something 
that has gripped them and can be rubbed or shaken off. When the 
rubbing is inefficacious, they try shaking it, and they go round and round 
the cage, holding the elbow of the sore arm in the other hand, and 
constantly giving a sharp shake to free themselves of the smart. 
