"Well, you see, Polly, the little sticks make a good framework for my house. The wood is good to chew and can be made soft for lining the nest; and the bits of flint in the head of the match are fine for sharpening and filing my teeth."
"You and your family won't be able to file out of the house if you light one of those matches while you are filing your teeth," said Polly, and she gave another of her famous chuckles.
"I'll look out for that," replied Mr. Brown Rat, as he scampered across the piazza.
"Don't you dare to build a nest with matches in my house," Polly screamed after him; but Brownie slipped through a hole in the clapboards under the kitchen window and didn't make any promises.
Polly didn't see her friend again for some time and she began to miss him.
One day she heard her master say, "I wonder what becomes of all my matches?" and this set her to thinking.
She sat still on her perch for a long time, scratching her head with first one foot and then another. "I believe Brownie is really building his nest in this house," she said to herself at last; "and he is using matches, too, after I told him not to."
Then she became very angry. She screamed and bit the bars of her cage with her sharp bill until the cook came out and scolded her for being so cross.
Two or three days later Polly was hanging on the back porch again, and the sun was shining on her feathers. She was spreading out her wings, and cocking her head on one side, when, all of a sudden, she saw a thin curl of blue smoke creeping out between the clapboards.
"Hello! Help! Come in!" she screamed. "Hello! Help! Fire! Fire!"