MY WOODLAND INTIMATES 



await death or the terrors of the next market- 

 day. 



I know a woman who often looks back with 

 unalloyed gladness to a certain day of her early 

 childhood, a bright, summer morning on which, 

 armed with a generous supply of copper coins, 

 she wended her way to the Fabrique Street Mar- 

 ket a place that lives now only in Quebec's 

 memories. 



The coins represented a long abstention from 

 sweets and toys, as for months previous the little 

 girl had been preparing for the season when the 

 captive goldfinches were to appear on the market- 

 stands. A large cage full of the terrified little 

 creatures came into her possession in exchange 

 for the money not many farthings apiece were 

 they but no sooner was the transfer made than, 

 to the horror of the vendor and the amazement 

 of the bystanders, the child opened the door of 

 the cage and set the prisoners free. It must have 

 been with a heart as glad and thankful as their 

 own that she watched them as they flew away 

 from the market-place out toward the region of 

 green fields and freedom. Let us hope that their 

 bitter experience taught them wisdom which, in 

 cases like this, is synonymous with the fear of 



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