“Where in the world is that bird!” cried I, in dismay.
“In our kitchen, ma’am,” said Phillis, demurely. “’Tis a present from Miss Burt. I guess she thought you was fond of birds.”
“Fond of them? Why, I’m so fond of them that I can’t bear to see them in cages.”
“But this here thing’s on a stand!”
“Or anywhere but in their native woods,” continued I, rapidly. “I have been offered canaries and bullfinches again and again, and always refused. The sweetest melody could not reconcile me to their captivity. And a cockatoo, of all birds in the world! Why, it will drive me distracted!”
“Well, there, I says ’tis a nasty beast,” says Phillis, with a groan, “and has made a precious mess on my clean floor already, scattering and spirting its untidy messes of food all about, and screeching till one can’t hear one’s self speak. ‘Do be quiet, then!’ I’ve bawled to it a dozen times, and it answered me quite pert with, ‘cockatoo!’”
I could not help laughing. “Really,” said I, “it is too bad of Miss Burt—she might have given me warning.”
“Oh, I suppose she thought ’twould be an agreeable surprise,” said Phillis, with a grim smile. “There’s a note for you along with it.”