Evening Republican, Volume 17, Number 96, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 22 April 1913 — GRANDMA’SPARROT [ARTICLE]

GRANDMA’SPARROT

t It Could Repeat the Lord’s Prayer From Beginning to End, and Then Some. By BRYANT C, ROGERS. Mr. Fred Derwent wu twenty-tour Tears Md. He was referred to as young Derwent, In order not to mix him up with any old Derwent who might hare reached the age of a hundred. Young Derwent was called an artist. This was to distinguish him from the many house painters one saw at work every line day. ' He was an orphan, adopted and reared by his grandmother In Connecticut. She had much ‘to answer for. Young Derwent developed a talent lor sketching with charcoal and chalk. ■At nine years old he could sketch a rooster so naturally that hens would gather around the picture and cluck. A year later he drew such a natural face of Elder Comstock on a barn door that hlB proud grandma had to pay a fine of $lO to keep him out of jail. Young Derwent managed somehow to pull through until he was of age. Then, as It was apparent to all but other artists and a few scene painters that he he was a genius with the brush, he was sent to the city to set up a studio and blossom out In the ■pace of four years he painted three portraits. One was that of an aiders man, who went to the state prison for graft within a week after his picture was finished; the second was that of a saloon keeper, whose wife eloped and took the picture with her, and the third was that of a bull-dog, who .straight way went mad and bit bis master and no one blamed him for It When young Derwent was not busy ‘with his brush he played poker, golf, polo and attended ball games. He [wasn’t at all bad. He did not care particularly about going to heaven [when he died, but it is simply impossible for one reared under the laws 'Of Connecticut to be bad, even with A small “b Most artists fall In love at a tender age and keep it up till they strike 80. Young Derwent had never loved. He might sometime, but he wasn't betting on it He was sociable, but did not seek to make himself popular. 'He was satisfied to go right along beling Mr. Derwent and having his grandmother foot the bills. In the next apartment, to Mr. Derwent’s studio dwelt Miss Honore. Haswell. She didn’t call her place an Atelier or a studio, but her office. Her jline was not mercantile or law, but ■literary. She wroteatorlea for the magazines. She read some of them to [her intimate friends, but no one ever jread one of them in cold type. It allways 'happened that the magazines were overstocked with stories in her I line whenever she sent one in. If Ithey rejected a sporty story and she i sat down and invented' and sent in a religious one, it was the same excuse >—overstocked. Miss Haswell may have been an orphan or she may not. She may have ;had plenty of money, or she may have had to pinch. Be that as It may, she !was no kicker. She piled her rejected manuscripts in a corner of her office as they came back. Mr. Derwent and Miss Haswell were snot acquainted. They used the Bame stairway, and often bumped against each other in the semi-darkness, but ishe had never simled at him, and he had never winked at her. They may jhave wondered about each other ■sometimes, but it stopped right there. [Perhaps this was a wise thing on the ipart of both, but it is also to be reImembered that there is such a thing as carrying wisdom too far. One morning young Derwent awoke ■ with a troubled conscience. A still, ismall voice charged him with neglecting his grandmother. He hadn’t been >up to Connecticut to see her for three i months, and it had been several weeks ; since he had written her that she 'might send an extra check. It wasn’t using the dear old girl acordlng to [Hoyle. She ,was drying apples and ‘making soft soap, and he was loafing ;around. She was putting a second ‘mortgage on her stony qld farm and iscraplbg the bottom of the flour barirel, and he was betting on the ponies and ordering fried eggs at the restaurant He would take a run up among the wooden nutmegs and see her and [assure her of his undying love and j gratitude. Also', that he expected a ' commission ,to paint a famous por;tralt * The grateful adopted went further. ‘He would take up some little present [to prove his thoughtfulness and consideration —not an expensive present but a momento to be laid away in the archives after being rolled in camphor, I After eating his breakfast he went i strolling to Bee what he could find. He had alniost decided on a celluloid ; back-comb, price twenty cents, when ihe met a sailor carrying a parrot on [his arm. • “Come to anchor, Jack Brace!” ! commanded the artist ; "Aye, aye, sir! It’s a parrot Just : from Africa and I’ll sell her cheap.” “Shiver my timbers, but might she {make a present for my grandmother V “Malns’l haul, but you couldn’t beat |lt, matey. Your grandmother would prize the bird above rubles.” 1 “Can she talk?” “She says the Lord’s prayer three 'times a day and sings gospel hymns •the rest of the time. She’s ekal to •a preacher boarding In the house. Reformed our whole crew, ’ceptlng the icapting, on the run from Capetown.” "She'd be oompany for an old woman,” mused the artist.

"She’d never Ist am old woman see a lonely minute. I don’t see how they do without ’em, ’cepting they can’t find ’em to buy. Only a dollar tor the bird. What d’ye say?” „ Polly changed hands at the price, and thereby young Derwent had every reason to congratulate himself. He had bought a fine preseat at a bargain and he had provided religious company for his dear grandmother. Polly was mute and humble. She did not eVen look into the countenance of her owner to see whether he was saint or sinner. A cage was bought for her and she was taken to the studio and placed on the window ledge. The next day she was to go up to Connecticut. Perhaps it was the words of young Dedwent, and perhaps it Was the sight of Miss Haswell’s head out of the window, that set the bird talking. Scarcely had its owner asked it please to' favor him with the Lord’s prayer when the answer came: “You can go to —” Miss Haswell was looking right into Polly’s eyes, and the word seemed intended for her. They hit like so many blows, and the laughter of the artist stung like a although she knew that he didn’t know she was there by her window. Having awakened to the business before her, Polly continued: ’’Lufrr Lud! Why in don’t you luff.!” “That's no Lord’s Prayer that I ever heard before!" chuckled the artist. “Oh, the shame of It,” exclaimed Miss Haswell as she changed color several times in 14 seconds. “It’s a lie!" from Polly. Young Derwent giggled as he thought of what his grandmother would say. Miss Harwell doubled her fists and shut her teeth and took a resolution. “Hard over with your wheel you slouch!” , The hall door of the studio was banged open, and Miss Haswell stood there with burning cheeks and announced: > “Sir, I will have you arrested!" "But I have done nothing.” was the calm reply. "tour—your parrot!" "Bought him an hour ago. I didn't teach him to swear, if he did swear.” "You know he swore, sir—you know he did!" And Polly bowed her head in all humility and began on the Lord’s prayer and repeated it to the last word. Young Derwent looked up at the girl, and she,stammered: "I — I thought —— thought it was swearing. 1 most humbly beg your pardon." That evening they sat together in the parlor and discussed good and bad parrots, also good and bad magazine editors, good had- portrait painters. Meanwhile the parrot swore softly to himself and muttered that he’d be —— if some folks in this world weren’t so mighty particular that they ought to get out of it and into that land where a bird could talk as he pleased without being misunderstood and vilified. The artist and the story writer liked each other. In time they discovered they were soul-mates. Later they were married. Polly went up the country and stuck to the Lord’s prayer for a year. Then she changed, off for the lore of the sea, and young Derwent's grandmother was found dead in her chair. The shock had been too great for her. (Copyright, 1918, by the McClure Newspaper Syndicate.)