About noon on Sunday, November 26, Von Klitzling informed bailie Phutzenreuter by word of mouth that he was called away for a few hours from Perleberg on important business, and that whatever might transpire concerning the lost stranger should be reserved for his return. So no other step was taken except employing a fisherman to drag the river Stepenitz, which meanders through and around Perleberg.

On the following day Bailie Phutzenreuter and Bailie Teblow waited on the commandant; but he had not yet returned, and his man-servant urged the civic officials to continue to seek for the valuable fur cloak; that of Fischer having been obtained by Captain Von Klitzling's two orderlies from the landlady of the Post, who had explained that it had been left in the coffee-room.

As neither they nor Von Klitzling's footman had ever seen the rich fur cloak, Bailie Phutzenreuter and Bailie Schultz, attended by a constable, proceeded to the Golden Crown, and conveyed Nicholas Hilbert to Bailie Phut zenreuter's house, where they took down his evidence regarding the lost article; and in order to prevent his conversing with any outsider, conveyed him back in like manner to the Golden Crown.

That same Monday evening Von Klitzling, whom it was rumored had privately been to Berlin, was once more in Perleberg. He sent the next morning a thundering reprimand to Bailie Phutzenreuter for "having presumed in his absence to remove from the hotel, where he was under arrest as a State prisoner, the servant of Koch, the escaped merchant, especially as the bailie and his colleagues must be fully convinced of the impropriety and illegality of such a proceeding."

of citizenship in the small German States, and resistance to the military authority to which they had long tamely submitted, gave them courage to demand satisfaction. They maintained that Von Klitzling before starting on his journey had ordered them to search for the valuable cloak; that far from being remiss, they had acted most promptly; that had Hilbert really been under arrest, it had been the duty of the cuirassiers to prevent his removal; but that it was impossible he could be considered in the light of a State prisoner, because it was contrary to all rule that two persons suspected of being accomplices should be allowed to occupy two rooms that communicated; that Nicholas Hilbert, moreover, went about freely in the inn mixing with the household and guests. They concluded by saying that "they deserved from the commandant thanks rather than reproof, they having performed their functions disinterestedly at the risk of their lives and the ruin of their healths, and that if such was the return made to them, they would resign their office to those who were better able to execute it." They appealed to the Prussian government, and begged until an answer came from Berlin to be spared the discharge of further municipal duties. The burgomaster in very flattering terms refused to accept the resignation of the much aggrieved bailies.

Von Klitzling on his part continued to fume with rage. He was indignant that he, the commandant of a frontier town, a captain, a nobleman, should have his military authority questioned by citizens, by underlings in office; that bailies, mere petty tradesmen, should hold such language to him. He was determined to have satisfaction.

the successful imitation of the deep voice possessed by the master of the house, this particular bird would invariably put his head into his empty or half-empty seed-tin, a method of voice production he was never known to adopt at any other time, or for the imitation of any other voice or sound. He thus succeeded in producing a very perfect imitation, and his orders (always most peremptorily proclaimed) were occasionally mistaken for those of his master.

On one occasion a friend had arrived unexpectedly from the country, when the family were out of town; only the

master of the house was at home, and he was also going away the very evening his friend arrived. The visitor was, however, asked to remain for the night, an offer which he accepted. The following morning, to the disgust of the servant who was engaged in her work, he appeared early upon the scene, inquiring for her master. "Master went away last night," she answered. "Impossible! Why, I heard him call for his hot water and his boots this morning," cried the astonished guest. "Oh, sir, that was the parrot," answered the servant.

The bird sometimes uttered words in season. His owner was a clergyman with a curacy at the East End of London. When the rector made his first call, he was shown into a room where for some minutes he and the bird were alone together. On the entrance of the lady of the house, her visitor at once remarked: "There is no occasion for me to ask your husband's views, as your parrot has just greeted me with the words 'No Popery for Polly.'" The bird had, perhaps not unnaturally, an ecclesiastical turn of mind; he would constantly exclaim, in a burst of enthusiasm, "Long life to Canterbury." The word "Archbishop" he left out; it was too much for him. At the same time he could be critical, and when dissatisfied with the views expressed upon religious questions, would state his opinion warmly. At the time of the great controversy respecting the May nooth grant, when party spirit ran high, several clergymen met one evening to

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discuss at the house where the bird lived the burning question of the hour. Polly was covered over, according to custom, after it became dark, and no notice was taken of him. A heated discussion took place, but after a time a slight momentary pause occurred in the conversation, whereupon a stern voice was heard angrily ejaculating from the covered cage, "Stuff! Pack of nonsense! Rubbish!"

This parrot much enjoyed being placed on the balcony of the portico of the house, where he would remain for hours, much to the amusement of the

boys in the street; but from this coign

of vantage the cage had to be removed, as he hailed the passing omnibuses, and persisted in calling for cabs.

All the parrots I have known have been accustomed to pass the night in their swings. From this upper or bedroom story the bird one evening fell suddenly down to the floor of the cage. Though he was not in any way injured by the fall, the shock drew from him the exclamation, "Oh, good gracious!"

A friend living in the neighborhood used to pass the house as he went to and fro to his daily occupation; he was in the habit of knocking two or three times a day, and, truth to tell, he became rather a bore. One day, when he was giving his usual double knock, Polly exclaimed in a loud and distinct voice. "There's that Robbins." It appeared, on inquiry, that the cook, whose duty it was to open the door in the morning, had become exasperated by his repeated visits, and had been accustomed to utter these words when she heard him at the door.

It is, I believe, unwise to feed these birds on hemp seed alone; they certainly should never be given meat of any kind, as all grease is bad for them. Our first bird, however, I must confess, flourished long both on hemp seed and on meat, in utter defiance of any rule of the kind; and I very well remember his angry squall at dinner time, repeated until a bone had been given him to pick. In spite of this diet, his feathers were always in beautiful condition, and up to the day of his death

his grey and red plumage was charming to behold.

There was an old factotum in our family who used to sew for us, and who occasionally spent several weeks at a time at the house. She was somewhat of a character, had been married three times, and to distinguish her second dear departed, was in the habit of calling him "my middle husband;" old maids she naturally did not approve of, remarking that they were the only things not prayed for in the Litany. The old woman was very deaf, and much shouting was needed to make her hear. One day many vain efforts were made to induce her to do a piece of work in a particular way, but she could not, or would not, see what was wanted, and at last in despair the lady of the house remarked to the nurse, "Oh, never, mind; when she is gone, it must be altered." "Ah," remarked the parrot, in a loud, clear voice, "there's no fool like an old fool."

was

This bird lived with us for about thirteen years, and his death caused by a cold. He had accompanied us for a summer holiday to a cottage in Surrey, and one day was unwisely hung up in a draught between a door and a window. The cold ended in inflammation of the lungs, and after lingering for nearly a week, he died; his last words-addressed to his mistress-were, "Kiss me, Emily." Much grief, I need hardly say, was felt for his loss; he was carried to his grave wrapped in a little flannel gown, and carefully buried under an evergreen at the end of the lawn.

Our second bird had belonged to my grandmother, and after her death spent the last two or three years of its life with us. Our first pet had lived at my grandmother's house for a few weeks before it finally came to ours, and she had grown so attached to it that, when it left her, she purchased a bird of her own. This bird was grey in color, with a red tail; but while Polly the first was the proud owner of beautiful plumage, Polly the second had acquired the bad habit of picking out his feathers, and the consequent loss of his waistcoat

gave him a very shabby appearance. Of course the dealer who sold him declared that this was but a passing disfigurement, and that all would soon be right; so he came on approval, and soon became so great a favorite that he remained permanently, though to his dying day his appearance never improved. Curiously enough, this parrot at no time ever suffered, as might have been expected, from lung disease; like the other, he was a clever talker, but his temper was not of so amiable a character-possibly his want of feathers irritated him-but some of his utterances were much on a par with, and as equally to the point as those of his predecessor. The habit, so noticeable in birds of every description, of remarking the flight of time, was in this one very remarkable. At six o'clock in the evening, as soon as the clock struck, his usual habit was to exclaim, "Put me to bed;" and if no notice was taken of his request, he uttered unpleasant screams, and on being told to be quiet, would reply, "Why don't you put me to bed?" The cover having been placed over his cage, he would immediately exclaim, "Now put little Dicky to bed." "Little Dicky" was a canary who lived in a cage which hung above his own. On one occasion, when placed one sum. mer's day at the open window of his home, he much offended an old lady who was passing, by calling out loudly, "Who are you, you old guy?" She knocked at the door and scolded the servant, insisting that some one had deliberately insulted her.

The parrot had on one morning been given a bath, or, in other words, the garden watering-can had been turned upon him, and was placed in front of the fire to dry. There were two small kittens who also liked the warmth of the fire, and who were sitting one on each side of the cage. The bird walked first to one side, and looking down out of the corner of his eye, inquired, “Are you a good boy?" Then he sidled across to the other end of his perch and said to the other kitten, "And are you a good boy?"