In a tropical paradise, there was a large tree inhabited by a parrot. He was perfectly tame, and so was his mistress, a young girl who lived in a house near by. Every morning she would come to the window and call:
“Barbara, Barbara,”
and the parrot would answer,
“Good-morning, Mistress, good-morning.”
Then he would perch on her shoulder and eat breakfast with her. Often in the day he was in the company of a favorite cat, who seemed much attached to her. The parrot would say,
“Poor puss,”
and the cat would lick her lips and say,
“Nice bird, nice bird.”
The mistress used always to say that nothing delighted her so much as her bird and cat talking together. So the parrot continued to live in this comfortable way, saying every day,
“Good-morning, Mistress.”
One day an old woman came into the room where the cat and parrot were sitting and said to the girl:
“Take care of your bird, my child, for I do not think he is long for this world.”
“A plague on old women,” said the mistress; “Barbara will live for many a long day, won’t you, Barbara?”
“Yes, yes,” whispered the cat to the parrot; “long life to my dear mistress.”
“Do you love our mistress?” asked the parrot.
“Very much, very much,” said the cat.
“I don’t think you do,” answered the parrot. “I saw you the other night licking your chops over some flesh beside the wall, and on going near I found it was a nice little pigeon who had been missing for two days.”
“Don’t tell tales, Barbara,” said the cat.
“Do you wear a disguise, then?” inquired the parrot.
“Speak lower,” said the cat. “You may pay dear for the truth.”
“I am very comfortable, thank you,” replied the parrot.
The following day the mistress came as usual to the window and heard the parrot say as he always did, “Good-morning, Mistress.” She held out her hand, the parrot stepped on to it and then on to her shoulder, where he immediately fell down dead.
The mistress was quite broken-hearted, and the cat dared not appear for a long time. At last, however, she came with her tail downcast into the room and said:
“Poor Barbara, poor Barbara!”
The mistress, with tears in her eyes, caressed her affectionate cat, who continued saying,
“Dear, dear mistress,”
and each day she came to the window expecting to see the parrot.
Not long afterward the girl heard the cat saying:
“Take care of the bird. Then, as this won no reply, she added, “Not long will you be in the way, old bird.”
“You mean a week, don’t you, my child?” asked the mistress.
“Madame,” said the cat, who delighted in plaguing her, “you have evidently no longer the power of understanding animal language.”
After waiting some time in expectation of the parrot answering her, the mistress became silent.
“Pity, pity,” murmured the cat, who then repeated: “In a week, a week will not pass away without seeing the old woman here. Good”
“What’s the matter, Barbara? Are you ill, my pretty Barbara?” said the girl.
“It was good advice I gave you,” answered the cat, but whispered it.
The weeks passed on. The cat grew very fat, but her mistress no longer called her Barbara, and she began to forget how to say, “Good-morning, Mistress.” Only one person continued to visit the house, an old woman who sold birds and beasts of all sorts and sizes.
At last a cage was brought, the door opened, and the chain placed round the usual perch. The mistress raised her head; it was a parrot, exactly like her own, but much larger and darker.
“Good-morning, Mistress,” said he.
“Good-morning, Mistress,” said the previous mistress, and began to weep.
“Don’t cry,” said the old woman. “This fine bird is not ill-natured, as cats generally are.”
The animal cringed and licked her lips. “It is true what you say,” answered the cat.
Now for some days nothing particular happened. One night, however, after his mistress had gone away, the parrot turned to the cat, and bobbing his head up and down said:
“Alas, alas! Vanitas Vanitatum.”
“I think I understand you,” said the cat. “Virtue and vice come to the same thing in the end.”
The parrot answered only with a sigh. A little Godson came on a visit. A week afterward his godmother said to him:
“Put on your slippers and go to bed.”
“My slippers pinch me,” answered the boy. “It doesn’t hurt me in the least to walk about without them.”
“It would hurt you perhaps,” said the old woman, who could speak bird language.
Then she called to her new parrot:
“My dear Barbara, repeat after me, ‘My slippers pinch me.’”
“Good-night, everybody,” said the bird.
“Do repeat after me what I tell you, or I will throw you through the windows,” said the old woman.
“Good-night, everybody,” answered the parrot, and the old woman did throw him through the window. All the feathers flew out of his wings, and he would no doubt have broken a few bones, but just as he was falling another nice bird happened to pass that road and took him on his back. “Oh, what a kindness,” said the first arriving.
The parrot thought he recognized his old acquaintance.
“It is you, isn’t it, Sister Pio,” he answered. “I am not certain, but it seems to me that you are the very same who many decades ago were obliged to lend me your feathers, as mine had been so violently torn out of me.”
“You must be dreaming, Brother,” said Sister Pio; “I am sure you can hardly know me.”
“Well, well, we must live and learn,” the parrot replied. “Do you live here?” he asked on their arrival at another house.
“No, indeed,” Sister Pio answered. “At present I am prevented from doing so by an English lawsuit, they call it.”
The other party lived here. The parrot gazed in astonishment, and finding the truth was before him, in a loud voice and with great volubility poured forth some very nice, thoughts in parrot language.
“It is not your fault, my good Sister,” his confederate replied, “and on that account I will not send you back.”
The other had no time to make a reply. At this moment a young lady passed who seemed to be in distress, and she looked out some paper and a pen, and in a plain and legible hand began to write a letter.
“That will do,” said Sister Pio; “give it to me.”
The young lady did so.
Sister Pio said along with herself, as loud as she could speak, then the parrot added, word for word repeating.
“Dear Sir, My slippers pinch me. When I sit by the fire I sit on the fender, and when I lie in bed I lie on the ashes. Pray put all this in your pocket, lay upon it your summary banishment, and conduct me to the railway station.”
“I will take the letter to the station, and the poor young lady herself on my back,” said the parrot and flew off.
The following day he was in the house of an Englishman of rank regarding the train which was to take him home. An old woman was busily engaged in pruning the plum-trees in the garden. After some days she came to her master:
“I fear, my Lord, I will no longer be able to stay. I am nearly blind already, but that is not all. The cat I am housekeeper to ceaselessly torments me, and eats almost all the food there is. Besides this, the parrot tries to scold me but is not understood, on account of the bad way in which he ends his words, he seems to have a curious guttural pronunciation.”
“I am glad you understand animal language,” said the gentleman.
“Only just a little,” the old woman answered. “I call only eight or ten letters a little.”
“Then you indeed understand Dutch,” is it said of anyone.
“I certainly do understand a little Dutch,” replied the old woman.
“You understand more,” was added.
“I certainly have a new plan for the composition of the Dutch language.”
“Then say it,” is exclaimed.
So this old woman, the housekeeper, was dismissed, the lady who had written the letter received her new mistress’s orders, and Sister Pio was enabled to continue her journey.
“Master,” said she one day, “the steward in Dheround tells me that periwinkles will do just as well as mussels for seasoning. Do you think this is the case?”
“They may do for him,” was the answer, “but not for us.”