Poor March!  In old times she used to be the first month of the year,—­and now she is only the third.  May be, that is what troubles her.  Nobody likes to be put back in that way.

ABOUT PARROTS.

Deacon Green was talking about parrots the other day.  He said he once knew a parrot that was not as polite as “Pippity,” the one mentioned in a story called “Tower-Mountain.”  The parrot that he knew would swear whenever he opened his bill.  It had been taught by the sailors on board the ship in which it had come from South America.  When the deacon knew it, it belonged to the widow of a very strict minister.  It had been brought to her by her nephew, a midshipman, as a Christmas present.  It was lucky for him, just then, that the old lady was stone deaf.  She was very cross with the neighbors when they told her what wicked words the bird used.  It was a great pet, and she would not believe anything bad about it.  But at last it swore at a visitor who was a bishop, and soon after, it was no more.

Since the Deacon told that story I have had a paragram about another parrot; one that lived in Edinburgh, Scotland, five years ago.  This one could laugh, weep, sing songs, make a noise like “smacking the lips,” and talk.  His talking was not merely by rote; he would speak at the right times, and say what was just right to be said then and there.  He spoke the words plainly, bowed, nodded, shook his head, winked, rolled from side to side, or made other motions suited to the sense of what he was saying.  His voice was full and clear, and he could pitch it high or low, and make it seem joyful or sad.  Many curious tales, are told of him, but the most remarkable thing about him is that he actually lived and really did the things named.

That’s what the paragram says.  Stop—­let me think a moment.  May be that parrot himself sent it?  But no; he wasn’t smart enough for that; I remember, now, the signature was “Chambers.”

THE WRITING OF THE PULSE.

Did you ever hear of a sphygmograph?  Of course not.  Well, in its present improved state, it is something new and very wonderful.  It takes its name from two Greek words, sphugmos, the pulse, and grapho, I describe.  It is an implement to be used by physicians, and forces the patient’s pulse to tell its own story, or, in other words, make a full confession of all its ups and downs and irregularities.  Not only make a confession, my beloveds, but actually write it down in plain black and white!

So you see that a man’s pulse in Maine may write a letter to a physician in Mexico, telling him just what it’s about, and precisely in what manner its owner’s heart beats—­how fast or slow, and, in fact, ever so much more.

Now, isn’t that queer?  Should you like to see some specimens of pulse-writing?  Here they are: