“Indeed,” said Mr. Martin, “and what is that breed?”
“The Canadian canary, father,” said our Mary; “you know there has been a canary for nearly every nation, including the American, but no distinctive Canadian bird, so by crossbreeding I am trying to start one.”
“Good! Splendid!” cried Mr. Martin, deeply gratified. “I should like to have my young daughter’s name linked with some original work.”
“‘Martin’s Canadian Canary’ is already beginning to be known,” said Mrs. Martin. “It
is not a bird to be kept in tiny cages. It is for aviaries or large cages, and it is trained to fly freely in and out of its home. Canaries in the past have not had enough liberty—but, my dearest husband, have you put the new bird in your pocket?”
The dove had vanished—that is, to human eyes, and Daisy and I laughed, not in our sleeves but in our wings, for a while, before we enlightened them.
Dovey was tired and had stepped into one of the numerous knitting bags with which the house was adorned, for Mrs. Martin, so active and running all over the house, kept a bag with knitting in it in each room.
The bag seemed like a nest to dovey, and she had gone to sleep.
The Martins looked all over the room for her, and in the bedroom, but did not find her till I perched on the bag and began to sing.
How they laughed! “I’m going to call this dove Sister Susie,” said Mrs. Martin, “for I see she is going to do good work for soldiers.”