"I know that you are a beauty," said Fidele, "and that I'm only an ugly little dog."
"Then how clever I am," continued Miss Parrot, after a nibble at her biscuit. "No human beings are likely to care for you, for you can't speak one word of their language."
"I wish that I could learn it," said Fidele.
"You've only to copy me." And then in her harsh grating voice the parrot cried, "What's o'clock?"
"Bow-wow!" barked Fidele.
"Do your duty!" screamed the bird.
"Bow-wow!" barked the dog.
"There's not a chance that any one will ever care for you, ugly, stupid spaniel," cried Miss Poll. "You may just creep off to your kennel, you are not fit company for a learned beauty like me."
Poor Fidele made no complaint, but he felt sad as he trotted off to his corner. Before Poll's arrival at the Hall, the spaniel had been the favourite playmate of all Mrs. Donathorn's children. They had taught him to fetch and carry, to toss up a biscuit placed on his nose and catch it cleverly in his mouth, or to jump into the water and bring a stick that had been flung to ever so great a distance.
But as soon as pretty Polly came, no one seemed to care for Fidele any more. To teach the parrot to speak was the great delight of the children. They shouted and clapped their hands when she screamed out "Pretty Poll," "What's o'clock?" or, "Do your duty." Stupid Fidele! He could not be taught to speak. Ugly Fidele! Who could for a moment compare him to a beautiful parrot. So all the kind words, and soft pats, and sweet biscuits were given to Poll. It is true that she made little Tommy once cry out with pain from a bite from her sharp beak,—and that the least thing that displeased her would make her ruffle up her feathers in a very ill-tempered way; but still she was petted and praised for her cleverness and her beauty; and she quite despised poor Fidele, who was nothing but an ugly hairy dog.