they can be procured. But before I end my letter I must tell you
about the cockatoo belonging to this hotel. It is a famous bird in
its way, having had its portrait taken several times, descriptions
written for newspapers of its talents, and its owner boasts of
enormous sums offered and refused for it. Knowing my fondness for
pets, F--- took me downstairs to see it very soon after our arrival.
I thought it hideous: it belongs to a kind not very well known in
England, of a dirtyish white colour, a very ugly-shaped head and
bill, and large bluish rings round the eyes; the beak is huge and
curved. If it knew of this last objection on my part, it would
probably answer, like the wolf in Red Riding Hood's story, "the
better to talk with, my dear"--for it is a weird and knowing bird.
At first it flatly refused to show off any of its accomplishments,
but one of the hotel servants good-naturedly came forward, and Cocky
condescended to go through his performances. I cannot possibly-tell
you of all its antics: it pretended to have a violent toothache, and
nursed its beak in its claw, rocking itself backwards and forwards
as if in the greatest agony, and in answer to all the remedies which
were proposed, croaking out, "Oh, it ain't a bit of good," and
finally sidling up, to the edge of its perch, and saying in hoarse
but confidential whisper, "Give us a drop of whisky, _do_." Its
voice was extraordinarily distinct, and when it sang several
snatches of songs the words were capitally given, with the most
absurdly comic intonation, all the _roulades_ being executed in
perfect tune. I liked its sewing performance so much--to see it
hold a little piece of stuff underneath the claw which rested on the
perch, and pretend to sew with the other, getting into difficulties
with its thread, and finally setting up a loud song in praise of
sewing-machines just as if it were an advertisement.