rarely seem to see him; while to study him is extremely difficult. In
Holland he is ubiquitous: both wild and tame.

More interesting still was the stork, whose nest is set high on
a pinnacle of the buffalo house. He was building in the leisurely
style of the British working man. He would negligently descend from
the heavens with a stick. This he would lay on the fabric and then
carefully perform his toilet, looking round and down all the time
to see that every one else was busy. Whenever his eye lighted upon
a toddling child or a perambulator it visibly brightened. "My true
work!" he seemed to say; "this nest building is a mere by-path of
industry." After prinking and overlooking, and congratulating himself
thus, for a few minutes, he would stroll off, over the housetops,
for another stick. He was the unquestionable King of the Garden.

Why are there no heronries in the English public parks? And why is
there no stork? The Dutch have a proverb, "Where the stork abides
no mother dies in childbed". Still more, why are there no storks in
France? The author of _Fécondité_ should have imported them.

No Zoo, however well managed, can keep an ourang-outang long, and
therefore one should always study that uncomfortably human creature
whenever the opportunity occurs. I had great fortune at Rotterdam,
for I chanced to be in the ourang-outang's house when his keeper
came in. Entering the enclosure, he romped with him in a score of
diverting ways. They embraced each other, fed each other, teased
each other. The humanness of the creature was frightful. Perhaps our
likeness to ourang-outangs (except for our ridiculously short arms,
inadequate lower jaws and lack of hair) made him similarly uneasy.