Along about noon Muley rides in. He’s got a big bundle under one arm and a big box under the other. He deposits his plunder on the steps, and sets down. I sets down beside him to wait until he gets through sighing, when all to once a squeaky voice yells:
“Way ’round ’em. Shep! Who’s crazy!”
I hops plumb off the steps, and whirls with my gun ready. Muley looks at me, sad-like, and sighs again—
“That’s Alfred, Henry.”
“Alfred?” I asks. “Alfred who?”
“I don’t know. Nobody introduced me, but it don’t matter—Alfred is a parrot.”
“Oh!” says I, “what’s Amelia—a lady bug?”
“Naw-w-w! Cat.”
“Squr-r-r-r-reek! Sheep dip! Sheep dip! Har, har, har! Squr-r-reek!” announces Alfred.
“Hen, what’s the natural life of a parrot?” asks Muley, without lifting his head.