“Why, certainly, certainly,” I twittered. “Everybody’s kind but brother.”
The man laid a big finger, that seemed to me as heavy as a banana, on my golden head, and stroked me till I bent under the caress.
Fortunately some other person came in the room and he turned his head.
This was our Mary’s mother, Mrs. Martin. I knew her well, for she often came into the bird-room. She was a very large, cheerful lady, not very handsome, nor remarkable in any way, and yet different from most women, so the old birds said. I had heard them talking about her, and they said she is one that understands birds and beasts, and it is on account of her understanding that our Mary loves us. They said she is a very wonderful woman, and that there is power in her eye—power over human beings and animals, and more wisdom even
than our Mary has, for she is old, and her daughter is young.
“The young can not know everything,” the old birds often sang; “let them listen to the old ones and be guided by them.”
When Mrs. Martin came in, her quick brown eyes swept over the room, taking in her daughter, her husband, and even little me perched on our Mary’s finger.
“Thank fortune, I’m not late for lunch,” she said, sinking into a chair, “and thank fortune, we have a guest. Excuse me for being late, birdie,” she said in a most natural way, and treating me with as much courtesy as if I had been as big as the picture of the eagle on our bird-room wall.
That’s what the birds said about her, that she believes even a canary has a position in the world, and has rights. She just hates to have any creature imposed on or ill-used.
“Come here, dearie,” she said, holding out her plump hand toward me, “and kiss me.”