THE PAROQUET. 



I AM SO SORRY," wrote a little- 

 girl from Tarrytown, N. Y., to the 

 editor of Birds and all Nature, 

 "not to find in your magazine any 

 more the bird-talks to the little folks. 

 I used to read them with so much in- 

 terest. Are there to be no more of 

 them?" 



Other little folks have written to the 

 editor in much the same strain, so that 

 this month the paroquet will speak for 

 himself. 



"From my photograph," he says, 

 "you will notice that I am fond of gay 

 dress, green, blue, yellow, orange- 

 chrome, and red being my favorite col- 

 ors. From my brilliant coat you would 

 judge me to be a tropical bird, but I'm 

 not, I was born and raised in the 

 United States, as was my family, there- 

 fore I am an American citizen. 



"In appearance I greatly resemble my 

 cousin, the glib-tongued parrot, but for 

 some reason, though my tongue is thick 

 and short like his, and my bill as 

 charmingly curved, I cannot talk — that 

 is, not to be understood by the human 

 family, I mean, for among ourselves we 

 keep up a very lively conversation, in 

 very loud tones — a mark we think, as do 

 some other folk, of good breeding. On 

 the other hand there are people unrea- 

 sonable enough not to like it, and 

 they say we 'scream' and that our notes 

 are 'ear-splitting' and that, though we 

 are beautiful to look upon and ex- 

 tremely docile, our voices render us 

 undesirable as cage birds or pets. 

 The ideal As though we do not con- 

 sider that very fortunate!— for a cage is 

 a prison, no matter if the bars are gilded. 

 For my part I prefer to be free even if 

 I do have to hustle for a living and, be- 

 tween you and me, I think that a bird 

 that can screech and doesn't screech 

 when shut up in a little cage doesn't de- 

 serve to live. He ought to be killed and 

 stuffed and set up in a museum for peo- 

 ple to gape at. Don't you think so, too? 



"It is a great pity, but we paroquets 

 are fast being exterminated. In some 

 regions, where less than twenty-five 

 years ago we were very plentiful, not a 

 paroquet is now to be seen. We were 

 once quite common in Ohio, Indiana, 

 Illinois, Pennsylvania, and other parts 



of the United States. We are now to 

 be found, in diminished numbers, 

 in remote localities only of the lower 

 Mississippi Valley and the Gulf States 

 and in some regions of Florida. To 

 escape from our enemy, the plume- 

 hunter, we make our homes in practi- 

 cally uninhabitable regions. That is a 

 long word for you little folks, but spell 

 it out slowly, as I did, and you will un- 

 derstand what it means. 



"Our nesting-time is during February 

 and March, Then colonies of us paro- 

 quets, sometimes numbering a thou- 

 sand, flock to a cypress swamp and 

 build our flimsy nests in forks of trees, 

 near the end of a slender, horizontal 

 branch. Often there are fifty nests in 

 one small tree, each containing from 

 four to five pretty, greenish-white eggs. 

 It is a good thing we build our nests in 

 wild and unsettled places, for they are 

 so flimsy that the eggs are plainly visi- 

 ble from beneath. What a temptation 

 to the bad boy they would be, and to 

 the bad man, also! Some paroquets, 

 however, choose a hollow tree in which 

 to deposit their eggs. 



"Well, I have told you about all I 

 know of myself and family, so will close 

 by reciting in my very loudest and 

 prettiest screech, so that all the neigh- 

 borhood may hear, a few lines about a 

 Mr. Macaw who was silly enough, after 

 escaping from a cage, to return to it. 

 He is a cousin of mine, a distafit cousin, 

 for he was born in South America; but 

 he wears the same colored coat and 

 vest as I do, his tongue is just as thick, 

 and his bill curves like a parrot's, also: 



MR, MACAW'S I,ESSON, 



'Mr, Macaw was tired of his cage — 



Too much of a prison for home; 

 Mr. Macaw was in a great rage, 



And so he settled to roam. 

 The cage door was open, the window too 



(Strange chance, both open together!), 

 So he took his chance and away he flew; 



But, alas! it was wintry weather. 



Wind from the north, ground covered with 

 rime, 



A frost that made your limbs shiver; 

 Poor Mr. Macaw! this was not like the clime 



On the banks of the Amazon River, 



So Mr. Macaw grew wise, as do men, 

 When taught by experience bitter; 



He flew back to his cage, and determined then 

 He would never again be a flitter.' 



169 



