“Yes; but not accordin’ to Hoyle, ez ye might say,” said he. “Your reasonin’ is good, but it ain’t quite borne aout by the fac’s. In the fust place, this is the fust reel cold day we’ve hed this winter. Secon’ly, they ain’t no boss to the place, fer she’s a woman. Thirdly, my haouse is the nex’ one to this, an’ my boy an’ hers hez be’n makin’ those ice-cakes fer fun in some old cream-pans. Don’t take long to freeze solid in this weather. An’, las’ly, it ain’t a hen-haouse, but an ice-haouse.” The sun rode with unusual quietness through the heavens. We heard no song of bird. The winds were whist. All nature was silent. So was Jones. VII MY SPANISH PARROT I have two maiden aunts living down in Maine, on the edge of the woods. Their father was a deaf-and-dumb woodsman, and their mother died when they were small, and they hardly see a soul from one year’s end to the other. The consequence is, they’re the simplest, dearest old creatures one ever saw. They don’t know what evil means. They pass their days knitting and working in their garden. The quarterly visits of the itinerant preacher who deals out the gospel in that region, and my occasional trips up there, constitute the only chances they have of mingling with the outside world, and they’re as happy and unsophisticated as birds. A year ago I took up a parrot that I’d bought of a sailor. The bird had a cold when I got it, and wasn’t saying a word; but the sailor vouched for its character, and I thought it would be a novelty and company for the old ladies, so I took it along. They’d never seen a parrot before, and they couldn’t thank me enough. I told them that when it got over its cold it would talk; and then it occurred to me that as the sailor of which I bought it was a Spaniard, the bird would be likely to speak that tongue. “So you’ll be able to learn Spanish,” said I; and they were mightily pleased at the notion. In about two months I received a letter from Aunt Linda, saying that the bird was the greatest company in the world, and they didn’t know what they’d do without him. “And,” wrote my aunt, “the bird is a great talker of Spanish, and we have learned much of that strange tongue.” I was amused at the idea of those maiden aunts of mine talking Spanish, and the next week, being in the vicinity, I took the stage over to where they live, about fifteen miles from any railroad. They saw me alight, and came out to meet me--two pretty, sweet, prim-looking old ladies. I kissed them both heartily, and then Aunt Linda said, in her gentle voice: “I’m so glad you’ve come, you dear old blankety-blank blank blank boy. That’s Spanish.” I nearly fell off my perch, but I managed to keep a straight face, and then dear Aunt Jane said softly and proudly: “Why the blankety-blank blank don’t you come to see us oftener, you blankety-blank blank boy?”