a very fine white cockatoo. Fudge had been caught young, and his
education had been of a liberal order. An apt pupil, he had picked up
various items of knowledge, and had blended them into a whole that was
scarcely harmonious. Bits of slang learned from Jim and the stockmen
were mingled with fragments of hymns warbled by Mrs. Brown and sharp
curt orders delivered to dogs. A French swag-man, who had hurt his foot
and been obliged to camp for a few days at the homestead, supplied Fudge
with several Parisian remarks that were very effective. Every member of
the household had tried to teach him to whistle some special tune.
Unfortunately, the lessons had been delivered at the same time, and the
result was the most amazing jumble of melody, which Fudge delivered with
an air of deepest satisfaction. As Jim said, "You never know if he's
whistling 'God Save the King,' 'Pop Goes the Weasel,' or 'The Wearin' o'
the Green,' but it doesn't make any difference to Fudge's enjoyment!"

Caesar was a giant among cockatoos, and had a full sense of his own
importance.

He had been shot when very young, some stray pellets having found their
way into his wing. Norah had found him fluttering helplessly along the
ground, and had picked him up, sustaining a severe peck in doing so. It
was, however, the first and last peck he ever gave Norah. From that
moment he seemed to recognize her as a friend, and to adopt her as an
intimate--marks of esteem he accorded to very few others. Norah had
handed him to Jim on arriving at the house, a change which the bird
resented by a savage attack on Jim's thumb. Jim was no hero--at the age
of eleven, he dropped the cockatoo like a hot coal. "Great Caesar!" he
exclaimed, sucking his thumb, and Caesar he was christened in that
moment.

After his recovery, which was a long and tedious process, Caesar showed
no inclination to leave the homestead. He used to strut about the back
yard, and frequent the kitchen door, very much after the fashion of a
house-dog. He was, indeed, as valuable as a watch-dog, for the
appearance of any stranger was the signal for a volley of shrieks and
chatter, sufficient to alarm any household. However, Caesar's liberty had
to be restricted, for he became somewhat of a menace to all he did not
choose to care for, and his attacks on the ankles were no joking matter.

To the dogs he was a constant terror. He hated all alike, and would "go
for" big Tait as readily as for cheerful little