“There!” exclaimed Grandma Bell.

A queer look came over Mr. Mead’s face.  Then he laughed.  Once more the voice sounded.

“Let me out!  Let me out!”

“Who is it?” asked Grandma Bell.

“Why that’s Bill Hixon’s parrot!” said the owner of the big auto.  “I’ve got him in a cage in the back of my car.  He’s doing that yelling.  I forgot all about him!”

“Are you sure it’s a parrot and not a child in there?” asked Grandma Bell.

“Oh, sure!” answered Mr. Mead.  “There he goes again.  Listen!”

Again came the cry: 

“Let me out!  Let me out!  Take me with you!  Oh my eye, give me some pie!”

And this time it could be told that the voice was that of a parrot, though, at first, it had sounded like a little child crying.

“Now you keep still there, Polly,” said Mr. Mead.

“Polly wants a cracker!  Give Polly a cracker!” shrieked the parrot.

“I’ll give you a fire-cracker if you don’t keep still,” said Mr. Mead with a laugh.

“Well, I do declare!” said Grandma Bell.  “How did Bill Hixon’s parrot get in your auto, Mr. Mead?”

“Oh, Bill’s sending him over to his mother’s to keep for him while he’s off in the woods lumbering,” said Mr. Mead.  “He knew I was coming up this way, Bill Hixon did, so he asked me to bring his parrot along.  I put the bird in his cage under the back-seat of the auto, and I forgot all about him, or her, whichever it is.  I guess Polly has been asleep all the while until just now.”

“Oh, let us see the parrot!” begged Rose.  “I love to hear them talk,” and she tucked her doll under her arm and walked toward the auto.

“Be careful, he might bite!” said Mother Bunker.

“Oh, he’s in a cage—­he or she—­whichever it is,” said Mr. Mead.  “Bill said the parrot was a good one, and likes children.  I guess it won’t hurt any to let the tots see the bird.”

Mr. Mead opened a sort of little cupboard under the back seat of his auto, and brought out a parrot’s cage.  In it was a green bird, which, as soon as it came out into the sunlight, began preening its feathers and moving about, climbing up on the wires, partly by its claw feet and partly by its strong beak.

“Polly wants a cracker!  A sweet cracker!” squawked the parrot.  “Lovely day!  How are you?  Here, Rover, sic the cats!” and the parrot whistled as well as Russ himself could have done.

“Oh, what a nice parrot!”

“Could we keep him?”

“Doesn’t he talk plain?”

“Listen to that whistle!”

“Oh, isn’t she nice!”

These were some of the things the six little Bunkers said as they listened to Bill Hixon’s parrot, as it moved about in the cage on the back seat of Mr. Mead’s auto.

“Couldn’t we keep it, Mother?” asked Rose.  “I’d like it almost as much as my doll!”

“Oh, mercy no, child!  We couldn’t keep Mr. Hixon’s parrot!” said Mrs. Bunker.