A Parakeet in a City Park (1919).
Nothing could be more pleasing to the eye than the sight of the distinguished officers of the Allies in their handsome uniforms as they go about the streets of our city. The drab-clad civilian notes them from the corner of an envious eye, and the small boys gaze with frank and unqualified admiration.
I noticed much the same effect among the birds in Central Park one afternoon in October. I was coming along the path around the Reservoir above 85th Street when my eye was caught by a large flock of dingy English Sparrows that were feeding in the grass by the bridle-path. As my eye roved from the outskirts of the flock toward its center I became aware of some cause of commotion and special interest. The birds were craning their necks, chirping loudly, and jostling one another in their effort to stand all in the same place. In another moment I had discovered the cause. Shining with the brightness of a patch of sunlight on the green grass, and politely oblivious of the vulgar peering crowd about him, sat a little Parakeet busily engaged in feeding on the grass seeds. He showed little fear as I approached, and finally flew to a small tree a few paces away, from which he watched a moment or two and then returned to the grass. The distinguished stranger was about the size of a White-throated Sparrow in body, but of course his tail was much longer. On his forehead he bore a clear yellow mark. His head, throat, breast, underparts, and rump were bright bluish green. His upperparts were distinctly yellowish green, while the wing coverts were blackish, each feather being delicately fringed with pale yellow or whitish. The tail feathers, as the bird spread them in alighting, showed a fringe at the outer ends of yellowish green and whitish.
Such a sight always fills the observer with strange I thoughts of other lands and times. Perhaps some will be reminded of the day when Carolina Paroquets were casual visitors even in New York State. I suppose the little Parakeet was an escaped cage-bird, or, possibly, one that is allowed to fly at large to return at night to his cage. Anyway, I have not seen him since, and often wonder what became of him. But nothing can blot out the picture of the graceful, brilliant stranger so superior to the vulgar curiosity of the dingy Sparrows. - Tertius Van Dyke, New York City.