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breakfast table, stalk about as if all belonged to him, eat a little

salt, nibble a hole in the loaf and toss a spoon or two on the

ground then fly on to my shoulder, but every time I moved my

head he would give my ear a horrible tweak. All his real

affection was centred in a Grey parrot, their cages had always

to be side by side ; were Polly carried out of the room, Joey’s

cage must quickly follow or he rent the air with ear piercing

screams, and however far off Polly might be, she heard and

answered back ; but yet Polly did not fully return his love for if

Joey alighted on her cage she would at once try to bite him,

and we could never let the two out together. But ye: Polly

would sit with her wings opened out like Joey’s, and would imitate

his wee voice so exactly one could not tell which was speaking.

“Joey, Joey, Joey, pretty Joey, pretty dear, kiss pretty dear, pity

poor Joey, let poor Joey out, kiss kiss kiss,” first one and then

the other would say, and then try to whistle a tune, Polly

copying all Joey’s blunders.


But one day our dear Polly died—sadly mourned by us all.

Joey sat by her till the last, bat he seemed to understand it all,

for when she was carried away dead he never called after her

but sat silent and moping for a day or two. We put him beside

the Budgerigars, but he thought them too small to be interesting

and instead cast loving eyes on the Fox terrier. If Tinker were

lying in the arm chair, Joey would sit on the arm of it, posturing

and talking and kissing, and when the dog jumped down Joey

would follow and keep running to and fro under his nose. It

amused Tinker and he would sometimes wish to have a rough

game, in which we feared he might unintentionally hurt poor

Joey ; and when the bird would try sometimes to alight on his

back he would get a little nervous and cross, and so at last Joey

has been constrained to turn to his human friends. He now

sits on my shoulder without punishing my ear so cruelly; and on

cold evenings when we draw round the fire he likes to nestle in

my lap, wrapped round in a warmed duster, with a fold of my

dress drawn over him. If I peep at him I often find his

eyes closed and his head lying sideways as if on a pillow;

now and then he pops his head out and looks around and

then draws it back like a tortoise into its shell. He will also

at these times let me scratch his head and coax him without

attempting to bite. I rather fear that love of warmth may be a

sign of old age, and now we have grown fond of each other I

shall grieve when the time comes to part with him.



