“You have Chummy.”
“A street sparrow—he is good as far as he goes, but he only opens up one side of my nature. I am a highly cultured bird, whose family has been civilized for three hundred and fifty years.”
“I didn’t know your family was as old as that,” said Billie.
“Indeed it is—we are descended from the wild birds of the Canary Islands and Madeira, but canaries are like Jews, they have spread all over the world and have become parts of many nations. I am not boasting, Billie. I am merely stating a fact.”
“Well,” said Billie, going back to what I had first said, “I never dreamed you were lonely. Why don’t you sing a little song about it to our Mary, or her mother, and they will get you another bird from downtown to play with.”
“I want Daisy, and didn’t I sit for an hour this morning with my throat puffed out, singing about her to our good Missie as she sat sewing?”
“And what did she say?”
“Yes, Dicky-Dick—I know all about your little lonely cage, and the spring coming, and how you would like to have a playmate; and if you’ll wait till I get my next month’s allowance I’ll try to buy Daisy for you, for I think she’s neglected in that lodging house.”
“Then what are you squealing about now?” asked Billie.
“Nothing—I just want you to know that birds have troubles and things to put up with, as well as dogs.”