Blinks stood gazing, horror-stricken, when the bird, piping a few bars of a tune, wheeled suddenly round, and made a determined effort to compass out Blinks’s eye.
“Is that an eye?” said he, as if he didn’t know.
“Rather,” said Blinks, a little proudly.
“Then give us a bit,” cried Dick. “Chickey, chick, chick; whew-w-w, whew, whew. Snails and brandy! Pretty starling! bravo!”
“Do you know,” said Blinks, “it strikes me you’re a fool.”
“No I ain’t,” said the bird, “only a foolosopher—always gay, you know. Love is the soul of a darling pretty starling; but I say, you know, you and I will be excellent friends, and you shall play in my cage, and I will give you sugar, snails, and brandy. Quack, quack, quack. Don’t be frightened, it’s only my fun; and now I must be off, master will want me to sing to him after dinner. He has just finished his sucking pig; he plays the fiddle and I sing. Just fly up with me on the table; but, oh! I forgot, you awkward creature,”—digging Blinks in the ribs,—“you haven’t the vestige of a wing; well, my master——”
“The ogre?” said Blinks.
“Bravo!” cried the bird, “just you call him an ogre, and he will soon have a new string to his fiddle.”
“What do you mean?” inquired Blinks.
“Why,” said the starling, “he has a pretty little box called a violin, filled with the souls of defunct cats, your brothers and sisters are all there,—and their insides are made into strings, and stretched all over; and when he tickles the strings with a hair, they all cauterwaul. Master sings, and pretty Dickie sings—Chick, chick, chick; chirl, chirl, chirl. But, snails and brandy! I’m off.” And away flew the beautiful bird, who was all shiny with black and blue and silver; and Blinks sat for quite a long time gazing up after him with his lack-lustre eyes; and then, getting to his feet, he commenced walking homewards, musing on all the strange things he had seen and heard.