“Parrots!” exclaimed the bird, stamping furiously on the seat of the chair; “I hate ’em—nasty, showy, pretentious, ill-bred creatures; regular shrieking hypocrites, that’s what I call ’em.”
“What sort of a bird are you, then?” asked Dick.
“I’m a Dodo,” said the creature, with a consequential air.
“Oh! then you are extinct,” said Dick. “I read it in a natural history book.”
“Yes, I am,” admitted the Dodo. “It’s lovely being extinct,” he added, complacently. “Have you ever tried it?”
“Good gracious, no,” cried Dick.
“What does it mean, Dick, dear?” whispered Marjorie, who didn’t like to appear ignorant.
“Gone out, I think,” explained Dick. “Anyhow, they say a volcano is extinct when it has gone out.”
“Yes, that’s quite right,” explained the Dodo, with a wink. “Haven’t you ever heard the vulgar expression, ‘Does your mother know you’re out?’ Well, where I come from, we just say, ‘Is your maternal relative aware of your extinction?’ instead. It’s the same thing, you know, and sounds ever so much better. Then, again, it’s most convenient, if any one calls whom you don’t wish to see, just to tell the servants to say that you are extinct, and there is an end of the matter. But I mustn’t stop all day, I must be off to sea.”
“Are you going to sea on that chair?” cried Marjorie.