I have heard much of a clever parrot once kept by some relatives of ours on an old place in a quiet little village. Mistress Polly had free range of the house and yard, and throughout the town was as well known as the oldest inhabitant. Through all the pleasant weather she haunted the tall trees in front of the house, climbing to the highest branches, and from there superintending the affairs of the neighborhood, and making astronomical and meteorological observations. In the spring and autumn she watched from these lofty perches the flight of great flocks of pigeons and crows with intense but decidedly unfriendly interest. She would scream and scold at them in a most insolent and defiant manner, evidently criticising the order of their march and all their manœuvres and evolutions, for all the world like a newspaper editor finding fault with the conduct of great armies. Doubtless she was astonished and disgusted to see the great host sweep steadily on, following their leader, paying no heed to her shrieking, railing, and evil prophecies. Yet she was never so absorbed by her duties on the watch-tower that she failed to come to her meals. These she took with the family, perched on the back of a chair or the corner of the table. She was very fond of coffee, and was always provided with a cup. She would take it up by the handle with her claws, and drink from it without spilling a drop. A terrible gossip and busybody was she, talking perpetually and doing all the mischief that lay in her power. She was the terror and torment of all cats and kittens; for, wary and watchful as they might be, Polly was always surprising them by attacks in the rear, and cunning ambuscades and flank movements. Nothing more still and soft-footed could be imagined than her approaches; nothing more sly, sudden, and sharp than the nips she gave with her horrid hooked bill. A cat’s extended tail was especially tempting to her. She generally fought the battle out on that line. “In maiden meditation fancy free,” this parrot roamed about the yard, and laughed and railed at patient sitting hens, and the proud mothers of newly hatched chicks and ducklings. Sometimes she would follow a brood about, sneering and advising, until the poor mother was in an agony of worriment. At last she came to grief in this way. A spirited speckled hen, with a fine brood of young ones, tired of being snubbed and of hearing her offspring depreciated, and shocked at seeing the domestic virtues set at naught by a flaunting foreign fowl of infidel sentiments, turned upon her, sprang upon her back, and began pecking and tearing at her sleek plumage like mad! The feathers fell all around, like a shower of green snow; and the parrot began screaming with all her might: “Let up! Let up! Poor Polly! Poor Polly!”
Her mistress came to the rescue, and Polly skulked away to her cage, where she remained several days, sullen and deeply humiliated; but when she emerged from her retirement she gave the hens and chickens a wide berth.
Several parrots, the pets and companions of religious persons, have been distinguished by their piety, or what passed for such. These have usually belonged to devout Catholics. I have read of one, named Vert-Vert,—the inmate of a convent in France, and taught by the holy nuns,—who was esteemed a most blessed and miraculously gifted bird. His fame spread far and wide. Many made pilgrimages to the convent to be edified by his pious exhortations; and at last the nuns of another convent, in a distant province, solicited the loan of him for a few months, for the good of their souls. He went forth as a sort of feathered apostle, followed by the prayers and blessings of the bereaved sisters, and looking very solemn and important. But, unfortunately, on his journey, he was compelled to spend a night on a steamer; and being kept awake by such new scenes, and perhaps a little sea-sickness, he listened too much to the unprofitable and profane talk of the sailors and some soldiers who were on board. And so it happened that, when he reached the convent, where he was received with great joy and impressive religious ceremonies, instead of edifying the good sisters with exhortations and chants, delivered in a grave, decorous manner, he horrified them by shouting like a rough old sea-captain and swearing like a major-general, while he assumed the most knowing, rollicking air imaginable. Those saintly women stopped their ears, and fled from him as though he had been a demon-bird, and he was immediately sent home in utter disgrace. There, through fasts and penances, he was brought round to more correct habits and behavior; but he never became the shining light he had been before his sudden fall. No more pilgrimages were made to his perch. Though grown a sadder and a wiser bird, it was impossible to tell whether he most sorrowed for his fault or regretted the wicked world of which he had had a taste. Still he made a good end, I believe, within the convent’s hallowed cloisters.
A certain pious cardinal in Rome once gave a hundred crowns in gold for a parrot that could repeat the Apostles’ Creed. Another religiously trained parrot once served as a chaplain on board of a ship,—actually reciting the service for the sailors, who listened and responded with becoming solemnity. I have never seen a clerical parrot; but I have seen clergymen who suggested parrots. By the way, the parrot would make a very economical sort of minister. After the first cost of the bird, his education, and a respectable cage or parsonage, there would be no demands on the congregation for increase of salary. As he would have no scruples about repeating old sermons, he would not desire new fields of labor. Parrots seldom have any family, so he would expect no donation-parties. They never have dyspepsia, so he would require no trips to Europe. He would not, I fear, be very popular in the sewing-circles and Dorcas societies,—for he would talk down all the ladies.
A dear young friend of ours has a lovely pair of turtle-doves, that are constantly making love to each other, these soft spring days, in that delicious, drowsy honey-moon coo, “most musical, most melancholy.”
Awhile ago the disastrous experiment was tried, of putting these doves into the cage with a parrot. Miss Polly did not fancy her dainty visitors in the least. She glared at them as they cuddled together in a corner, eying her askance, and murmuring in the sweet dove dialect,—Madame Columba very timidly, and Monsieur in a tender, reassuring tone. Miss Polly abominated such soft, love-sick voices, and such a parade of matrimonial bliss and affection just exasperated her; so she pitched into them, scolding fearfully at first, but soon coming to blows with her wings, then to scratching and pecking with her steel-like claws and fearful, hooked bill. When the hapless pair were rescued, it was found that the husband, who had fought gallantly to protect his wife, had met with a serious loss, in the upper part of his bill, which had been quite bitten off by that inhospitable old termagant, who had doubtless thought thus to put an end to his billing and cooing.
The poor fellow lost some glossy feathers in this encounter. They have been replaced, but the broken beak has never been restored. Thus maimed, he is only able to drink from a perfectly full cup, and his loving mate invariably stands back till his thirst is satisfied. She also feeds him when he has difficulty in eating, and always carefully plumes him, as he can no longer perform that service for himself. Indeed, she attends to his toilet before her own. No fond wife of a disabled soldier could surpass her in watchful care and devotion. What a touching little lesson is this, of tender, faithful love! I wonder if he would have done as much for her. Let us hope so.