There is a cinnamon bear in one of the outside cages, whose claws remind
one sharply that cinnamon and cloves go together, and that clove is a
tense of the verb "to cleave." But we do not want such a fellow as that
to cleave to us, since it is evident that a grocer kind of brute than a
cinnamon bear cannot be found in all the ursine family. "Sugar and
spice, and all things nice," are stated in song to be the materials that
"little girls are made of," but if we thought that cinnamon bear figured
upon the list of groceries thus used for modelling young maidens, we
would either fly to the desert with Dr. MARY WALKER or immure ourselves
in a nunnery with SUSAN B. ANTHONY, and all the other females of the
anti-sugar-and-spice persuasion.
Fattest of all the beasts in the Central Park collection is the larger
of the two grizzly bears. From the easy way in which he takes life, he
reminds one of a successful politician, who had worked his way up from
being a slim and impecunious "repeater" to the position of Alderman, or
Custom House official, and President of the Fat Men's Club. There is a
drunken leer in this beast's eye, an inebriate roll in all his
movements, that lead one mechanically to peer into the darkness of his
den with the view of seeing what the Bar fixings are like. It would be a
rare freak to treat the huge fellow to a cask of rum and sugar, and then
stand by with a comic artist, and take down for PUNCHINELLO the traits
of BRUIN the Grizzly on a "bender," and with all his repressed nature
brought out by the strong drink.
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