"A warbler," said I, "because he has so little voice."
"He might sing better," observed the second beggar, "if he did not work so hard catching flies."
But the fourth beggar sighed and wiped the corner of his left eye, for he was a tender-hearted man on one side.
"I am thinking," said he, "of the poor flies!"
"Bet you a hundred to ten he doesn't catch the next one," said the third beggar.
"Done," cried the others, but before the stakes were counted out, the bird had flown.
"Tell me, sirs," I began, when they had stripped the gilded bands from their cigars and lighted them, "what it is that makes you all so innocently merry and contented in this troublous world?"
"It is a professional secret," said the first beggar. "If we tell it, you will give it away."
"Never," I answered. "I only want to put it into a poem."
The beggars looked at one another and laughed heartily. "That will do no harm," said they, "our secret will be safe there."