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 ph[oe]nix.”

I turned instantly.  I have always wished to see the ph[oe]nix.  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.”

[Illustration:  I MEET THE PH[OE]NIX]

“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.

“Well, he isn’t a chicken, so your rhapsody doesn’t go,” said Cephalus.  “He’s little short of a buzzard.  Useful, but not appetizing.  If I were a profane mortal, I should call him a condemned nuisance.  Most birds build their own nests, and a well-built nest lasts them a whole season.  This infernal bird has to have a furnace-man to make his bed for him night and morning, and if, by some mischance, the fire goes out, as fires will do in the best-regulated families, he begins to squawk, and he squawks, and he squawks, and he squawks until the keeper comes and sets his nest a-blazing again.  He has a voice like a sick fog-horn that drives everybody crazy.”

“Why don’t you fool him sometimes?” I suggested.  “Make a nest out of a mustard-plaster and see what he would do.”

“He’s too old a bird to be caught that way,” said Cephalus.  “He’s a confounded old ass, but he’s a brainy one.”

At this moment a blare of the most heavenly trumpets sounded, and Cephalus and I left the building and emerged into the garden to see what had caused it.  There a dazzling spectacle met my gaze.  A regiment of Amazons was drawn up on the green of the parade and a superb gilded coach, drawn by six milk-white horses, stood before them, while two gorgeously apparelled heralds sounded a fanfare.  Cephalus immediately became deeply agitated.

“It is his Majesty’s own carriage and guard,” he cried.

“Whose?” said I.

“Jupiter’s,” said he.  “I fancy they have come for you.”

And it so transpired.  One of the heralds advanced to where I was standing, saluted me as though I were an emperor, and, through his golden trumpet, informed me that eleven o’clock was approaching; that his Majesty deigned to grant me the desired audience, and had sent a carriage and guard of honor.