The next morning Evangeline was as silent as ever. Miss Atherley and I
surveyed it after breakfast. It was still grappling with a monkey-nut,
but no doubt a different one.

"Isn't it _ever_ going to talk?" I asked. "Really, I thought parrots
were continually chatting."

"Yes, but they have to be taught--just like you teach a baby."

"Are you sure? I quite see that you have to teach them any special
things you want them to say, but I thought they were all born with
a few simple obvious remarks, like 'Poor Polly,' or--or 'Dash LLOYD
GEORGE.'"

"I don't think so," said Miss Atherley. "Not the green ones."

At dinner that evening, Mr. Atherley being now with us, the question
of Evangeline's education was seriously considered.

"The only proper method," began Mr. Atherley--"By the way," he said,
turning to me, "you don't know anything about parrots, do you?"

"No," I said. "You can go on quite safely."

"The only proper method of teaching a parrot--I got this from a man in
the City this morning--is to give her a word at a time, and to go on
repeating it over and over again until she's got hold of it."

"And after that the parrot goes on repeating it over and over again
until you've got sick of it," said Archie.