“Putty good,” said Sammy, “but I doan’ care fo’ views,” he added.  “Dey makes me dizzy.”

I gave Sammy up from that moment.  He was well carved, a work of art, in fact, but he was essentially modern, and I was living in the antique.

“Hustle along to the Zoo,” I cried, with some impatience, and I was truly “hustled.”

“Here we is,” said Sammy, settling down on his haunches at the end of a five-mile trot.  “Dis is it.”

We had stopped before a gate not entirely unlike those the Japanese erect before popular places of amusement they frequent.

I descended from the chair and was greeted by an attendant who demanded to know what I wished to see.

“The animals,” said I.

He laughed.  “Well,” he said, “I’ll show you what I’ve got, but truly most of them have gone off on vacation.”

“Is the Trojan Horse here?” I demanded.

“No,” said he.  “He’s in the repair shop.  One of his girders is loose, and the hinges on his door rusted and broke last week.  His interior needs painting, and his left hind-leg has been wobbly for a long time.  It was really dangerous to keep him longer without repairs.”

I was much disappointed.  In visiting the Olympian Zoo I was largely impelled by a desire to see the Trojan Horse and compare him with the Coney Island Elephant, which, with the summer hotels of New Jersey and the Statue of Liberty, at that time dominated the minor natural glories of the American coast in the eyes of passengers on in-coming steamships.  I think I should even have ventured a ride in his capacious interior despite what Sammy had said of his friskiness and the peril of his action to persons susceptible to sea-sickness.

“Too bad,” said I, swallowing my disappointment as best I could.  “Still, you have other attractions.  How about the Promethean vulture?  Is he still living?”

“Unfortunately, no,” said the attendant.  “He was taken out last year and killed.  Got too proud to live.  He put in a complaint about his food.  Said Prometheus was a very interesting man, but as a diet he was monotonous and demanded a more diversified menu.  Said he’d like to try Apollo and a Muse or two, for a little while, and preferred Cupids on toast for Sunday-night tea.”

“What a vulturian vulture!” said I.

“Wasn’t he?” laughed the attendant.  “We replied by wringing his neck, and served him up in a chicken salad to a party of tourists from Hades.”

This struck me as reasonable, and I said so.

“Well, whatever you happen to have on hand will satisfy me,” I added.  “Just let me see what animals you have and I’ll be content.”

“Very well,” replied the attendant.  “Step this way.”

He took me along a charming pathway bordered with many a beautiful tree and adorned with numerous flowers of wondrous fragrance.

“This path is not without interest,” he said; “all the trees and shrubs have a history.  That laurel over there, for instance, used to be a Daphne.  She and Jupiter had a row and he planted her over there.  Makes a very pretty tree, eh?”