The Rhode Island Republican

SELECTED TALES.

From Bentley's Miscellany.

A WIFE LOST BY KEEPING A PARROT.

The saying hath it, 'Never speak before children.' Now parrots, like children, are of an imitative nature, and, in large letters, we write upon this page the following caution—NEVER SPEAK BEFORE PARROTS.

Major Muffin—why did he keep a parrot?—lived next door to Miss Penelope Crab. He was a man of mettle!—She was a woman of metallic influence, only of a different quality. The major, mounted with brass, was lined alas, with copper while Penelope, golden faced, and golden pockets—pockets which, in the eyes of Muffin, held mines of wealth—was the only daughter of a fish salesman, who, dying a widower at a good old age, left her the mistress of herself and his fortune. She was now able to buy any thing she fancied, and she thought of a husband.

Major Muffin had seen service, and was now living upon his honor and half pay. Being a military man, he swore of course. Penelope, on the contrary, was devout minded, and, being a lady, she swore not, except when she condemned the souls of the profane, which she did at least a dozen times a day.

As Major Muffin had no other dependence than his half pay, he could not well be called a rich man. He was a bachelor of forty. Penelope was wealthy, and a spinster, while her age might be what a bountiful Providence pleased, for Muffin did not care. Now strange to say, the major had taken a mortal dislike to the lady next door—albeit he had only seen her once or twice, and that in the perspective, at the window—but still he disliked her. Her name sounded of a ten years' courtship; while her surname, seemed a sign of going backward. But then her money! Report had trumpeted her thousands in his ear, and, after some natural qualms, Muffin determined to lay siege to his next door neighbor.

Miss Penelope Crab sat in her drawing room; pious Poll stood meekly in his cage, and, blinking his eyes, looking as if thinking of a nap. Penelope laid down her book, "Watts' Hymns," and leaned back in her chair. Were her thoughts of Major Muffin! He was certainly not a bad looking man; and, being a military man, and a major, not a bad catch for a fishmonger's daughter. She had often speculated upon the blessings of getting married; yet, strange to say, she had never been asked. This undoubtedly argued a want of taste in the gentlemen. Could it be that they thought her too lean, too old, or too holy for their earthly hopes? Penelope was pious, and her sanctity, was deep as a well. In fact, Penelope was a walking evangelical magazine; and as she sat in her chair would have made a "splendid illustration" for that excellent work. Major Muffin was her next door neighbor, and she could not help thinking she should have no objection to become Mrs. Muffin. But they were utter strangers—they had not so much as spoken to each other! And then again Penelope felt uneasy when she remembered Deborah said that Muffin, though a major, swore like a common trooper. She shuddered, and taking up the book which these thoughts had made her lay aside, was soon out of sight of earthly things, and high in the clouds of pious adoration; yet strange to say, the words kept jumping about, and in spite of herself spelt nothing but "Major Muffin." She shut her eyes, and looked again, and as she looked, saw "marriage" in capitals written backwards!

It certainly was very strange; and if Major Muffin—

A loud knock at the door hurried her across the room to listen. 'Is Miss Crab at home?' was asked in a gentleman's voice.

Penelope shut the book, and threw it upon the sofa. Deborah climbed up stairs, and looked as if the clouds were coming down.

'Who's that, Deborah?' inquired her mistress.

Deborah's mouth opened like an oyster as she said, 'Major Muffin!'

For a minute or more, each stood open-eyed and open-mouthed. At length Penelope said, show the major up.

There was a creaking of boots along the passage, a hem or two, and Penelope left the door for a chair, where she sat as though she hadn't moved. The door opened and the major was announced. Penelope was a full yard shorter as she courted.

Major Muffin made his best bow, and Deborah listened at the keyhole.

'I am sorry ma'am if I have intruded.'

'Don't mention it, major Muffin; pray take a chair.'

Muffin felt bashful to a degree. This may sound singular, as the major was in the army; but summoning his courage, he begun by 'hoping Miss Crab was in good health.'

Her answer delighted him. 'Quite, thank you.' And, after travelling through the many intricacies of a self introduction, and that to a lady, the major "begged to assure her of the great respect he had always entertained for Miss Penelope Crab." (He had condemned her to the Satanic dominions a hundred times.) Muffin hemmed or rather grunted. His cravat was tight, perhaps, but, nevertheless, he expressed his sorrow, "that, neighbors, as they were, they were not better acquainted; and if Miss Crab"—here Muffin had a dead stop, and Penelope, scarlet with confusion, rang the bell. Deborah moved on tiptoe from the keyhole, and, creeping down the first flight of stairs, walked heavily up again into the room, as though she had just come from the kitchen.

She was told to hand maj. Muffin a glass of wine.

The conversation now proceeded more glibly—The gentleman ceased to stammer, and the lady gave over blushing as a bad job, while the major began to think her a much nicer woman than he had ever believed it in her nature to be. Penelope felt as she hadn't felt for years. Could it be possible that she was fated to be Mrs. Muffin?

The wise in society, if they wish to ingratiate themselves in the good graces of the mother, always begin by extolling those of her chubby brat. The major, as a man of the world, begun by praising, not Miss Crab, little Crab—that was a pleasure to come—but her parrot! Penelope felt the compliment, and commenced enlarging upon his merits, and Muffin was made sensible that the parrot was a very good parrot, for he said prayers like a Christian as he was, and was full of good sentences. In fact, Penelope's Poll was a bird of character! He whistled hallelujah like an organ, and could say the Lord's prayer as well as the archbishop. The parrot, evidently aware that he was the subject of conversation, smoothed his feathers, and fixed his black eye like a gimblet upon Major Muffin, who, taking a chair beside the cage, delighted Penelope by asking what o'clock it was. Poll was as correct as a sundial, and then whistled a hymn.

After a little further conversation, Major Muffin rose to depart; assuring Miss Crab, 'from the bottom of his heart that she had made him feel quite a happy man.' 'You will be sure and come,' the major continued, and 'perhaps you will bring your parrot with you?' he looked as if he could have eaten it. 'Pretty fellow, he will be a companion for my Bob.' Penelope hinted something about evil communications;' but Muffin maintained the report was unfounded, and declared Bob to be the best natured creature in the world, and never bit any one.

The major then, after saying he should expect her at five, made his bow and his exit, and as he went down stairs, felt satisfied that he had made some impression upon his next door neighbor.

The clock was striking five when Miss Penelope Crab knocked at his door. Deborah stood on the top step with cage in hand. The parrot sat meekly on his perch and seemed conscious he was going to pay a visit. The door was opened, and the lady was shown up stairs. Muffin himself met them, handed her a chair, and sat, as a gentleman should, close by her side.—

Molly profited by their example, placed Jeremiah in his cage, side by side with Bob, shut the door, and proved herself a much better servant than Deborah had supposed her to be, for she listened most attentively on the outside.

The parrots looked suspiciously at one another with their beadlike eyes, but restrained quiet on their perches.

Now, Muffin, although no Jason, saw in perspective, a golden fleece. Gold, that true philosopher's stone which all seek for made him turn his eyes upon Penelope Crab, who, dowerless, might have lived next door for ages, unsought of Muffin; but, freighted with thousands, the man of war hoped to sail in her company on the sea of matrimony. Penelope could not be called shy. She was fifty, and wished as every reasonable woman does—to be married.—

If the gentleman should propose, therefore, she must say yes. Of one thing she was certain, that she could not say no. But why did Major Muffin keep a parrot?

Tea was brought in; Penelope did the honors, and the major was sensible of the delicate attention when Penelope disdained the toast, and fastened on the muffins. He looked upon it as a good omen, and hoped ere long to be himself as well buttered!—

Tea was poured out, and milked by her own hand to his liking; while he returned the compliment by sugaring hers, which he did to a degree of nicety scarcely to be believed; for she looked and blushed, and smiled again. The major, like a skilful general, attacked the enemy in the weakest part; and, with a well directed volley of battery, aimed at her heart. She—what woman could do otherwise—looked as if she must give in; for the major pressed his attacks with so much vigor, and the tea was so nice that Penelope, icy virgin that she was, began to melt before the warmth of the gentleman's affection? The longest winter though wrapped in storms and frowns, smiles at length at the young leafed summer, and Penelope Crab, who had so long nursed herself in maidenhood felt overjoyed at the prospect of becoming a wife, perhaps a mother! The thought made her heart bound like a shuttlecock.

The parrots, seeing what was going on at the other end of the room between the master and mistress, began moving with a sidelong look over their cages, and every now and then muttered indistinct chatterings, as if desirous of a little more familiarity, but neither liked to begin; unlike the major, who pressed Penelope with all the eloquence he was capable of to take another cup of tea.

'I'd rather not, thank you Major Muffin.'

'Another bit of muffin?' said the major.

This was an offer she knew not how to resist; she could not 'refuse major Muffin.'

He drew his chair a little nearer, and took her hand. Penelope employed the other with a spoon. The major, heaving a sigh like a pavier, declared himself an 'unfortunate man,' and he shook his head.—

Penelope also sighed, and endeavored to fancy herself 'an unfortunate woman.'

'Yes,' cried the major, I am an unfortunate wretch; or I have trifled with my affections until they have left me a man without a heart.' Penelope could not know how.

The major continued 'Yes Penelope, I am a man without a heart,' and he squeezed her hand. The other was actively engaged with the tea spoon. 'This hand,' and he gave it another squeeze, 'this hand is to me as good ?' and Muffin looked as though he had spoken a truth. Yes, Penelope, future peace and present joy are written in the lines of this little palm!' saying which the major—our pen trembles as we record the fact—ravished a kiss! Penelope was, no doubt, thinking of something else, or she would have snatched it away; but her mind dwelt on the spoon, which moved in mystic circles over the tea board and doubtless drowned the noise of the kiss, though Molly affirms to this day that she heard it outside the door.

A skilful general watches with a hawk's eye for a fortunate chance; and, as for a fortunate chance, Penelope with a wreath of red roses, was to him a fortune itself.—

With one arm gently roving round her waist, he pressed the yielding damsel to his breast and whispered soft presumptions in her willing ear. Would she?—would— oh! would she?'

'Would I what?' and Penelope looked bashful.

'I dare not ask,' cried the major like a hero of romance. But if—' her white dress crushed like tissue paper as he drew her to his side, if I might venture to propose'—

Penelope held the spoon quiet, while Muffin looked as much like a Romeo as any man of forty in a blue surtout and brass buttons could, as he added, 'dare I venture? dare—may I?'

Penelope looked in his face, as much as to say, 'he might,' dropped her eyes, and remained silent.

Silence, we all know, gives consent.—

Muffin thought so; and sinking upon one knee, insinuated in his softest tones, 'Oh! Penelope will you be mine? Say yes— only yes—only—only—'

'Ye—.' The s was only wanting to complete the happy word as Penelope turned to embrace him; when the major's parrot, in a loud chuckle, shouted out, evidently in imitation of his master's voice, 'I wish that old woman next door was dead!' which Miss Crab's Jeremiah seconded by saying, 'we beseech thee to hear us, good Lord!'

Penelope started as if cut out of wood. Her own parrot, the sanctified Jeremiah, to pray for such a wish! And the major's parrot, to wish her dead just as he popped the question,' and she was going to say 'yes.'

Major Muffin knelt and seemed as if he never could rise; but his fault did; he looked upon his error, and saw written, "Never speak before parrots!"

The end of this tale may easily be conceived.—The parrots once started vied with each other which could talk the fastest. Bob made over the old woman not only to 'death,' but to the dominions of an old gentleman who shall be nameless, with an accompaniment of oaths that are unpronounceable, while Penelope's Jeremiah, her sweet Poll, swore at the other only in a sweet style— his were orthodox condemnations! And thus a volley of screams and chuckling abuse was kept up between the two birds, who clapped their wings and shouted as if taking a part with their master and mistress.

Penelope—not to be outdone by her Poll, bestowed upon major Muffin the fruits of her displeasure; and after calling him base wretch!' villain!' monster! brute!' and supplying other epithets which females pronounce so glibly, left the room with a bounce, and the house with a bang, the major still remaining on his knees in a cloud of wonder, rage, and disappointment.

Miss Penelope Crab, with twenty thousand pounds, died as she had lived, a virgin.

"Why did major Muffin keep a parrot?"