"Go away, bold boy!" "Go away, bold girl," never mistaking between boy and girl.
When a visitor took off coat or shawl the bird would act as if trying to take off his wings, and laugh heartily at his performance if any one else laughed. He would play with the cats till he was tired of them and then whistle for the dog to chase them away.
[Illustration: A Gray Parrot on His Perch. Waiting to Speak His Piece]
We might go on and on with parrot stories, for they are endless. Very likely many of you could tell me as good ones as I can tell you. One thing of note about these birds is their love of a joke. Here is a tale of one of these jokers that loved to make fun of Carlo, the dog. Carlo would be snoozing in a corner of the room when polly would cry out in a voice exactly like his master's,
Up would jump the dog, rush into the garden, look fiercely round, then, hearing a fresh cry of "Cats! Cats! Seize them, Carlo!" would bound over the wall into the next garden. The next moment the bird, with a wonderful change of tone, would call out in the master's sternest tones,
"Come back, Carlo! Come back, you naughty dog!"
Back would come Carlo in a slinking way, as if expecting to feel his master's cane.
Another bird was fond of playing jokes of a different kind on the house dog. It would whistle and call out in a soft tone,
"Gyp, poor old Gyp! Does Gyp want to go out?"
The dog, delighted at the prospect of a run with its master, would begin to frisk and dance about, looking around to see where he was. This got to be a common trick with the bird, for the dog never found out that it was being tricked by the parrot.
Many of my readers must know that there are other birds that can talk, some of them as well as the parrot. Those who may have read the novel of "Barnaby Rudge," by Charles Dickens, are likely to remember the Raven of that story, with its "Never say die."
A very famous bird of this kind is Poe's raven, told of in the poem of that name, whose one word was "Nevermore."
These are birds of fiction and poetry but there are talking ravens in the annals of fact. There was one, some years ago, at home in a tavern at Stoke Newington, England, who could not bear gray or white horses, though it did not mind any other color. No sooner would a horse of the hated color come up to the water-trough for a drink than Peg would perch on the edge of the trough and swear lustily at the poor animal. Or else it would start it off with a loud "Gee, whoa," in the exact tones of a carter.