But still there on the parapet before me was the thin gray shape, and its voice said: “I am the Bill of the Caged Wild Songbirds.”
And from the darkness above came the flutter of myriads of tiny hearts maddened with terror, and a sound such as no other man can have heard—of thousands on thousands of little wings struggling, beating, struggling against cage wires. That sound came slanting down to the water like a swallow dipping, and passed—invisible as wind.
On either parapet, before me, behind, were many, many thin gray shapes, like rows of penguins. They sighed and waved, moving this way and that, as though saying farewell, then one by one dived and passed into the dark water below. And the whole air was alive with the sobbing of men and women, of children, and the cries of pain and terror from beasts and birds. And just as I thought that I, too, would leap down into the water and escape, the dawn broke . . .
I rubbed my eyes. Nothing there, save the river running quiet and full, with a gray sheen on it; that bright clock joined once more to earth by its tower; and the sky flecked from pole to pole with tiny white clouds. A breeze fanned my face. Beside me on the Bridge a gentleman in top hat and black coat was stretching himself, and breathing deeply. I turned to him.
“Did you see them, sir?”
“See what?”
“The Bills.”
“What Bills?”
“The Bills of Suffering! There, on the parapet; thin gray things, passing into nothing and the summer night?”
He looked at me, and I saw he thought I was demented. Then, with a smile on his pleasant red face, he pointed to the Clock Tower, and said: