Pictured above is a mastiff from the AFP files. This is the original Beijing Youth story, with a picture of the actual dog that was in the lion cage: http://bjyouth.ynet.com/3.1/1308/15/8205507.html On page 2 there's the fake "golden jaguar", and on page 3 the "wolf".
Actually, "Finados" (The Deceased) is celebrated in Brazil on November 2nd. It's a national holiday, some people go to cemeteries to pray, light candles and bring flowers. And a bunch of hipsters do zombie parades - they've been trying to make this a trend for a few years now.
In 1869, therefore almost 30 years before "The Yellow Kid", italian-brazilian Angelo Agostini published "As aventuras de Nhô Quim" ("The adventures of Nho Quim") in a newspaper. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Angelo_Agostini
Agostini's works show a mastering of sequential art skills, as one can see in those scans from "As aventuras do Zé Caipora" (1883):
In Rio de Janeiro, there's a bookstore called Beta de Aquarius famous for its siamese cats Isis and Osiris. They sleep on the bookshelves most of the time, and are always willing to receive a belly rub. You can see them both here: http://virtur.com.br/VR360LivrariaBetaDeAquarius/enter_02/
Dirkovitch was a Russian--a Russian of the Russians, as he said--who appeared to get his bread by serving the czar as an officer in a Cossack regiment, and corresponding for a Russian newspaper with a name that was never twice the same. He was a handsome young Oriental, with a taste for wandering through unexplored portions of the earth, and he arrived in India from nowhere in particular. At least no living man could ascertain whether it was by way of Balkh, Budukhshan, Chitral, Beloochistan, Nepaul, or anywhere else. The Indian government, being in an unusually affable mood, gave orders that he was to be civilly treated, and shown everything that was to be seen; so he drifted, talking bad English and worse French, from one city to another till he forgathered with her Majesty's White Hussars[3] in the city of Peshawur,[4] which stands at the mouth of that narrow sword-cut in the hills that men call the Khyber Pass. He was undoubtedly an officer, and he was decorated, after the manner of the Russians, with little enameled crosses, and he could talk, and (though this has nothing to do with his merits) he had been given up as a hopeless task or case by the Black Tyrones[5], who, individually and collectively, with hot whisky and honey, mulled brandy and mixed spirits of all kinds, had striven in all hospitality to make him drunk. And when the Black Tyrones, who are exclusively Irish, fail to disturb the peace of head of a foreigner, that foreigner is certain to be a superior man. This was the argument of the Black Tyrones, but they were ever an unruly and self-opinionated regiment, and they allowed junior subalterns of four years' service to choose their wines. The spirits were always purchased by the colonel and a committee of majors. And a regiment that would so behave may be respected but cannot be loved.
http://bjyouth.ynet.com/3.1/1308/15/8205507.html
On page 2 there's the fake "golden jaguar", and on page 3 the "wolf".
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Angelo_Agostini
Agostini's works show a mastering of sequential art skills, as one can see in those scans from "As aventuras do Zé Caipora" (1883):
http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg147/planetamongo/Quadrinacional/AAgostn/36-ZeCaipora-aona.jpg
http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg147/planetamongo/Quadrinacional/AAgostn/42-ZCaip-salvarinaia.jpg
Guess what? Kipling wrote like James Joyce.
Dirkovitch was a Russian--a Russian of the Russians, as he said--who
appeared to get his bread by serving the czar as an officer in a
Cossack regiment, and corresponding for a Russian newspaper with a
name that was never twice the same. He was a handsome young Oriental,
with a taste for wandering through unexplored portions of the earth,
and he arrived in India from nowhere in particular. At least no living
man could ascertain whether it was by way of Balkh, Budukhshan,
Chitral, Beloochistan, Nepaul, or anywhere else. The Indian
government, being in an unusually affable mood, gave orders that he
was to be civilly treated, and shown everything that was to be seen;
so he drifted, talking bad English and worse French, from one city to
another till he forgathered with her Majesty's White Hussars[3] in the
city of Peshawur,[4] which stands at the mouth of that narrow
sword-cut in the hills that men call the Khyber Pass. He was
undoubtedly an officer, and he was decorated, after the manner of the
Russians, with little enameled crosses, and he could talk, and (though
this has nothing to do with his merits) he had been given up as a
hopeless task or case by the Black Tyrones[5], who, individually and
collectively, with hot whisky and honey, mulled brandy and mixed
spirits of all kinds, had striven in all hospitality to make him
drunk. And when the Black Tyrones, who are exclusively Irish, fail to
disturb the peace of head of a foreigner, that foreigner is certain to
be a superior man. This was the argument of the Black Tyrones, but
they were ever an unruly and self-opinionated regiment, and they
allowed junior subalterns of four years' service to choose their
wines. The spirits were always purchased by the colonel and a
committee of majors. And a regiment that would so behave may be
respected but cannot be loved.