There was a huge, squawky parrot right across the street from me, adding its senseless, rasping cries to the more necessary evils of other noises.
I had also an aunt with a parrot. She was a wealthy, ostentatious person, who had been an only child and inherited her money.
Uncle Joseph hated the yelling bird, but that didn't make any difference to Aunt Mathilda.
I didn't like this aunt, and wouldn't visit her, lest she think I was truckling for the sake of her money; but after I had wished this time, I called at the time set for my curse to work; and it did work with a vengeance. There sat poor Uncle Joe, looking thinner and meeker than ever; and my aunt, like an overripe plum, complacent enough.
"Let me out!" said Polly, suddenly. "Let me out to take a walk!"
"The clever thing!" said Aunt Mathilda. "He never said that before."
She let him out. Then he flapped up on the chandelier and sat among the prisms, quite safe.
"What an old pig you are, Mathilda!" said the parrot.
She started to her feet—naturally.
"Born a Pig—trained a Pig—a Pig by nature and education!" said the parrot. "Nobody'd put up with you, except for your money; unless it's this long-suffering husband of yours. He wouldn't, if he hadn't the patience of Job!"