A PARROT IN A DEACONS' MEETING.
Once upon a time, it does not matter when or where, the deacons of a certain church met together to consider the state of affairs in their little Zion. Things were going wrong. There were few conversions, many empty pews, and grumblers enough to stock a dozen churches. Even the collection plate was getting black in the face, and when that is the case it is time to pass an Ecclesiastical Reform Bill. Great was the talk, and, alas! they fell upon the poor minister as the root of all the evil. One said he preached too long and frightened the people away. Another, that his doctrine was different from that of his sainted predecessors. Another, that he did not visit enough. And another still, that he lacked unction, fire, and force. Well, sinners must have a scapegoat, and who so fit for one as the minister? They resolved, therefore, to approach him and tell him their minds. Now, in the corner of the room there hung a parrot cage, and on the perch within stood a fine green parrot. Lately arrived in this country, it knew no other language than that which it had heard at sea. It was evidently puzzled by the talk of the brethren, and held its head on one side as if to master the subject under consideration. One thing was certain, it meant to have its say in the matter as soon as opportunity offered. The chance came. A lugubrious brother, in a long and mournful speech, was still bewailing their unfortunate circumstances, and in coming to the close said, “Well, my brethren, I am sorry things are as they are; our minister may be a good man, yet, think of it as I will, I see no remedy but”— “Work, you lubbers, work. Work, you lubbers, WORK.” So said the parrot, and abruptly finished the brother's speech, and started the entire diaconate into a state of abnormal activity. Horrified at the untimely timeliness of the parrot's remark, the good brother who owned the parrot sprang up in anger—he was but a man—and made a dash at the cage with full intent of teaching the poor creature the dumb alphabet by twisting its neck. “Stop, brother, stop,” cried one of the brethren; “you may wring the parrot's neck, but you can not wring the neck of truth. The bird is right; we are wrong. Work is the remedy after all.” They tried the remedy, and the result was all that could be desired.—London Freeman.