Another nod.
“Isn’t he a darling!” breathed the little occupant of the pillowed chair, when the battered cage was placed beside him. He threw one arm around the small prison, and leaned lovingly over it.
The bird cocked an eye upward, and ventured another trill.
“He’s just beautiful!” piped Doodles in ecstasy.
After that who could dare to make unflattering remarks about the singer? Certainly not Doodles’s mother, so with a happy light on her face she continued her work of preparing dinner.
In The Flatiron news flew fast. Even before Mrs. Stickney’s potatoes had fried brown, up the stairs puffed Granny O’Donnell on her rheumatic old legs, bringing the deserted home of her long-mourned-for Canary Dick, who had flown away from Cherry Street six years ago.
With a joyful whiff the Bargain took possession of his roomier quarters, and, despite his drooping wing, pranced about on the perches.
“See how happy he is!” laughed Doodles, clapping his little thin hands. “He is saying thank-you!”
Then, perhaps because his new master had suggested the returning of thanks, the slim gray bird, with a little captivating prelude, broke into a torrent of melody such as Canary Dick with his limited powers had never dreamed of.
“Shure, an’ he must ’a’ coome sthraight f’m hiven!” gasped Granny O’Donnell, as the last note dropped into silence.