The bird speaks English!" "English!" M.Peyron replied, with incredulous scorn.

"What! Methuselah speak English! Oh, no, monsieur, impossible.

_Vous vous trompez, j'en suis sur_.

I can never believe it.

Those harsh, inarticulate sounds to belong to the noble language of Shaxper and Newtowne! _Ah, monsieur, incroyable! vous vous trompez; vous vous trompez!_" As he spoke, the bird put its head on one side once more, and, looking out of its half-blind old eyes with a crafty glance round the corner at Muriel, observed again, in not very polite English, "Pretty Poll! Pretty Poll! Polly wants some fruit! Polly wants a nut! Polly wants to go to bed!...