"
"A long talker," I corrected. "My cousin mentioned him third in her
list of invitations. 'Longrush,' she said with conviction, 'we must
have Longrush.' 'Isn't he rather tiresome?' I suggested. 'He is
tiresome,' she agreed, 'but then he's so useful. He never lets the
conversation drop.'"
"Why is it?" asked the Minor Poet. "Why, when we meet together,
must we chatter like a mob of sparrows? Why must every assembly to
be successful sound like the parrot-house of a zoological garden?"
"I remember a parrot story," I said, "but I forget who told it to
me."
"Maybe one of us will remember as you go on," suggested the
Philosopher.
"A man," I said--"an old farmer, if I remember rightly--had read a
lot of parrot stories, or had heard them at the club. As a result
he thought he would like himself to be the owner of a parrot, so
journeyed to a dealer and, according to his own account, paid rather
a long price for a choice specimen. A week later he re-entered the
shop, the parrot borne behind him by a boy. 'This bird,' said the
farmer, 'this bird you sold me last week ain't worth a sovereign!'
'What's the matter with it?' demanded the dealer.
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