The Jovial Gorilla

The best known and most popular civic figure in Chicago is neither the Chicago Tribune's Colonel Bertie McCormick, the Democrats' Mayor Martin Kennelly nor the White Sox's aging but indefatigable shortstop, Lucius Benjamin Appling. In 20 years of residence at the Lincoln Park Zoo, Bushman, Chicago's own gorilla, has topped them all, both in favorable publicity and unwavering public regard.

Bushman, even as a grey-thatched elder gorilla, is one of the most fearsome-looking monsters ever put behind bars. On seeing him for the first time, zoo visitors read a promise of unspeakable ferocity in his black little eyes, his brutal, purplish-black countenance, and his gleaming white incisors. Unlike some older gorillas, he never developed a paunch; and his hairy 547 lbs. are all muscle.

Roman Ham. But it is Bushman's personality which has endeared him to Chicago. The public loves Bushman because Bushman loves them--he is one of the most unabashed hams that ever trod the boards. Despite his looks, he is a kindly and jovial sort of gorilla, who often plays gently with the mice he catches in his cage. The spectacle of Bushman lying at ease like a Roman, munching grapes and gulping quart bottles of milk handed in by his keeper (when in a good mood he politely hands them back), has won the hearts of the multitude.

Bushman, furthermore, is a Chicago boy. He was born in French West Africa, it is true, and after being captured was nursed for a year by a native woman. But he was forwarded to the zoo as soon as he was weaned, and his keeper, a lean, wiry fellow named Eddie Robinson, immediately taught him to wrestle, tackle and pass a football on the Lincoln Park lawn. This ended when Bushman was six Conscious of his 160 Ibs., he good-naturedly refused to go back to his cage one day; it took sweating zoo attendants three hours to get him back in stir and they never let him out again.

For 20 years an unvarying stream of 3,000,000 people passed annually by his cage. He was seldom sick, almost never troublesome. But early this month Keeper Robinson noted that Bushman seemed listless. One day, a fortnight ago, the big gorilla toppled over and lay sprawled and inert on the floor.

Digitalis & Cream. Veterinarians, none of whom dared enter his cage, diagnosed his trouble as arthritis, heart disease and old age. Though Bushman managed to pull himself feebly up to his perch after hours of lying inert, they thought he was dying. The Chicago newspapers sent reporters hurrying out to stand a death watch. When Bushman, who was refusing to eat, took a pint of cream containing a stimulant, the Chicago Tribune ran a black, eight-column Page One bannerline: BUSHMAN GIVEN DIGITALIS. The Tribune could have done no more for a President--at least for a Democratic President.

Enormous crowds began jamming into the monkey house to stare at the stricken monster. Within a week, almost a quarter of a million people passed by his cage. At first it seemed a morbid and pitiful performance. But gradually it became apparent that Bushman was delighted by the shuffling, elbowing, staring people. He began to regain his appetite, soon was consuming 22 Ibs. of fruit, bread and milk. Last week he was able to get up and count the house. Veterinarians decided that Bushman, though enfeebled, might live on for months, or even years. But even if he died sooner, there was no doubt that Bushman would die happy.

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