years ago.     

       He played so indispensable a part in producing the happy ending that he deserves an introduction.     

       He had been the gift of the children's grandfather, a retired General. His plumage was Quaker grey, all except his breast and crest which were a wonderful rose-pink. He had black beady eyes which took in everything; what they saw, he invariably remembered. He had a confidential, hoarse way of speaking, that never rose above a whisper. When you heard him for the first time you supposed that he had a bad sore throat. He had a favorite question which he asked whenever he thought he was not being paid sufficient attention, “What shall we talk about?” He would ask it with his head cocked on one side, while he rubbed his feathers up and down the bars. “What shall we talk about?” he would ask the little lady as she sat sewing beneath the lamp of an evening. She was always by herself when the children had been put to bed. She had no callers and never went anywhere.     

       “Talk about Polly!” she would say. “I don't know, you good grey bird. Did you think I was lonely? Well, let's see! Who loves Mummy best? Can you answer me that?”      

       Then he would cock his head still farther on one side and pretend to think furiously. She would have to ask him several times before he would attempt an answer. Usually, when he got ready, he would clear his throat and whisper, “The dustman.” After which he would laugh as though his sides were aching: “What a naughty Polly! What a naughty Polly!”      

       She would maintain a dignified silence till she had emptied her needle. Then she would glance at him reproachfully, “Think again, Mr. Impudence—not the dustman.”      

       So he would think again, and having clambered all over his cage and hung upside down to amuse her, would hazard, “Polly?”      

       “Not Polly.”      

       Then he would make any number of suggestions, though he knew quite well the answer she required. After each wrong guess he would go off into gales of ghostly merriment. At last he would say very solemnly, “Robbie.”      

       “Yes, Robbie,” she would reply and scratch his head; after which the game was ended. Soon she would fold away her work, put out the 

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