Around the door of a Sixth Ave. bird store near Twenty-third St. was gathered the other day a crowd so large that it was a work of several minutes to gain entrance to the interior. From within there proceeded a hoarse voice dashed with a suspicion of whisky, which bellowed in Irish-American brogue the enlivening strains of "Peek-a-boo." With each reiteration of "Peek-a-boo" the crowd hallooed with delight, and one small boy, in the exuberance of his joy, tied himself into a sort of knot and rolled on the pavement. Suddenly the inebriated Irishman came to a dead stop, and another voice, pleasanter in quality, sang the inspiring national ode of "Yankee Doodle," followed by the stentorian query and answer all in one, "How are the Psi-Upsilon boys? Oh, they're all right!"

A passer-by, puzzled at the scene, made his way into the store and soon solved the mystery. In a large cage in the center was an enormous green and yellow parrot, which was hanging by one foot to a swinging perch, and trolling forth in different voices with the ease of an accomplished ventriloquist. He resumed a normal position as he was approached, and flapping his wings bellowed out, "Hurrah for Elaine and Logan!" Then, cocking his head on one side, he dropped into a more conversational tone, and with a regular "Alice in Wonderland" air remarked: "It's never too late to mend a bird in the hand;" and again, after a pause, "It's a long lane that never won fair lady." His visitor affably remarked:

"You're quite an accomplished bird, Polly," and quick as a flash the creature replied:

"I can spell, I can. C-a-t, cat. D-o-g, fox," with an affectation of juvenility which was grewsome. He resented an ill-advised attempt at familiarity by snapping at the finger which tried to scratch his poll, and barked out:

"Take care! I'm a bad bird, I am. You betcher life!"

"He's one of the cleverest parrots I have had for some time," said his owner, Mr. Holden. "In fact, he is almost as good as Ben Butler, whom I sold to Patti. His stock of proverbs seems inexhaustible, and he makes them quite funny by the ingenious way in which he mixes them up. I could not begin to tell you all the things he says, but his greatest accomplishment is his singing. He is a double yellowhead - the only species of parrot which does sing. The African grays are better talkers, but they do not sing. They only whistle. What do I ask for him? Oh, I think $200 is cheap for such a paragon, don't you?" - N.Y. Tribune.