chamois, the work of a Wengen artist; it is
in two stories, with a battlemented roof, and a crypt (entrance to
right of steps) used for the incarceration of offenders. It is occupied
by the town guard, who wear 'beefeater' costumes of ancient origin."

Note the red parrot perched on the battlements; it lives tame in the
zoological gardens, and is of the same species as one we formerly
observed in our archipelago. Note, too, the brisk cat-and-dog encounter
below. Steps descend in wide flights down the hillside into Blue End.
The two couchant lions on either side of the steps are in plasticine,
and were executed by that versatile artist, who is also mayor of Red
End, G. P. W. He is present. Our photographer has hit upon a happy
moment in the history of this town, and a conversation of the two
mayors is going on upon the terrace before the palace. F. R. W., mayor
of Blue End, stands on the steps in the costume of an admiral; G. P. W.
is on horseback (his habits are equestrian) on the terrace. The town
guard parades in their honor, and up the hill a number of musicians (a
little hidden by trees) ride on gray horses towards them.

Passing in front of the town hall, and turning to the right, we
approach the zoological gardens. Here we pass two of our civilians: a
gentleman in black, a lady, and a large boy scout, presumably their
son. We enter the gardens, which are protected by a bearded janitor,
and remark at once a band of three performing dogs, who are, as the
guide-book would say, "discoursing sweet music." In neither ward of the
city does there seem to be the slightest restraint upon the use of
musical instruments. It is no place for neurotic people.

The gardens contain the inevitable elephants, camels (which we breed,
and which are therefore in considerable numbers), a sitting bear,
brought from last game's caves, goats from the same region, tamed and
now running loose in the gardens, dwarf elephants, wooden nondescripts,
and other rare creatures. The keepers wear a uniform not unlike that of
railway guards and porters. We wander through the gardens, return,
descend the hill by the school of musketry, where soldiers are to be
seen shooting at the butts, pass through the paddock of the old farm,
and so return to the railway station, extremely gratified by all we
have seen, and almost equally divided in our minds between the merits
and attractiveness of either ward. A clockwork train comes clattering
into the station,