-- the selfsame 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 oh 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 .
In around because from into of that though to with