“Thank you, thank you,” I sang, as I flew by her and out into the fresh air.
How can I ever describe my feelings on my first flight into the great big out-of-doors. I had, in my callow innocence, thought the Martin house very large and grand. Why, this big, out-door house had a ceiling so far away that only a very strong bird could ever fly to the top of it.
I felt breathless and confused, and flying straight to a big tree in front of the window, flattened myself against a dark limb, and crouched there half frightened, half enchanted with myself.
Suddenly a sharp little voice twittered, “Oho! little golden bird, and who are you?”
I knew that a street sparrow’s eyes are everywhere, so I was not surprised on looking up to see a male bird, with quite a pretty black throat patch, sitting on a limb above me.
“I am a canary,” I said.
“I know that,” he replied, rather impatiently, “but how is it that you are so strong of wing? You fly like a wild bird.”
“I have not always been in the bird-room,” I said; “I have flown all over the house and exercise has strengthened my wings.”
“Oh, you are the little youngster I have noticed looking from between the window curtains. How is it that you were allowed to leave the bird-room?”
“The canaries call me Dicky-Dick the Rover. At an early age I found the bird-room small,” I said, not wishing to tell him about my troubles with my brother.