"What's to be done with it?" the tit asked.
"There's only one thing for self-respecting British birds to do," said the first sparrow. "Stop it. Teach it a lesson."
"Absolutely," said the tit. "I'll go and find some others."
"Yes, so will we," said the sparrows; and off they all flew, full of righteous purpose.
Meanwhile the canary sang on and on, and the poet at the foot of the tree listened with delight.
Suddenly, however, he was conscious of a new sound—a noisy chirping and harsh squeaking which seemed to fill the air, and a great cloud of small angry birds assailed the tree. For a while the uproar was immense, and the song ceased; and then, out of the heart of the tumult, pursued almost to the ground where the poet stood, fell the body of a little yellow bird, pecked to death by a thousand avenging furies.
Seeing the poet they made off in a pack, still shrilling and squawking, but conscious of the highest rectitude.
The poet picked up the poor mutilated body. It was still warm and it twitched a little, but never could its life and music return.
While he stood thoughtfully there an old woman, holding an open cage and followed by half-a-dozen children, hobbled along the path.
"My canary got away," she said. "Have you seen it? It flew in this direction."