I prepared an Essy on Animals to read before the Social Science meetins.  It is a subjeck I may troothfully say I have successfully wrastled with.  I tackled it when only nineteen years old.  At that tender age I writ a Essy for a lit’ry Institoot entitled, “Is Cats to be trusted?” Of the merits of that Essy it doesn’t becum me to speak, but I may be excoos’d for mentionin that the Institoot parsed a resolution that “whether we look upon the length of this Essy, or the manner in which it is written, we feel that we will not express any opinion of it, and we hope it will be read in other towns.”

Of course the Essy I writ for the Social Science Society is a more finisheder production than the one on Cats, which was wroten when my mind was crood, and afore I had masterd a graceful and ellygant stile of composition.  I could not even punctooate my sentences proper at that time, and I observe with pane, on lookin over this effort of my youth, that its beauty is in one or two instances mar’d by ingrammaticisms.  This was inexcusable, and I’m surprised I did it.  A writer who can’t write in a grammerly manner better shut up shop.

You shall hear this Essy on Animals.  Some day when you have four hours to spare, I’ll read it to you.  I think you’ll enjoy it.  Or, what will be much better, if I may suggest—­omit all picturs in next week’s Punch, and do not let your contributors write eny thing whatever (et them have a holiday; they can go to the British Mooseum;) and publish my Essy intire.  It will fill all your collumes full, and create comment.  Does this proposition strike you?  Is it a go?

In case I had read the Essy to the Social Sciencers, I had intended it should be the closin attraction.  I intended it should finish the proceedins.  I think it would have finished them.  I understand animals better than any other class of human creatures.  I have a very animal mind, and I’ve been identified with ’em doorin my entire perfessional career as a showman, more especial bears, wolves, leopards and serpunts.

The leopard is as lively a animal as I ever came into contack with.  It is troo he cannot change his spots, but you can change ’em for him with a paint-brush, as I once did in the case of a leopard who wasn’t nat’rally spotted in a attractive manner.  In exhibitin him I used to stir him up in his cage with a protracted pole, and for the purpuss of makin him yell and kick up in a leopardy manner, I used to casionally whack him over the head.  This would make the children inside the booth scream with fright, which would make fathers of families outside the booth very anxious to come in—­because there is a large class of parents who have a uncontrollable passion for takin their children to places where they will stand a chance of being frightened to death.

One day I whacked this leopard more than ushil, which elissited a remonstrance from a tall gentleman in spectacles, who said, “My good man, do not beat the poor caged animal.  Rather fondle him.”