MEMORY OF PARROTS. 
3 
hands, bawled to the bricklayers above, “ Tare an’ omids ! is it 
mor-r-tar mad that ye are ? Shure a man nade have as many 
legs as a centrepig [centipede] to wait on the likes of ye’s.” 
This imitative propensity is, however, sometimes carried 
beyond a joke. A few years ago, a parrot that was kept 
near the quay in a seaport-town, had learned the term, 
with its appropriate enunciation, used by carters in “ back- 
ing ” their horses so as to bring the wagon in a convenient 
position for loading or unloading. One day a horse and 
cart had been left for a few moments unattended near the 
water’s edge, and was presently spied by the mischievous 
parrot, who cried in a gruff voice “ woa ! back.” The un- 
suspicious cart-horse “ woa-backed ” accordingly, and again 
and again, as the delighted bird repeated the command, till 
horse and vehicle tipped over the stone coping, and the poor 
animal was drowned. 
When I was a child and lived at Kensington, I have a dis- 
tinct recollection of a grey parrot belonging to an inn-keeper 
there, and which was usually hung out of an upper window. 
A capital talker the fellow was, and from morning till night 
kept the thoroughfare alive with his chattering. One day as I 
was returning from school, and paused as usual to hear what 
the parrot had got to say, I found her in a state of high hila- 
rity, and screaming out at the top of her voice, “ Cod, oh ! cod, 
oh ! plaice and eels alive, oh !” Casting about to discover whom 
the bird was calling after, I could see nothing — nothing but a 
highly respectable old gentleman, with brown gaiters and an 
umbrella, leaning on the latter, and laughing till his jolly face 
grew purple. “ Cod, oh ! live eels !” the bird continued to bawl, 
and it being evident to me that the old gentleman was in the 
secret, I took the liberty of inquiring of him what the bird 
meant. “ What does he mean, boy ? why he means me,” 
replied the good-natured old fellow. “ He has the memory of 
a tax-gatherer, has that bird; he remembers me, the villain, 
for all my fine coat. It’s nearly twenty years ago since I drove 
a fish-cart, every day, through this parish, and called out my 
ware, but he don’t forget. I musn’t come through Kensington 
if I wish to forget I was once a poor fishmonger.” 
Then there is the wonderful German legend of the grey 
parrot who brought a murder to light, and a murderer to the 
gallows. Many years ago there resided, in the worst part of 
the town of Kuremburg, a shoemaker, named Carl Schnop, 
who had for a lodger an eccentric old gentleman, Herr Wouter. 
b 2 
