It was worse than a crime: it was bad taste.
Roaming among the wild animals, I made the acquaintance of the
cassowary, in which I have been deeply interested since childhood's
sunny hours, for then't was oft I sang a touching hymn running thus:
"If I were a cassowary
Far away in Timbuctoo,
I should eat a missionary,
Hat, and boots, and hymn-book too."
From that hour the cassowary occupied a large niche in my heart. The
desire to gaze upon a bird capable of digesting food to which even the
ostrich never aspired, pursued me by day and tinctured my dreams by
night. "What you seek for all your life you will come upon suddenly when
the whole family is at dinner," says Thoreau. I met the cassowary at
dinner. He was dining alone, having left his family in Africa, and I
must say that I never met with a greater disappointment. Were it not for
the touching intimation of the hymn, I should believe it impossible for
him to eat a missionary. A quieter, more amiable bird never stood on two
legs. A polite attendant stirred him up for me, yet his temper and his
feathers remained unruffled. Perhaps if our geographical position had
changed to Timbuctoo, and I had been a missionary with hymn-book in
hand, the cassowary might have realized my expectations.
Pages:
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174