“Come,” said Max, “what’s the use of trying to talk English: it’s quite plain you’re a Parly-vous.”
“Vive l’empéreur!” shrieked the parrot.
“No doubt you can give us a song, monsieur,” pursued Max; “favour us with ‘Polly put the kettle on,’ s’il vous plait.”
The bird twisted his head round, as though giving earnest attention to what was said; then, after a moment, which from his wise look seemed to be occupied in profoundly considering the reasonableness of the request, he burst forth with—
“Allons enfants de la Patrie
Le jour de gloire est arrivée!”
Shrieking out the two lines as though they composed a single word. Apparently satisfied with this display of his accomplishments, he spread his wings, and flew heavily across the lake, alighting not far from the shore, whence we could hear him occasionally uttering a shrill cry.
“Do you see where the parrot is now?” inquired Morton of me, a moment afterwards.
“Yes, I see his green feathers among the foliage, but not very distinctly.”
“Unless I am much mistaken,” pursued he, “there is a shed or building of some kind among the trees, on the other side of the lake, where he has alighted.”
On shifting our ground a little, we could all perceive between the boughs of the trees, something, that did in fact look like a low wooden building, and after a moment’s consultation, it was agreed that Morton and Max should cross the stream, (which could easily be done where it poured into the lake), and reconnoitre, while the rest awaited their report.