"Pretty Polly wants a nut.

Tu-Kila-Kila maroo! Pretty Poll! Pretty Polly!" "Sing again, for Heaven's sake!" Felix exclaimed, in a profoundly agitated mood, explaining briefly to the Frenchman the full significance of the words Methuselah had just begun to utter.
The Frenchman struck up his tune afresh to give the bird a start; but all to no avail.

Methuselah was evidently in no humor for talking just then.
He listened with a callous, uncritical air, bringing his white eyelids down slowly and sleepily over his bleared gray eyes.

Then he nodded his head slowly.

"No use," the Frenchman murmured, pursing his lips up gravely.