The City Jungle by Felix Salten Read Free Book Online

profoundly sage in all their faces, something that seemed to know all primal secrets, that made one eager to question them, and yet something that stilled every question on the lips.
    Here and there a group of visitors, men, women and children, would stop before the parrots, timidly offering them sunflower seeds and fruit, flirting with much uncertainty and sudden terror with the brilliant-­colored or white birds whose natures, however alluring, remained strange and uncanny to them.
    â€œThey are tame,” thought the curator, “most of them are perfectly tame. Their chains could be taken off and they would be just as harmless as they are now.” The recollection of Dr. Wollet flashed through his mind again. Yes, he might be converted—some day. The curator reflected: “They would fly into the trees if they were set free, into the zoo. Not one would remain on its perch. And this avenue of parrots looks so pretty.” He reflected further: “They would frighten the public. Especially the children. There would be difficulties. No, no, things must remain as they are.”
    A big, sky-blue macaw, with a dazzling yellow and green top-knot, struggled fiercely with its chain, then laid it carefully and suggestively around its neck. It looked like a clear case of suicide. Suddenly the macaw was dangling, seemed to be lost, if help did not arrive forthwith. Hoarse whistlings, choking gurgles. It rolled its eyes piteously. From all sides people came running, dashing, bounding. Horrified and painfully excited, they gathered around the poor bird, screaming, shouting and roaring for the keeper to come to the rescue. When the hubbub was loud enough, the hanging bird calmly fastened one claw in the chain. A jerk, a lightning-­like swing, and the macaw was sitting haughtily on its perch again, looking around contemptuously and screeching like a devil. The curator stood by and smiled. He knew that trick.
    He left the shade of the avenue and walked into the bright sunshine where a carpet of flowers bloomed on the broad lawns. Pansies, daisies, forget-me-nots and wallflowers grew against a background of red carnations, running in luxuriant decorative lines across the velvety close-cropped grass. Lilacs, laburnums and jasmines bordered the gay expanse. In the distance a white monument rose from amongst the light and cheerful shrubbery: a little memorial erected to a chimpanzee that had lived here for six years and then died of consumption. Peter’s predecessor. He had been called Peter, too. A thought passed through the curator’s mind: “And some day the present Peter will die of consumption, too. Perhaps I’ll have a monument erected to him. He’s earned it, good little Peter has . . . And then there’ll be another chimp . . . and another. . . . And in a hundred years there’ll be fifteen or twenty stone apes around the garden here.” He dismissed the thought and went on.
    On the lawns the blackbirds were walking with elegant measured steps, stopping now and again in their search for earthworms. In the shrubbery the finches were chirping, the titmice whispering, the sparrows noisily twittering. Fragrance arose from the ­flower-beds, from the lilac blossoms, from the freshly sprinkled grass and moist germinating earth. As if for the first time, the curator noticed the long terrace with its many tables, running in front of the restaurant. In the middle distance he saw the pavilion of the orchestra. Not a soul was in sight so early in the morning. The verandah tables were deserted, the music-stands on the pavilion were empty. The curator had little to do with this part of the zoological garden.
    On the far side of the lawns were the animals, the zoological garden which had been entrusted to his care for so many years. But, following some compulsion which was not quite clear to him, he was traversing it as if he were a stranger. As far as the imprisoned animals