Around the door of a Sixth Ave. bird store near Twenty-third St. was
gathered the other day a crowd so large that it was a work of several
minutes to gain entrance to the interior. From within there proceeded a
hoarse voice dashed with a suspicion of whisky, which bellowed in
Irish-American brogue the enlivening strains of "Peek-a-boo." With each
reiteration of "Peek-a-boo" the crowd hallooed with delight, and one
small boy, in the exuberance of his joy, tied himself into a sort of knot
and rolled on the pavement. Suddenly the inebriated Irishman came to a
dead stop, and another voice, pleasanter in quality, sang the inspiring
national ode of "Yankee Doodle," followed by the stentorian query and
answer all in one, "How are the Psi-Upsilon boys? Oh, they're all right!"
A passer-by, puzzled at the scene, made his way into the store and soon
solved the mystery. In a large cage in the center was an enormous green
and yellow parrot, which was hanging by one foot to a swinging perch, and
trolling forth in different voices with the ease of an accomplished
ventriloquist. He resumed a normal position as he was approached, and
flapping his wings bellowed out, "Hurrah for Elaine and Logan!" Then,
cocking his head on one side, he dropped into a more conversational tone,
and with a regular "Alice in Wonderland" air remarked: "It's never too
late to mend a bird in the hand;" and again, after a pause, "It's a long
lane that never won fair lady." His visitor affably remarked:
"You're quite an accomplished bird, Polly," and quick as a flash the
creature replied:
"I can spell, I can. C-a-t, cat. D-o-g, fox," with an affectation of
juvenility which was grewsome. He resented an ill-advised attempt at
familiarity by snapping at the finger which tried to scratch his poll,
and barked out:
"Take care! I'm a bad bird, I am. You betcher life!"
"He's one of the cleverest parrots I have had for some time," said his
owner, Mr. Holden. "In fact, he is almost as good as Ben Butler, whom I
sold to Patti. His stock of proverbs seems inexhaustible, and he makes
them quite funny by the ingenious way in which he mixes them up. I could
not begin to tell you all the things he says, but his greatest
accomplishment is his singing. He is a double yellowhead--the only
species of parrot which does sing. The African grays are better talkers,
but they do not sing. They only whistle. What do I ask for him? Oh, I
think $200 is cheap for such a paragon, don't you?"--_N.Y. Tribune._
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