“Your affectionate friend, “CORNELIA BURT.” “P.S. Please send me back the directions for making the magic ruff.” “Phillis,” said I, “Miss Burt thinks you will make the cockatoo quite a pet.” “It’s a great deal more likely to put me into a pet,” said she. (Screech, screech, went the cockatoo.) “He knows you are talking of him,” said I, “and does not like to be spoken ill of behind his back.” “Then he’ll hear no good of himself from me,” says Phillis. “The donkey-boy is waiting to be paid,” said I, “and Miss Burt wants something sent back. I will send it by him, and write her a line about the bird.” “Suppose he takes it back,” cried Phillis. “No, that would hardly do.” “Well, ’twould look queer-like, that big stand in the donkey-chair!” and she went off laughing. I hastily wrote:— “Whiterose Cottage, Wednesday morning. “My dear friend, “On returning from church, I found your kind note and your bird awaiting me, and I am sorry your maid was obliged to return without the directions for knitting the ruff, which I inclose. You are very good to provide an amusement for me in your absence; but if Mrs. Grove really wishes for the cockatoo, I hope you will let me transfer it to her, for its loud voice is too much for me, and I understand nothing of the management of birds. Wishing you a pleasant visit to your friends, I remain, “Affectionately yours, “HELEN CHEERLOVE.” Having dispatched this missive, I felt greatly relieved; but my morning’s work had so tired me that I was fit for nothing but a long rest on the sofa, and would gladly have taken a little nap; but, every time my eyes were ready to close, I was roused by the angry cry of “cockatoo.” “That bird is a most disagreeable animal,” thought I. “How can any one endure him? Even the wearisome cry of a gallina would less offend my ears. It would be long before I should wish for a parrot: but a parrot is a clever, entertaining bird, and affords some variety—this bird has only one word. A rook can only say ‘caw,’ yet contrives to make its one harsh note tolerably pleasant; but _this_ tiresome thing—Oh dear, there it goes again! Phillis must be tormenting it.” In fact, the cockatoo set up such a noise that I became quite irritable, and rang the bell. “Phillis, don’t worry that bird.” “_I_ worrit the bird?” cries she, in high dudgeon, “why, I wasn’t even in the kitchen. I declare it worrits _me_!” And, hastening off, she soon returned with the cockatoo on its stand, flapping its wings, and violently pecking her bare arms, and set it down before me with a jerk, saying, “There, you’ll see now, mum, whether it’s worrited by me or not. And it was a present, not to me, but to yourself.” “Poor Phillis! how _could_ you let it peck your arms so?”