at last we got it on to the curtains, and there it hung half the morning, saying to itself, as it always does when it’s put out, “Polly’s very sick; poor Polly’s going to die.” Tiny, in the mean time, had disappeared into the scullery under the sink, and to the last day of the parrot’s life, whenever the dog heard the parrot scream, it used to make for the same spot. And as the parrot was mostly screeching all day, the dog pretty well lived under the sink. But the parrot died at last, poor beast.
The few feathers it had on must have had something to do with it, I fancy. If I were a bird, I know, and had so few feathers, I should die too. It does not seem much worth living with so few on. One could hardly call one’s self a bird.
So one evening, when I came home, I found Jenny in tears, and there on the hearth-rug, was the poor old parrot, dead, and about as bald as a bird could be — except in a pie. I asked Jenny how it all happened; but she couldn’t speak at first for crying, and when she did tell me, it was heart-breaking to hear her sobs between the words.
“You know,” she began, “Polly hasn’t been eating enough for a long time, and to-day, when I came in from my housekeeping, I saw him looking very sad about something. So I called him, and he came down off his perch. But he couldn’t hop; he was too weak, so he walked quite slowly across the floor to me — and so unsteadily! I knew there was something dreadful going to happen. And when he got to my feet he couldn’t climb up my dress as he generally does. And I said to him, ‘Polly, what’s the matter with you?’ and he said” — but here she broke down altogether for a bit
