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performance. The cock did seem a bit scared and made himself

as small as he could up in a corner. Talking of the cock, I may

say in passing that he is, without exaggeration, one of the

sweetest and most refined singers I have ever heard. I far prefer

him to the Mocking-Bird, and I fancy that he can run our

English Nightingale very close. He sang most beautifully before

the nesting began, but has been silent since.


At the end of about twelve days, as far as I can judge, the

first egg hatched, followed by the others on the succeeding days.

The nestlings, on their arrival in this wicked world, were in a

state more approved of by Praxiteles than the general public

nowadays, for they were, as they say up here, “ as naked as

Robins,” and of a dull leaden colour.


For more than a week, to be exact, for ten days all went

well with the precious cargo. On the eleventh morning when I

entered the bird room there was a smell so high that it reminded

one of what John Leech once said anent another smell, “I

think that stench is strong enough to sketch.” With deep

sadness I located the smell at the Cat-birds’ nest. It made me

think of the young lady who once innocently asked her master

of Bach, “And pray, sir, what is Bach composing now?”

“ Composing, madam,” came the answer with a roar, “ Bach is

not composing—he is decomposing ”—so was my poor little Cat¬

bird. It was a sad blow. I felt rather like the late Captain

Machell must have done, when the Duke of Hamilton knocked

him senseless in the third round, and then standing over him,

waited till he came to, and then asked him in the most casual

way when it would be convenient for him to rise? However, I

had to rise—and go on—I said to myself, spero infestis, go on

hoping in spite of ill luck ; you have two more arrows in your

quiver yet. Alas, the next day there was another death. All my

hopes were centered now on No. 3. For three days all seemed

to go well, and already I saw visions of a “ Coronation ” Medal ;

but it was not to be. When I went up to feed on Thursday

afternoon, June 12th, I found the tragedy was just completed.

Mrs. Cat-bird was off the nest, and when I looked within I saw

the poor little body—dead, but barely cold. Marius amid the

ruins of Carthage could not have worn a more tragic air than I

did when I picked up my poor little departed one. But then we

learn by suffering. Pathemata mathemata. I thought of what

Mark Tapley said to himself on a very similar occasion : “ Now,

Mr. Tapley, things is looking about as bad as they can look,

young man. You’ll not have such a opportunity for showing



