Here we see the very same wolf—do not go near him，Annie！ —the selfsame wolf that devoured little RedRiding-Hood and her grandmother. In the next cagea hyena from Egypt who has doubtless howled aroundthe pyramids and a black bear from our own forests arefellow-prisoners and most excellent friends. Are thereany two living creatures who have so few sympathies thatthey cannot possibly be friends？ Here sits a great whitebear whom common observers would call a very stupidbeast， though I perceive him to be only absorbed incontemplation； he is thinking of his voyages on an iceberg，and of his comfortable home in the vicinity of the northpole， and of the little cubs whom he left rolling in theeternal snows. In fact， he is a bear of sentiment. But ohthose unsentimental monkeys！ The ugly， grinning， aping，chattering， ill-natured， mischievous and queer little brutes！
Annie does not love the monkeys； their ugliness shocksher pure， instinctive delicacy of taste and makes her mindunquiet because it bears a wild and dark resemblance tohumanity. But here is a little pony just big enough forAnnie 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 ridingwhipin his hand—here comes a little gentleman smallenough to be king of the fairies and ugly enough to beking of the gnomes， and takes a flying leap into the saddle.
Merrily， merrily plays the music， and merrily gallops thepony， and merrily rides the little old gentleman. Come，Annie， into the street again； perchance we may seemonkeys on horseback there.
Mercy on us！ What a noisy world we quiet peoplelive in！ Did Annie ever read the cries of London city？
With what lusty lungs doth yonder man proclaim thathis wheelbarrow is full of lobsters！ Here comes another，mounted on a cart and blowing a hoarse and dreadful blastfrom a tin horn， as much as to say， “Fresh fish！” And hark！
a voice on high， like that of a muezzin from the summitof a mosque， announcing that some chimney-sweeper hasemerged from smoke and soot and darksome caverns intothe upper air. What cares the world for that？ But， wella-day， we hear a shrill voice of affliction—the scream ofa little child， rising louder with every repetition of thatsmart， sharp， slapping sound produced by an open handon tender flesh. Annie sympathizes， though withoutexperience of such direful woe.
Lo！ the town-crier again， with some new secret forthe public ear. Will he tell us of an auction， or of a lostpocket-book or a show of beautiful wax figures， or of somemonstrous beast more horrible than any in the caravan？
I guess the latter. See how he uplifts the bell in his righthand and shakes it slowly at first， then with a hurriedmotion， till the clapper seems to strike both sides at once，and the sounds are scattered forth in quick succession farand near.
Ding-dong！ Ding-dong！ Ding-dong！
Now he raises his clear loud voice above all the din ofthe town. It drowns the buzzing talk of many tongues anddraws each man’s mind from his own business； it rolls upand down the echoing street， and ascends to the hushedchamber of the sick， and penetrates downward to thecellar kitchen where the hot cook turns from the fire tolisten. Who of all that address the public ear， whetherin church or court-house or hall of state， has such anattentive audience as the town-crier！ What saith thepeople’s orator？
“Strayed from her home， a LITTLE GIRL of five yearsold， in a blue silk frock and white pantalets， with browncurling hair and hazel eyes. Whoever will bring her backto her afflicted mother—”
Stop， stop， town-crier！ The lost is found. Oh， my prettyAnnie， we forgot to tell your mother of our ramble， andshe is in despair and has sent the town-crier to bellowup and down the streets， affrighting old and young， forthe loss of a little girl who has not once let go my hand？
Well， let us hasten homeward； and as we go forget not tothank Heaven， my Annie， that after wandering a little wayinto the world you may return at the first summons withan untainted and unwearied heart， and be a happy childagain. But I have gone too far astray for the town-crier tocall me back.
Sweet has been the charm of childhood on my spiritthroughout my ramble with little Annie. Say not that it hasbeen a waste of precious moments， an idle matter， a babbleof childish talk and a reverie of childish imaginationsabout topics unworthy of a grown man’s notice. Has itbeen merely this？ Not so—not so. They are not trulywise who would affirm it. As the pure breath of childrenrevives the life of aged men， so is our moral nature revivedby their free and simple thoughts， their native feeling，their airy mirth for little cause or none， their grief soonroused and soon allayed. Their influence on us is at leastreciprocal with ours on them. When our infancy is almostforgotten and our boyhood long departed， though it seemsbut as yesterday， when life settles darkly down upon us andwe doubt whether to call ourselves young any more， —thenit is good to steal away from the society of bearded men，and even of gentler woman， and spend an hour or twowith children. After drinking from those fountains of stillfresh existence we shall return into the crowd， as I donow， to struggle onward and do our part in life—perhapsas fervently as ever， but for a time with a kinder and purerheart and a spirit more lightly wise. All this by thy sweetmagic， dear little Annie！
