12 



A Bird Among Birds. 



my Polly?' Immediately the bird recog- * 

 nized the voice of his former master, be- 

 came excited, walking back and forth on 

 his perch, showed as best he could, by 

 voice and gesture, that he wished to answer 

 the (juestion by saying, 'Here am 1." It 

 was a clear case of instant recognition. 

 Then Mr. Sprenger went to his pet, and 

 the scene is described by Mr. Brown as 

 the reunion of a parent and a child. The 

 affectionate creature ran his bill through 

 his old master's moustache in the attempt 

 to kiss him, rubbed his head against his 

 cheek, then kissed him again and nestled 

 close to his old friend, as though he feared 

 he might lose him again. Then Mr. 

 Sprenger tested him in .some of his old 

 tricks to prove his memory, and they were 

 performed with as much readiness as in 

 former days. ' Polly, I have lost my pocket- 

 book,' .said his old friend, after having 

 dropped it. Then Polly went in search of 

 it, and soon brought it in his bill, and 

 having deposited it in his friend's hand, 

 expressed his joy in a hearty laugh. On 

 Mr. Sprenger's taking his leave of him, he 

 was almost frantic with grief, and it was 

 only with difficulty that his keeper pre- 

 vented him from following the master he 

 so affectionately loved." 



If I loved the bird before, that feeling 

 was intensified from that moment, and 

 money could no more have tempted me 

 to part with him than it could to part 

 with one of my children. Call it a strange 

 infatuation; call it weakness or effeminacy; 

 call it what you will, but my solemn re- 

 solve from that day was that " naught but 

 death should part" us two. 



In 1881 Polly was brought from Lan- 

 caster, Pa., to this c:ity, where I had located 

 a year before, and soon attracted unusual 

 attention, as he had at the North, exciting 

 the wonder and admiration of all who saw 

 him. It was evident, however, by notice- 

 able failing of eyesight and stiffness in his 

 joints, that age was telling on Polly, and 



this caused me to watch him with as much 

 solicitude as a tender father watches his 

 child. My greatest fear was that growing 

 years might lead to decrepitude and help- 

 lessness with all the attendant evils of ex- 

 treme age. Often in my contemplative 

 moments did I picture to myself the prob- 

 able final separation. At last the end came. 

 The closing scene of this enigmatical exist- 

 ence burst upon my view when I least ex- 

 pected It. 



Polly was entertaining a number of call 

 ers with his laughing, talking, whistling 

 and barking programme, until a late hour 

 in the evening, and seemed to be in his 

 usual good spirits. After the company had 

 left, members of the family were startled 

 by plaintive cries from the bird as if in 

 great di-stress. Rushing into the room, 

 they found him lying on the floor, to where 

 he had fallen from the back of a chair upon 

 which he had been sitting, uttering the 

 most pitiable cries, evidently trying to say 

 "Papa" (meaning me). I heard the com- 

 motion from a room in the lower story, and 

 immediately ran up-stairs. Imagine my 

 feelings if you can, gentle reader, when 

 I i)icked up my dear old friend ! A few 

 gasps, a convulsive tremor, a closing of his 

 jet black eyes, and Polly was no more ! He 

 (lied in my hands, doubtless from an apo- 

 plectic stroke. May I not be pardoned 

 when I admit the fact that tears fell from 

 my eyes at that moment ? It was a weak- 

 ness, 'tis true, but still, under the circum- 

 stances, pardonable, I think. My love for 

 the feathered tribe has always been intense. 

 Since Polly's death I love them more, and 

 no matter how homely in plumage, all alike 

 have my undivided love and ceaseless care. 

 The insignificant little sparrow, and the 

 goldfinch gay, the crow and the pheasant, 

 the robin and the wren, the lark and the 

 swallow, in short all of God's beautiful 

 feathered family, are the objects of my 

 jealous care. J. J. Sprenger. 



Atlanta, Ga., Dec. 24, 1886. 



