"Harrie" or "Thiddie" failed, but the rebuking call to "George," and the welcome back to "Roy," the prolonged whistle of the oldest son returning at evening from the office, and the cant phrase of an ostler in the neighboring mews, "I'll warm ye," she adopted at once.
It happened one noon, during her first summer with us, that a strange cat, attracted either by Polly's mimicry of her call or the hope of a sweet morsel of bird, had stolen on to the leads. No person whom either could see was near. The former, a full-grown "Tom," crouching stealthily and slowly, amid long and doubtful pauses, approached the cage. Polly, confident in her power, for she was a stranger to fear, and as if possessed of reason, began her call of "puss, puss, puss, poor pussy, poor, poor pussy," in her most winning tones, and followed it by her perfect imitation of the cry of a kitten for its mother. For ten minutes or more, while the changes of "mew! mew!" sometimes quick and sharp, sometimes prolonged wailings, and the endearing "poor, poor pussy," were rung by the bird, the cat, now and then shifting her line of approach, kept drawing nearer the cage. Her eyes were fixed upon the strange object before her, her tail waved stiffly to and fro, her movement forward was so slow as to be almost imperceptible, and her crouch, and pointed ears, and lithe back, and frequently protruded tongue, and whiskers instinct with life, indicated her fell purpose. A minute more and her paw, thrust between the bars of the cage, was about to fix its claw in the bird's flesh, when a yell startled the house. Polly's beak, that terrible weapon which neither man nor beast dared encounter twice, with the quickness of an arrow had transfixed the cat's paw, and she was struggling, with cries of pain, to be free. It was a fair fight for championship, in which Polly was the victor, and by whatever means the result may have been known it is certain that no animal of the feline species on either side of the Atlantic ever afterward disputed her supremacy.
One of the earliest acquaintances Polly made in our house—an acquaintance that quickly ripened into intimacy—was with Flora, a small white German spitz, in whose blood there was a dash of the Esquimaux dog brought to England by Captain Parry from Lancaster Sound in 1818. Without unusual sagacity or strong antipathies. Flora was easily won by attention and kindness, so that no sooner had Polly learned to call "Flo, Flo, Flo," than the former acknowledged a tie of friendship between herself and the bird. Twenty times in a day would she rush from the area at Polly's call, tear up the stairs, and giving two short barks, as much as to say, "Well, I'm here," curl down near the cage, and engage in catching flies, at which she was expert, until she fell asleep, Polly meanwhile looking contentedly on. She was the only animal at whom the bird never struck when she found an opportunity. When Flora died Polly ceased to call her, and it is not remembered that she has spoken her name once in nine years. Even the stuffed skin of Flora, which was shortly brought home and placed in a glazed case near her cage, failed to awaken in the bird remembrances of her lost friend.
As has been stated already, one of her most emphatic calls was "George." From the top of the stairs, through the halls and rooms, to the most distant parts of the house, the short, sharp, and decisive "George! George!! George!!!" would ring, every repetition of the name being made increasingly severe and emphatic. "Confound you, Polly," said the subject of this call one morning, "I've a great mind to wring your neck." "Come along," replied the bird.
A smith, who was called in to repair the handle of her cage, was warned against her bite. While working warily at the job with wire and pincers, Polly,
