“Come, Polly, that’s very well behaved of you; but you mustn’t leave off in the middle, begin again.  Olly, if you don’t keep your fingers out of the way Polly will snap them up for his dinner.  Parrots like fingers very much.”  Olly put his hands behind his back in a great hurry, and mother came to stand behind him to keep him quiet.  By this time, however, Polly had begun to find out that there were some new people in the room he didn’t know, and for a long time Aunt Emma could not make him talk at all.  He would do nothing but put his head first on one side and then on the other and make angry clicks with his beak.

“Come, Polly,” said Aunt Emma, “what a cross parrot you are.  One—­two—­three—­four.  Now, Polly, count.”

“Polly’s got a bad cold, fetch the doc—­” said Polly again while Aunt Emma was speaking.  “One—­two—­six—­seven—­eight—­nine—­two—­Quick march!”

And then Polly began to lift first one claw and then the other as if he were marching, while the children shouted with laughter at his ridiculous ways and his gruff cracked voice.

Then Aunt Emma went behind him and rapped gently on the table.  The parrot stopped marching, stuck his head on one side and listened.  Aunt Emma rapped again.

“Come in!” said the parrot suddenly, quite softly, as if he had turned into quite another person.  “Hush—­sh—­sh, cat’s got a mouse!”

“Well, Polly,” said Aunt Emma, “I suppose she may have a mouse if she likes.  Is that all you’ve got to tell us?  Polly, where’s gardener?”

“Get away! get away!” screamed Polly, while all his feathers began to stand up straight, and his eyes looked fierce and red like two little live coals.

“That always makes him cross,” said Aunt Emma; “he can’t bear gardener.  Come, Polly, don’t get in such a temper.”

“Oh, isn’t he like the witches on the broom-sticks in our fairy-book, Olly?” cried Milly.  “Don’t you think, Aunt Emma, he must have been changed into something?  Perhaps he was a wicked witch once, or a magician, you know, and the fairies changed him into a parrot.”

“Well, Milly, I can’t say.  He was a parrot when I had him first, twelve years ago.  That’s all I know about it.  But I believe he’s very old.  Some people say he’s older than I am—­think of that!  So you see he’s had time to be a good many things.  Well, Polly, good-night.  You’re not a nice bird to-night at all.  Take him away, Margaret.”

“Jane!  Jane!” screamed Polly, as the maid lifted up the cage again.  “Make haste, Jane! cat’s in the larder!”

“Oh, you bad Polly,” said Aunt Emma, “you’re always telling tales.  Jane’s my cook, Milly, and Polly doesn’t like cats, so you see he tries to make Jane believe that our old cat steals the meat out of the larder.  Good-bye, Polly, good-bye.  You’re an ill-natured old bird, but I’m very fond of you all the same.”

“Do get us a parrot, mother!” said Olly, jumping about round his mother, when Polly was gone.