I had hardly finished looking at these, when Cephalus, impatient to be through with me, as guides often are with tourists, observed:
"There is the phœnix."
I turned instantly. I have always wished to see the phœnix. A bird having apparently the attractive physique of a broiler deliberately sitting on a bonfire had appealed strongly to my interest as well as to my appetite.
"Dear me!" said I. "He's not handsome, is he?"
He was not; resembling an ordinary buzzard with wings outstretched sitting upon that kind of emberesque fire that induces a man in a library to think mournfully about the past, and convinces him—alas!—that if he had the time he could write immortal poetry.
"Not very!" Cephalus acquiesced. "Still, he's all right in a Zoo. He's queer. Look at his nest, if you don't believe it."
"I never believed otherwise, my dear Cephalus," said I. "He seems to me to be a unique thing in poultry. If he were a chicken he would be hailed with delight in my country. A self-broiling broiler—!"
The idea was too ecstatic for expression.