Peace reigned in the house. The parrot no longer tore at its bars or screamed, and as for the under-housemaid, she was a transformed creature: punctual, orderly, competent, and unobtrusive. The cook said she didn’t know what had come over the bird and the girl. According to her ideas, the situation was now most satisfactory. The two rebels had at last fallen into line with the quiet conduct of the house, and there was no longer anything to complain of, either in the sitting-room or the basement. It would have been hypercritical to complain that the girl’s quietness was disconcerting. When her tasks were done, she retired to her bedroom, where she might be found at any moment sitting with her hands lying in her lap, the violet eyes looking out of the window. Well, if she chose so to spend her time.... The parrot sat huddled on its perch, flaunting in plumage indeed, for that was beyond its control, but irreproachable in demeanour. It appeared almost to apologize by its humility for the garishness of colour wherewith Nature had afflicted it.
One morning the cook came down as was her custom, and found the following note addressed to her, propped up on the kitchen dresser:
“Dear Mrs. White, i have gone to wear the golden crown but i have lit the stokhole and laid the brekfast.”
Very much annoyed, and wondering what tricks the girl had been up to, she climbed the stairs to the girl’s bedroom. The room had been tidied, and the slops emptied away, and the girl was lying dead upon the bed.
She flew downstairs with the news. In the sitting-room, where she collided with her mistress, she noticed the parrot on its back on the floor of the cage, its two little legs sticking stiffly up into the air.
PRINTED BY GARDEN CITY PRESS, LETCHWORTH, ENGLAND.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
- Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
- Retained anachronistic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.