The young elephant has increased immensely, since last year, in stature and girth. He is remarkably neat in his person, wisping himself all over with hay for hours at a time. Whether he does this for cleanliness or to obtain a flavor of elephant for the hay is doubtful, however, for he always eats it after having made use of it as a flesh-brush for a good while. Notices requesting visitors "not to feed or annoy the animals" are posted on the compartments. In the case of the elephant, though, it might be as well also to caution persons against making jokes about his trunk—a low kind of ribaldry in which every carpet-bagger, who never had one, seems to think himself bound to indulge.

There is a cinnamon bear in one of the outside cages, whose claws remind one sharply that cinnamon and cloves go together, and that clove is a tense of the verb "to cleave." But we do not want such a fellow as that to cleave to us, since it is evident that a grocer kind of brute than a cinnamon bear cannot be found in all the ursine family. "Sugar and spice, and all things nice," are stated in song to be the materials that "little girls are made of," but if we thought that cinnamon bear figured upon the list of groceries thus used for modelling young maidens, we would either fly to the desert with Dr. MARY WALKER or immure ourselves in a nunnery with SUSAN B. ANTHONY, and all the other females of the anti-sugar-and-spice persuasion.

Fattest of all the beasts in the Central Park collection is the larger of the two grizzly bears. From the easy way in which he takes life, he reminds one of a successful politician, who had worked his way up from being a slim and impecunious "repeater" to the position of Alderman, or Custom House official, and President of the Fat Men's Club. There is a drunken leer in this beast's eye, an inebriate roll in all his movements, that lead one mechanically to peer into the darkness of his den with the view of seeing what the Bar fixings are like. It would be a rare freak to treat the huge fellow to a cask of rum and sugar, and then stand by with a comic artist, and take down for PUNCHINELLO the traits of BRUIN the Grizzly on a "bender," and with all his repressed nature brought out by the strong drink.

"Carnivorium" is the word now properly applied by the Park authorities to the establishment in which the wild beasts are kept. That is, the term will be correct when applied only to the particular department allotted to the fierce flesh-devouring animals. At present camels are accommodated in the Carnivorium, and so are cows, which is a sort of slur upon the habits of these poor innocent vegetarians. The new word, however, is likely to find considerable extension, and if any provider for the public maw should choose hereafter to call his dining-saloon a Carnivorium, none would have a right to cavil at him on philological grounds, at least.

By and by the Park will have a new and sensational attraction. The antediluvian monsters of that great FRANKENSTEIN of the period, Mr. WATERHOUSE HAWKINS, will soon be advanced enough to "give fits" to the nursery-maids and their tender charges. Accipitrine in features as in name, Mr. HAWKINS is a living illustration of the Darwinian theory. Certainly his remote ancestors must have been of the falcon family. He revels in birds; though, when he cannot obtain those, he can put up with lizards, which he usually prefers manufactured, and of a length not less than from sixty to one hundred feet. This reminds us that a saurian of a hundred feet should not be confounded with a centipede.

It will be seen, then, that the landscape-gardens of our great city are in a fair way of being able to afford some illustrations for students of Natural History more interesting than the oyster-shells and old boots with which most of them have hitherto been stocked.

FRUIT FOR BALLOONISTS. Currents in the air

FASHION CORRESPONDENTS REPORT THAT "NETS ARE TO BE WORN MUCH LONGER." PUNCHINELLO SUGGESTS, THEN, THAT THEY MIGHT BE PROFITABLY ADAPTED FOR CATCHING FISH AS WELL AS BEAUX.

THE AVERAGE THANKSGIVING

NINE O'CLOCK A.M

I'm thankful I was bright enough, this year, To have my turkey bought a week ahead! Oh, what a bird it is! 'Twas awful dear,— But, thank the Lord! the turkey's been well fed.

TEN O'CLOCK A.M

There! I've forgot the oysters. Thank the Lord, There's time enough with early church; Old GRIMES, I hope, will pity us to-day; he's bored A hungry crowd so many, many times.

ELEVEN O'CLOCK A.M

Oh, what a crowd! Hallo! Another man! Well, thank the Lord, 'twill be a change, at least; I s'pose he'll aggravate us all he can: And that's so easy just before a feast.

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Punchinello, Volume 2, No. 36, December 3, 1870

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FRUIT FOR BALLOONISTS. Currents in the air

THE AVERAGE THANKSGIVING

NINE O'CLOCK A.M

TEN O'CLOCK A.M

ELEVEN O'CLOCK A.M

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