"The Kipling section was a perfect pandemonium in no time," he went on, "there was a terrific battle between the tiger and one of the elephants. I thought the whole place would be torn to pieces. We got them separated somehow, and we saw then that it would be utterly impossible to classify by authors. In some cases it might be done, but we had to stick to one system or another, so we adopted the usual methods of the zoölogical museums—the birds by themselves, the carnivora together, and so on. It is hardly scholarly, I know, but we had to do it."
I could not deny that he had acted for the best. By way of changing the subject I asked him about a small bird of inconspicuous appearance.
"It is the nightingale that inspired John Keats," he replied, "he sings sometimes, on moonlit nights. I can tell you, however, that the Ode is better than his song. The raven, sitting there on the pallid bust of Pallas, you will recognize without any difficulty. This other raven—"
"Belonged to Barnaby Rudge, I suppose?"
"No, he is owned by a private collector. This one flew and croaked ahead of Queen Guinevere, when she fled all night long by glimmering waste and weald, and heard the spirits of the waste and weald moan as she fled. Our ravens are not very cheerful birds. The other large, black bird is Solomon Caw, who lived in Kensington Gardens. There at the edge of the pool stands the Caliph Stork."
"And this hen?" I asked.
"That is Em'ly, who was once the object of attention from a Virginian. The other is the Little Red Hin."
"You will be able to make an addition to your poultry soon," I remarked.
"What do you mean?"
"Why, one Chantecler."