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62
September-October, 1949
lion and leopard cubs frolicking on the broad lawns. Plenty of rest rooms, benches, and printed information about the animals make visitors happy and bring a smile to the short, rest' less man responsible for the most suC' cessful zoo operation in America.
He is George Phillip Vierhelier, a stubby white'haired man of 65 who still retains the enthusiasm and won' der of a nine^year-old seeing the ele' phants for the first time in his hfe. Before Vierhelier came to the Forest Park zoo, it was the visual dreary place with sad'looking specimens, odorous cages, and a budget just large enough to permit the purchase of a handful of rabbits.
Vierhelier applied the principles of salesmanship and publicity to his job. He called in the zoo architect and asked that the old cages be scrapped and that the original natural environment of the animals be simulated. The alert new zoo director decreed that he wanted a tropical swamp installed in a heated building — and got it. Rare birds and animals were placed in the swamp, separated from the public by a low railing. Visitors got a thrill out of being no more than a few feet from the animals.
Vierhelier used publicity to sweet advantage in building up Harry, a three and one-half ton rhino with a minuscule brain and a staggering size. Vierhelier dickered with animal hunter Frank Buck for Harry, landed him at the bargain-counter price of $8,800.
Then the zoo director induced the Pennsylvania railroad to lend a special baggage car with a tank to Harry so that he might travel in comfort.
While a fast train rushed Harry to St. Louis, Vierhelier phoned every newspaperman, radio reporter, and photographer in the area, giving facta and figures on his valuable behemoth and urging the publicists to be present at Harry's coming-out party. By the time Harry was unloaded at the zoo, 25,000 people were strainir^g against the barriers for a glimpse of the brute, and a nationally famed orchestra leader and movie idol then visiting St. Louis remarked sourly that a wet rhino evidently held more allure for the masses than did a real celebrity.
Once, when a newly acquired parrot started cussing the proverbial blue streak, worried keepers told Vierhelier about it. To their surprise, the zoo director rubbed his hands and emitted pleased sounds as he listened to the profane bird.
"I merely sent out a story to the newspapers that anxious citizens had asked us to get rid of the parrot because his language was unfit for genteel ears," recalls Vierhelier with a grin. "Human nature being what it is, the zoo was packed the next day with folks desiring to be insulted by the cussing parrot. One old man showed up with an ear trumpet so that he wouldn't miss a word!"
WHEN large snakes go on a hunger strike, zoo keepers usually fume and have a rough time forcing nourishment into the reptiles. Vierhelier capitalized on the frequent hunger strikes by advertising that pythons would be fed forcibly before the public. Now, thousands of curious adults and children flock to the zoo to watch six men hold a threshing