Anybody watching a chance meeting in the street between two animals must see that they hold some sort of conversation. By sounds, signs, or both, they 'pass the time of day,' and make remarks. After settling affairs in their own language, they part, either as the best of friends, or, more frankly than politely, saying, 'Well, I hope I shall never see you again!'

Out in the fields, what horse can bear to see another horse, or even a donkey, turned into the next paddock without running up to have a chat with him? Horses that work together are always on speaking terms. Much rubbing of soft noses, pricking backwards and forwards of the ears, with a snort, playful bite, or whinny, is their talk. After much talk of this sort between two splendid cart-horses, standing in harness, I once saw a fine plan carried out. They had been drawing a heavy load, and were quietly enjoying their feed, each from the nosebag dangling at his head. But the corn dwindled and the last grains of it were hard to reach. It was then that a brilliant idea struck horse number one. He lifted his bag to the middle pole, which he used as a prop; but then there was no room for his companion's bag on it. Horse number two, apparently after asking leave, hoisted his own bag even higher still, and, balancing it on his friend's head, fed in comfort. The pair munched peacefully on, and next day I saw them doing the same thing again.

All animals have a language of sound and sign, which they use as intelligently as deaf and dumb men use the means of expressing thought invented for them. Creatures that live in troops are always under the control of a leader, who manages them by word of mouth or by gestures.

Lieutenant Shipp, in his memoirs, tells of a Cape baboon who was so dishonest as to bring his companions to the barracks, to carry off the soldiers' clothes. The thefts became serious, and a party of soldiers were told off to march against the robbers, and to bring back the booty hidden in the caves of the baboons. But the animal warriors were too cunning. They sent out scouts, to watch the enemy's movements, told off about fifty of their number to guard the entrance to the caves, and posted the rest at various points. The soldiers saw the baboons collecting large stones, and the old grey-headed rascal, who had been ring-leader in raiding the camp, was seen giving orders like a real general. At a scream from him they rolled down great stones upon the men, who were forced to retreat.

Comic as the monkey-folk sometimes are, they can make very touching appeals; they plead very earnestly in their wordless way for their own lives, and still more tenderly on behalf of their helpless young. A letter from Demarara thus describes a meeting between a mother baboon and two men with guns. Mr. S—— levelled his gun to shoot her. The animal seemed at once to understand what would probably take place, and appealingly held out in each hand a baby baboon. His friend said, 'Don't shoot.' 'No, I was not going to,' said Mr. S——. So Mrs. Baboon and her family escaped unhurt, the mother showing, it will be agreed, something greater than ordinary instinct.

Something greater? Yes, love; the greatest of all instincts, higher than reason itself. It is when filled with love for her defenceless babe that the animal-mother learns, by many a wonderful makeshift, to appeal to our pity, and forgets herself for its sake. A beautiful instance of this was lately given in the Daily News.

A labourer, going along a lane, met a little robin redbreast. She flew boldly within reach of his hand, almost dashing against his face, and as he passed on tried to hinder him, uttering all the while piercing cries. At last he stopped at a hole to which she kept flying, and found a rat in the act of carrying off one of her nestlings. The labourer was able to kill the enemy by a blow of his stick as it darted across the lane, and the small mother, after hovering with a different and triumphant note over the poor little dead bird, went gladly home.

In countries where snakes abound, the shriek of a bird whose nest is threatened serves as a signal to its winged neighbours, who throng to the spot and drive away, or often kill, the enemy. Sometimes the ways in which creatures communicate are altogether mysterious. An old goose, who had spent a fortnight hatching eggs in a farmer's kitchen, was suddenly taken ill. She left her nest, waddled to a neighbouring outhouse, and persuaded a young goose to go back with her. The young one instantly scrambled into the vacant nest, and hatched and afterwards brought up the brood. The old goose sat down by the side of the nest to die. As the young goose had never reared a brood before, nor been inside the kitchen, the elder must somehow have explained the duties to her, and the younger have understood and accepted the charge.

It seems, then, that want of understanding on our part, rather than stupidity on theirs, prevents a closer understanding between ourselves and the animal creation. Though we are not able to bridge over the gulf separating speechless animals and men, we may at least take care that the dumb prayers of the 'lower brethren' never fall on wilfully deaf ears, or on unkind hearts.

Edith Carrington.