Here we see the very same wolf , -- do not go near him , Annie ! -- the self-same wolf that devoured little Red Riding Hood and her grandmother . In the next cage , a hyena from Egypt , who has doubtless howled around the pyramids , and a black bear from our own forests are fellow-prisoners , and most excellent friends . Are there any two living creatures who have so few sympathies that they can not possibly be friends ? Here sits a great white bear , whom common observers would call a very stupid beast , though I perceive him to be only absorbed in contemplation ; he is thinking of his voyages on an iceberg , and of his comfortable home in the vicinity of the north pole , and of the little cubs whom he left rolling in the eternal snows . In fact , he is a bear of sentiment . But , O , those unsentimental monkeys the ugly , grinning , aping , chattering , ill-natured , mischievous , and queer little brutes . Annie does not love the monkeys . Their ugliness shocks her pure , instinctive delicacy of taste , and makes her mind unquiet , because it bears a wild and dark resemblance to humanity . But here is a little pony , just big enough for Annie to ride , and round and round he gallops in a circle , keeping time with his trampling hoofs to a band of music . And here , -- with a laced coat and a cocked hat , and a riding whip in his hand , -- here comes a little gentleman , small enough to be king of the fairies , and ugly enough to be king of the gnomes , and takes a flying leap into the saddle . Merrily , merrily plays the music , and merrily gallops the pony , and merrily rides the little old gentleman . Come , Annie , into the street again ; perchance we may see monkeys on horseback there ! Mercy on us , what a noisy world we quiet people live in ! Did Annie ever read the Cries of London City ? With what lusty lungs doth yonder man proclaim that his wheelbarrow is full of lobsters ! Here comes another mounted on a cart , and blowing a hoarse and dreadful blast from a tin horn , as much as to say , `` Fresh fish ! '' And hark ! a voice on high , like that of a muezzin from the summit of a mosque , announcing that some chimney-sweeper has emerged from smoke and soot , and darksome caverns , into the upper air . What cares the world for that ?
But , well-a-day , we hear a shrill voice of affliction , the scream XXXXX a little child , rising louder with every repetition of that smart , sharp , slapping sound , produced by an open hand on tender flesh .
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