For many years there lived in the porter’s lodge of the old Pennsylvania Hospital a distinguished and venerable citizen,—a parrot of rare cleverness and intelligence. This famous bird belonged to the porter, and was one of many feathered pets, the chief favorite and familiar. A remarkable affection and sympathy existed between these two friends; yet I am sorry to say their relations were not altogether pleasant and peaceful. Innumerable were their quarrels and make-ups. The bird was very knowing, and almost supernaturally gifted as a talker, especially, like some human orators, in the language of railing and taunting. The old man, his master, had one deplorable weakness,—he would occasionally drink too much whiskey; so much that, getting quite beside himself, he would leave his lodge and his innocent feathered family, and go off on a desperate spree, which sometimes lasted for days. Now, Master Paul Parrot thought this weakness, through which he suffered in loneliness and neglect, very reprehensible and not to be winked at, and when the fit of dissipation was coming on his master, it is said, would remonstrate with him, in a friendly way, like a very Mentor. When this proved in vain, and he saw the misguided old man leave the lodge for some of his disreputable haunts, he would endeavor to put a good face on the matter, would hop about on his perch in great excitement, and call out to the other birds: “The old man has gone on a spree!—on a spree! He won’t be back for a week! Let’s have a time. Ha, ha!”
When the old porter came home, this naughty bird would be very apt to mock and taunt him, calling out: “So you’ve come back,—have you? O, how drunk you are! Now we’ll have a row.” And there always was a row; for the indignant porter never failed to beat Mr. Paul, for his impudence, soundly. Then the bird, seeking the dignified retirement of the darkest corner of the lodge, sulked and muttered, till, the old porter’s good-humor returning, he made friendly overtures. The two were reconciled, and “every thing was lovely” again.
At length the poor old porter died; and as his successor was no bird-fancier the feathered family at the lodge was broken up and dispersed. The clever parrot was kindly treated in a new home; but he never seemed happy. He evidently missed his old master,—missed his caresses and his scoldings. Or perhaps he found the steady goings-on of a moral household too dull for his taste, for when I went to see him, I found him as glum, stupid, and morose as an old politician who had had his day. All he would say was, “O you goose!”
There is another curious parrot in Philadelphia, in a store kept by a maiden lady whose voice is so exceeding shrill and parrot-like that it is difficult to tell when she leaves off talking and the parrot begins. One day, as a customer was examining an article on the counter, Miss Polly called out: “What are you doing with that? Put it down! put it down!” The lady looked round very indignantly for the offender, saying: “Well, ma’am, I must say you have a very impudent child.”
There is in the same city another parrot, who recites a verse of an old song in a most distinct and triumphant manner:—
“O pretty Polly,
Don’t you cry,
For your true-love
Will come by and by.”
There is in Brooklyn, New York, a parrot that sings many of the popular airs correctly, and with as much expression as many fashionable singers give to them. This bird is singularly social and affectionate, and has a horror of being alone. He will sometimes awake in the middle of the night, and arouse the household by crying: “O dear! I am all alone!—all alone! Somebody come to me!”