the secret of its changed color, but I have never deciphered it. It
is healthy, in good condition, sweet-tempered and very fond of me.
It does not talk much, but its talk is innocent and rational. No
morbid symptoms have ever appeared in it since I took it from the
nunnery in Montreal. Its plumage is soft and thick, and perfectly,
entirely gray. My own impression is that it was naturally a gray
parrot and had at that time of my sojourn in New York, either been
dyed or painted that peculiar pea-green which so distinguished it
then. I wrote to De Kock before leaving for England and told him
something of the story. I have seen the last of Madame; in all
probability I shall see the last of the Pea-Green Parrot, and I
cannot help wondering when I enter a cafe or ride on an omnibus
whether I shall ever run across Giuseppe Martinetti in the flesh, or
whether the last of him was seen in truth, five years ago.





The Bishop of Saskabasquia.


I have not a story, properly speaking, to tell about him. He, my
Bishop, is quite unconscious that I am writing about him, and would,
I daresay, be quite astonished if he knew that I could find anything
that relates to him to write about. But I will tell you just how I
came to do so. I went to see the "Private Secretary" some months ago.
I had never been a great admirer of clergymen as a sex (vide
Frenchman's classification), and I thoroughly enjoyed the capital
performance of so clever a play. Here, thought I, is a genuine and