UNCLE THOMAS TELLS ABOUT PARROTS, THEIR SEEMING INTELLIGENCE, AND RELATES SEVERAL CURIOUS STORIES OF THEIR POWER OF IMITATING THE HUMAN VOICE.

“To-night,” said Uncle Thomas, on the following evening, “I am going to tell you about a family of Birds, which, from the splendour of their plumage, and the ease with which they can be taught to imitate the human voice, have continued to be great favourites ever since their introduction into Europe.”

“Oh! it is Parrots you mean, I suppose, Uncle Thomas!” said Jane.

“It is so, Jane,” said Uncle Thomas; “and I have many very curious stories to tell you about them.”

“Where do Parrots come from?” asked Mary.

“They are found in all the tropical countries,” said Uncle Thomas; “in the West Indies, in Africa, in the Islands of the Pacific and Indian Oceans, and one species is a native of America. There are a great many varieties which are known by the names of Parrots, Macaws, Cockatoos, Parrakeets, Lories, &c., but notwithstanding the favour which is shown to them when domesticated, very little is known of their habits in a wild state. This arises in a great measure from the nature of their places of resort. They chiefly inhabit the luxuriant forests of the tropics, feeding on the nuts and berries, of which there exists an everlasting succession; but so luxuriant is the growth of the vegetable kingdom in these regions, that the forests are in most cases quite impenetrable by man. Many of the most luxuriant, indeed, grow in marshes, so as to be quite inaccessible, and in all of them the exhalations, which are constantly given out by decaying vegetable matter, renders the air pestilent to human beings; and should a traveller attempt to explore them, he would never return to publish the tale of his adventures.”

“Do they talk as they fly about in a wild state?” asked Harry.

“No,” said Uncle Thomas, “they do not; that is entirely the effect of education. Their native cry is harsh and discordant, and has been not inaptly called a scream. It is their faculty of imitation which enables them to utter words and phrases in tones so like the human voice as to be readily mistaken for it. Many curious stories are told of their powers in this way, and some of them would almost lead us to believe that the creature was endowed with human intelligence. Mr. Jesse was so surprised by what he saw and heard of one at Hampton Court, that he requested the sister of its owner to furnish him with some particulars respecting it. Here they are in her own words:—

“As you wished me to write down whatever I could collect about my sister’s wonderful Parrot, I proceed to do so, only premising that I will tell you nothing but what I can vouch for having myself heard. Her laugh is quite extraordinary, and it is impossible to help joining in it oneself, more especially, when in the midst of it she cries out, ‘don’t make me laugh so, I shall die, I shall die,’ and then continues laughing more violently than before. Her crying and sobbing are curious, and if you say ‘Poor Poll, what is the matter?’ she says, ‘So bad, so bad, got such a cold,’ and after crying for some time, will gradually cease, and making a noise like drawing a long breath, say ‘better now,’ and begin to laugh.

“The first time I ever heard her speak was one day when I was talking to the maid, at the bottom of the stairs, and heard what I then considered to be a child call out, ‘Payne (the maid’s name), I am not well, I’m not well!’ And on my saying, ‘What is the matter with that child?’ she replied, ‘It is only the Parrot, she always does so when I leave her alone, to make me come back;’ and so it proved, for on her going into the room, the Parrot stopped, and then began laughing quite in a jeering way.

“It is singular, that whenever she is affronted in any way she begins to cry, and when pleased, to laugh. If any one happens to cough or sneeze, she says, ‘What a bad cold.’ One day when the children were playing with her, the maid came into the room, and on their repeating to her several things which the Parrot had said, Poll looked up, and said quite plainly, ‘No I didn’t.’ Sometimes when she is inclined to be mischievous, the maid threatens to beat her, and she often says, ‘No you won’t.’ She calls the Cat very plainly, ‘Puss, Puss,’ and then answers, ‘Mew;’ but the most amusing part is, that whenever I want to make her call it, and to that purpose say, ‘Puss, Puss,’ myself, she always answers, ‘Mew,’ till I begin mewing, and then she begins calling ‘Puss’ as quick as possible. She imitates every kind of noise, and barks so naturally, that I have known her to set all the Dogs on the parade at Hampton Court barking, and I dare say, if the truth was known, wondering what was barking at them! and the consternation I have seen her cause in a party of Cocks and Hens by her crowing and chuckling has been the most ludicrous thing possible. She sings just like a child, and I have more than once thought it was a human being; and it is most ridiculous to hear her make what we should call a false note, and then say, ‘Oh la!’ and burst out laughing at herself, beginning again quite in another key. She is very fond of singing, ‘Buy a Broom,’ which she says quite plainly; but, in the same spirit as in calling the Cat, if we may say, with a view to make her repeat it, ‘Buy a broom,’ she always says ‘Buy a brush,’ and then laughs as a child might do when mischievous. She often performs a kind of exercise which I do not know how to describe, except by saying that it is like the lance exercise. She puts her claw behind her, first on one side and then on the other, then in front, and round over her head, and whilst doing so, keeps saying, ‘Come on, come on!’ and when finished, says ‘Bravo, beautiful!’ and draws herself up. Before I was as well acquainted with her as I am now, she would stare in my face for some time, and then say, ‘How d’ye do, Ma’am?’ this she invariably does to strangers. One day, I went into the room where she was, and said, to try her, ‘Poll, where is Payne gone?’ and to my astonishment, and almost dismay, she said, ‘Down stairs.’

“That looks very much as if it understood what was said to it,” remarked Harry.

“It does so,” said Uncle Thomas; “and can only be accounted for by supposing it to be one of those curious coincidences which sometimes surprise us. I can, however, tell you a story in which, though the Parrots could only utter a couple of phrases each, they used them as naturally as if they had a whole vocabulary at command:—

“A tradesman who had a shop in the Old Bailey, opposite the prison, kept two Parrots, the one green, and the other grey. The green Parrot was taught to speak when there was a knock at the street door; the grey put in his word whenever the bell was rung; but they only knew two short phrases of English a-piece, though they pronounced these very distinctly. The house in which their owner lived had a projecting old-fashioned front, so that the first floor could not be seen from the pavement on the same side of the way; and one day when they were left at home by themselves, hanging out of a window, some one knocked at the street door. “Who’s there?” said the green Parrot, in the exercise of his office. “The man with the leather!” was the reply; to which the bird answered with his farther store of language, “Oh, ho!” The door not being opened immediately as he expected, the stranger knocked a second time. “Who’s there?” said the green Parrot again.—“Who’s there!” said the man with the leather, flying into a passion, ‘Why don’t you come down?’ to which the Parrot again made answer, ‘Oh, ho!’ This response so enraged the visitor that he dropped the knocker and rang furiously at the house bell; but this proceeding brought the grey Parrot, who called out in a new voice, ‘Go to the gate.’—‘To the gate?’ muttered the appellant, who saw no such convenience, and imagined that the servants were bantering him. ‘What gate?’ cried he, getting out into the kennel, that he might have the advantage of seeing who it was that spoke to him. ‘Newgate,’ responded the grey Parrot, just at the moment when his species was discovered.

“Capital!” said Frank, laughing.

“So you see, Frank,” said Uncle Thomas, “that the appropriate answers given by Parrots are not always the result of intelligence.

“Perhaps the most celebrated Parrot,” continued Uncle Thomas, “whose sayings and doings figure in history, is one—a blue Macaw—which belonged to the late Dr. Thornton, who bought it for fifteen guineas, to grace his museum. When in a confined exhibition-room in Bond-street, where it was kept chained by the leg, it made those screaming noises so offensive in its tribe, and seemed sulky and unhappy; but being brought to the doctor’s house (his botanical exhibition having closed), from motives of humanity, the chain was removed that confined it to its perch. At first its feet were so cramped, and the muscles so much weakened from long disuse, that it could not walk. It tottered at every step, and appeared, in a few minutes only, greatly fatigued. Its liberated feet, however, soon acquired uncommon agility, its plumage grew more resplendent, and it became completely happy. It no longer indulged in screams of discontent, and all its gestures denoted gratitude. Its food, was now changed, it breakfasted with the family, having toast and butter; and dined upon potatoes, hard dumplings, with fruit occasionally after dinner. Like other Parrots, it never drank. Its sense of smell was uncommonly quick. It soon learned to know the time of meals, which it marked by a continued agitation of the wings, and anxiously running up and down its pole.

“When it received food it half opened its wings, and contracted the pupils of its eyes, and uttered a pleasing note of thankfulness. If it got any food of which it was not very fond, it held it in his left foot, and having eaten a little, threw the rest down; but if the food was nice and abundant, it carefully conveyed it to its tin reservoir, and left for another repast that which it could not immediately consume. It soon forgot its barbarous sounds, and imitated words; and for hours together amused itself by saying, ‘Poll,’—‘Macaw,’—‘Turn him out,’—‘Pretty fellow,’—‘Saucy fellow,’—‘What’s o’clock,’ laughing, and calling out the names of the doctor’s children. If any of them were hurt, it gave the first alarm; nor did it desist until they were attended to. The doctor’s son, observing the sagacity of this bird, undertook to instruct it. He taught it at the word of command to descend from its perch and stand upon his finger; then, by another order, it turned itself downwards, and hung upon the fore-finger by one foot, although the body was swung about with considerable violence. Being asked how a bad person should be served? it seized its master’s finger, suspended itself by its bill, like one hanging. At the command of its master it extended his wings to show their beauty. It would then fan the spectators with his wings; it was next put on the ground, and walked as readily backwards as forwards, with its two toes in front, and two behind. It would then clamber like a sailor up the mizen-mast and with its two open mandibles embraced its perch, which was nearly two inches in thickness. Placed there, it was asked—if a certain gentleman were to come near him, how he should be served? It shook its head several times, raised its wings, erected its feathers and opening its mouth, laid hold of a finger, seemingly in earnest, and kept biting it, as though it would have taken it off, opposing every resistance; and when it liberated the finger, uttered a scream. It was then asked how it would serve its master?—when it would silently bite his finger, caress it with its beak and tongue, and hold its head down, as expecting it to be scratched. Nor is this all: a nut being given to it, while on the lower part of his stand, it mounted the upright stick, and the nut disappeared without the spectator being able to tell how. At the word of command it presented the nut to the company, held it in its paw, and then cracked it. It had been taught to conceal the nut under its tongue, in the hollow of the under mandible. When a peach-stone was given to it, it found out its natural division, and by repeated efforts contrived to open it and eat the kernel. When nuts were presented to it, it became agitated, and had so much sagacity that, without cracking, when it took up a bad nut, it very indignantly threw it on the ground. It was remarkably fond of music; and with motions of its feet along the perch, movements of its wings, and its head moving backwards and forwards, it danced to all lively tunes, and kept exact time. If, however, any person sung or played in wrong measure it quickly desisted.

“This interesting animal was very friendly to strangers, but put on a terrific appearance towards children, and was very jealous of infants. In rainy weather the blue feathers looked green; and also in clear weather when there were vapours in the sky; hence it was an admirable weather-gauge. What proved a peculiar sagacity in its imitations was, that these it effected sometimes without its voice: for example, there was a scissors-grinder who came into the street, where the bird was kept, every Friday. All Parrots have a file in the inside of the upper mandible, with which they grind down the under bill, and in this they are employed for an hour every evening. This sound people usually mistake for snoring. This scraping was attempted, but its nice ear marked the difference, and had recourse to his claws, which it struck against the perch, armed with tin, and, observing the time of the turning of the wheel, it effected a most exact imitation, which it repeated every Friday.”

When each of his little auditors had expressed their admiration of the fine Macaw about which he had told them, Uncle Thomas proceeded to relate several other interesting stories about Parrots.

“A gentleman who resided at Gosport in Hampshire, and frequently had occasion to cross the water to Portsmouth, was astonished one day on going to the beach to look for a boat, and finding none, to hear the words distinctly repeated,—“Over, Master? Going over?” Which is the manner that watermen are in the habit of accosting people when they are waiting for passengers. The cry still assailing his ears, he looked earnestly around him, to discover from whence it came; when, to his great surprise, he discovered that it proceeded from a Parrot in a cage suspended from a public-house window on the beach.

“Another very amusing incident,” continued Uncle Thomas, “occurred some years since in Boston. An American Parrot, that had been taught to whistle in the manner of calling a Dog, was sitting in his cage at the door of a shop. As he was amusing himself in exercising his talents in this way, a large Dog happened to pass; the animal imagining that he heard the call of his master, turned suddenly about and ran towards the cage of the Parrot. At this moment, the bird, somewhat alarmed, exclaimed vehemently, ‘Get out, you brute!’ The astonished dog hastily retreated, leaving those who were within hearing to enjoy the joke.

“Though the power of speech is entirely an imitative one in the Parrot,” said Uncle Thomas, “you must not consider it as deficient in the qualities which recommend birds in general to our regard. Parrots are very affectionate creatures, though, as with us they are generally kept solitary, we have seldom an opportunity of observing their conduct towards each other.

“A French writer records a very interesting instance of affection in a pair of these birds. A solitary gentleman, whose principal delight had been in observing the manners and habits of animals, gives the following account of the affection of two Parrots. They were of that kind of Parrokeet called Guinea Sparrows, and kept in a square cage, such as is usually appropriated to that species of bird. The cup which contained their food was placed in the bottom of the cage. The male was almost continually seated on the same perch with the female. They sat close together, and viewed each other from time to time with evident tenderness. If they separated, it was but for a few moments, for they hastened to return and resume their situation. They commonly took their food together, and then retired to the highest perch of the cage. They often appeared to engage in a kind of conversation, which they continued for some time, and seemed to answer each other, varying their sounds, and elevating and lowering their voices. Sometimes they seemed to quarrel, but those emotions were but of a momentary duration, and succeeded by additional tenderness. This happy pair thus passed four years in a climate greatly different from that in which they had before lived. At the end of that period the female fell into a state of languor, which had all the appearance of old age. At length she was no longer able to move about to take her food, but the male, ever attentive and alert in whatever concerned her, brought it in his bill, and emptied it into hers. She was in this manner supplied by her vigilant purveyor during the space of four months. The infirmities of his dear companion increased daily. She became at last unable to sit upon the perch; and remained, therefore, crouched at the bottom of the cage, and from time to time made a few ineffectual efforts to regain the lowest perch. The male, who ever remained attentive and close by her, seconded these her feeble efforts with all his power. Sometimes he seized with his beak the upper part of her wing, by way of drawing her to him; sometimes he took her by the bill and endeavoured to raise her up, repeating these efforts many times. His motions, his gestures, his countenance, his continual solicitude, every thing in this interesting bird, expressed an ardent desire to aid the weakness of his mate, and to alleviate her sufferings. But the scene became still more interesting when the female was on the point of expiring. The unhappy male went round and round the dying female without ceasing. He redoubled his assiduities and tender cares. He tried to open her bill, with a design to give her nourishment. His emotion increased every instant; he paced and repaced the cage in the greatest agitation, and, at intervals, uttered the most plaintive cries. At other times he fixed his eyes upon the female, and preserved the most sorrowful silence. It was impossible to mistake these expressions of his grief or despair; the most insensible of mankind would have been moved. His faithful consort at last expired. From that moment he himself languished, and survived her but a few months.”

“An instance of the same kind,” continued Uncle Thomas, “is related by Mr. Audubon, in an account which he gives of an experiment to teach a Carolina Parrokeet to speak.—‘Anxious,’ says he, ‘to try the effects of education on one which I had but slightly wounded in the wing, I fixed up a place for it in the stern of my boat, and presented it with cockle-burs, the favourite food of the American Parrot, which it freely fed on in less than an hour after being on board. The intermediate time between eating and sleeping was occupied in gnawing the sticks that formed its place of confinement, in order to make a practicable breach; which it repeatedly effected. When I abandoned the river and travelled by land, I wrapped it closely up in a silk handkerchief, tying it tightly round, and carried it in my pocket. When I stopped for refreshment, I unbound my prisoner and gave it its allowance, which it generally despatched with great dexterity, unhusking the seeds from the bur in a twinkling.’ In recommitting it to ‘durance vile,’ we generally had a quarrel, during which it frequently paid me in kind for the wound I had inflicted, and for depriving it of liberty, by cutting and almost disabling several of my fingers with its sharp and powerful bill. The path through the wilderness, between Nashville and Natchez, is, in some places, bad beyond description. There are dangerous creeks to swim, miles of morass to struggle through, rendered almost as gloomy as night by a prodigious growth of timber, and an underwood of canes and other evergreens; while the descent into these sluggish streams is often ten or fifteen feet perpendicular into a bed of deep clay. In some of the worst of these places, where I had, as it were, to fight my way through, the Parrokeet frequently escaped from my pocket, obliging me to dismount and pursue it through the worst of the morass before I could regain it. On these occasions I was several times tempted to abandon it, but I persisted in bringing it along. When, at night I encamped in the woods I placed it on the baggage beside me, where it usually sat with great composure, dozing and gazing at the fire till morning. In this way I carried it upwards of a thousand miles in my pocket, when it was exposed all day to the jolting of the horse, but regularly liberated at meal-times and in the evening, at which it always expressed great satisfaction. In passing through the Chickasaw and Chocktaw nations, the Indians, wherever I stopped to feed, collected around me—men, women, and children—laughing and seeming wonderfully amused with the novelty of my companion. The Chickasaw called it in their language, Kelinky, but when they heard me call it Poll they soon repeated the name, and wherever I chanced to stop among these people we soon became familiar with each other through the medium of Poll. On arriving at Mr. Dunbar’s, below Natchez, I procured a cage and placed it under the piazza, where by its call it soon attracted the passing flocks; such is the attachment they have for each other. Numerous parties frequently alighted on the trees immediately above, keeping up a constant conversation with the prisoner. One of them I wounded slightly in the wing, and the pleasure Poll experienced at meeting with this new companion was really amusing. She crept close up to it as it hung on the side of the cage, chattering to it in a low tone of voice, as if sympathizing in its misfortune, scratched about its head and neck with her bill, and both at night nestled as close as possible to each other, Poll’s head being thrust among the plumage of the other. On the death of this companion she appeared restless and inconsolable for several days. On reaching New Orleans I placed a looking-glass beside the place where she usually sat, and the instant she perceived her image all her former fondness seemed to return, so that she could scarcely absent herself from it for a moment. It was evident that she was completely deceived. Always when evening drew on, and often during the day, she laid her head close to that of the image in the glass, and began to doze with great composure and satisfaction. In this short space she learned to know her name, to answer and come when called on; to climb up my clothes, sit on my shoulder, and eat from my mouth. I took her with me to sea, determined to persevere in her education. But, destined to another fate, poor Poll, having one morning about daybreak wrought her way through the cage while I was asleep, instantly flew overboard, and perished in the Gulf of Mexico.”

“Poor Poll” said Mary.

“A very amusing story is told,” continued Uncle Thomas, “of the lady of a worthy citizen, who, by a laudable attention to business, had accumulated a considerable fortune, and retired to the enjoyment of a nice villa not a hundred miles from Hampstead. It happened that the lady had a daughter by a former marriage; and, as her great desire was to see the girl well settled in life, she spared neither pains nor expense to effect her object. The old lady was moreover extremely parsimonious in her family arrangements; her ruling maxim being to save all she could in secret in order to be better able to spare no expense in public, so as to pass off for richer than she really was. She accordingly daily furnished her husband’s table with the humblest fare—to which the goodnatured old gentleman submitted without a murmur. One of the good lady’s grand economical schemes was the establishment of a piggery; and on one occasion having made a very profitable sale to a butcher of some half-a-dozen of the fatted inhabitants of her stye, that she might make the most of every thing, she supplied the table with little else than fried pig’s liver as long as it lasted. As the worthy citizen was generally pretty ready for his dinner on his return from his forenoon’s walk, the Parrot often heard and joined in the call which the master’s arrival produced to ‘make haste to bring the pig’s liver,’ which the lady vociferated over the stair to Rebecca, her only domestic, a great red-cheeked, raw-boned girl, fresh from the country. In the midst of these daily commons, the good lady was sparing no expense in preparing for a grand dinner which she was about to give. By some means or other she and her daughter had become acquainted with a young man of quality, who appeared to have fallen in love with the young lady. Speculations and plots followed, and with the decision of an able general, the fond mother resolved to complete her daughter’s conquest by a bold stroke. The young gentleman having ridden out that way with two of his fashionable companions, she lost not a moment in asking them all to what she called a family dinner at the villa, on an early day, which she named. Her invitation having been accepted, the choicest viands and the finest wines were provided, and a French cook and a powdered waiter were procured, and a quantity of plate was hired for the occasion.

“The eventful day at length arrived. Dinner was served. The lady so managed matters that her daughter was seated next to her admirer. Operas and balls were talked of; every thing was in apple-pie order; the soup and fish course had passed away, and a haunch of venison was announced, ambiguously stated to be from the park of a noble friend—the real fact being that it was purchased from a butcher who had it from his lordship’s keeper. During the interval that took place before its appearance, John was despatched for the Champagne. The company waited, but neither venison, nor champagne, nor servant appeared. A dead silence ensued—a silence that was agony to the lady. Minutes were added to minutes. The good old citizen rose from his chair, and rang the bell; it tingled in the ears of the company for a while, but its tingling was fruitless. The suspense became fearful. ‘What a pretty Parrot you have got,’ said the young gentleman at last, in despair. ‘He is a very pretty bird indeed!’ said the lady of the house, ‘and a very intelligent fellow too, I assure you. What have you to say for yourself, Poll?’ ‘Becky! Becky! the Pig’s liver and a pot of beer! quick, quick, make haste!’ cried the Parrot. ‘The horrid sailors teach the creatures to be so vulgar,’ said the young lady, in a die-away tone.—‘Becky! Becky!’ cried the Parrot, ‘the Pig’s liver! quick, quick! Becky, Becky!’ And having been once roused from his lethargy he continued to bawl out the same words at the top of his voice, till, to the inexpressible horror of the good lady and her fair daughter, and the no less irrepressible mirth of the three youths, the great slip-shod country wench entered the room, her left arm embracing an ample dish of smoking-hot fried pigs liver, and her right hand swinging a creaming pewter pot full of beer! ‘Lucky indeed it was that I had it ready, Ma’am,’ she said, as she set the dish and pot down before her mistress with a self-satisfied air that seemed to crave applause; ‘for Jowler, the big watch-dog, has runned away wi’ the leg of carrion, an’ Mounseer wi’ the white night-cap, and t’other chap wi’ the flour on his head, will ha’ enough ado to catch un!’”

The whole of Uncle Thomas’s little audience burst out in an uncontrollable fit of laughing as he concluded this story, and it was not without a feeling of deep regret that they heard from him that it was now necessary to bring his Tales about Birds to a conclusion. He told them, however, that at no distant period he hoped once more to have the pleasure of their company to listen to a new series of Stories which he had in preparation, and they then bade him good night.

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