THE GALAXY MISCELLANY.
OUR AFRICAN PARROT.
I WAS bargaining for the bird at a stall in Leadenhall Market sometime during the spring of 1855. She was a grey, African parrot, with sleek plumage set off by a dash of red at the tip of her tail, about the size of a large wood-pigeon, well formed, particularly about the head and neck, but with a white feather cropping out here and there, that indicated approaching old age. The dealer, who, with his father and grandfather before him, had sold parrots in the same place ever since the year 1798, as the sign over his stall indicated, and whose statements bore all the appearance of truth, thought she must be seventy years old at least, from what he knew of her history.
"Was she healthy?"
"Perfectly so, and would probably live, with good treatment, twenty years, and longer."
"Clever?"
"The best talker I ever owned, has more words at command than any parrot in London, and if she were not bashful, would fetch me twenty pounds."
"And you say she has learned no bad words?"
"No, sir. You may hang her cage in your parlor, and she will never bring a blush to the cheek of the most modest maiden in Britain."
"How long have you had her for sale?"
"Nearly two years. To tell you the truth, sir, her age is against her. Gentlemen don't like to purchase an old bird. They make a mistake there, sir. She'll live till they are tired of her, and she hasn't got to be taught. She knows enough now. Old Mr. Price, of Brecknockshire, Wales, the great Welsh scholar, who died seven years ago, had her of his father in 1802, who had purchased her of an African trader at Bristol fifteen years before, and she was then a full-grown bird. She can talk both Welsh and English, sir, and you will never regret buying her."
"You are quite sure she is free from all disease?"
"Bring her back, sir, if she has anything beyond a touch of the gout in the next year, and I'll return the money."
I thereupon closed the bargain for Polly and her cage, and calling a cab, took her home to Porchester square.
The Empress of France, married on the 19th of the previous January, proud with the dot of the 150,000 francs annual grant of the French Chambers, and vain of her reception at Windsor Castle, had just made her imperial exit from London; and Polly, being the penalty pater familias paid for saving his only daughter from the crush that cost eighteen lives and nine times that number of broken limbs and mutilated bodies, was instantly named Eugenie. It is proper to state here, however, that as nothing which concerned Polly ever remained
