Dickie is another old-fashioned child, a handsome, healthful country boy, who lives in Yorkshire. Very chatty and very free was Dickie, but by no means impertinent. Age about seven. But his age does not cost Dickie a thought, for when I asked him how old he was, he said it was either six or sixteen, but he wasn’t sure which. He admired the caravan, and admired Hurricane Bob, but it was my talking cockatoo that specially took his fancy.
He had not been gone half-an-hour till I found him on the steps again.
“I’ve just coome,” he said, “to have another look at t’ould Poll parrot.”
Polly took to him, danced to him and sang to him, and finally make a great grab at his nose.
Dickie was back in an hour.
“Coome again,” he explained, “to have a look at t’ould Poll parrot.”
I thought I was rid of him now for the day; but after sunset, lo! Dickie appeared once more.
“I’m gangin’ to bed noo,” he said, “and I want to say ‘good-night’ to t’ould Poll parrot.”
And next morning, before I started, up came Dickie sure enough.
“Just coome,” he sadly remarked, “to have t’last look at t’ould Poll parrot.”