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20 lessly! "if you don't come, I shan't say anything to you about it, but I shall know."

We fall into a silence, and sit down under a tree, and the parrot who has been gravely walking behind with the rest of the riffraff, hops on to Jack's shoulder and swears fluently. His name is Paul Pry, and he is a sharp and ungodly bird, who has picked up many wicked sayings but never a good one. Jack brought him from school, and we are obliged to keep him dark for fear the governor should overhear his talk, and make his head pay the penalty of his manners. He gets very drunk when he has a chance, and reels about in his cage like a very disreputable, tipsy old man, muttering "Polly very drunk," in a boozy voice. He is smart, but he never said anything half as clever as that parrot of which Jack told me, who attended a show of his brethren, held for the purpose of giving a prize to the owner of the cleverest bird present. He arrived last of all, looked round at the collection of feathered bipeds, cocked his eye at the company, and ejaculated, "What a d—d lot of parrots!" Alas! for morality, he won the prize, or so says Jack.

Under the trees it is very cool, very quiet. The sunbeams flicker faintly through the screen of green leaves and unripe fruit overhead; the gnats whirl giddily round and round, spending their one summer's day in ceaseless revolutions; the birds are singing their blithe clear song, and though they sing all at once and each in a different key, there is not one note of discord in the whole concert. The sky is one stretch of deep intense blue, flecked with clouds that show white as snow against its vivid colour; a rustling, creeping little breeze, warm with the breath of new-mown hay and dog-roses, is stealing about us, frolicking softly with our hair and lips; and as I lie flat on the grass that makes so yielding and luxurious a couch for our young bodies, I am lulled into an exquisite dreamy sensation of delight at the