An Alarming Interlude 



He is a lovely bird, and stands three feet high 

 when his neck is craned, and he has a beautiful 

 speckled waistcoat of dark-grey and white which 

 would rouse envy in Bond Street. He sleeps on 

 the top of a weeping elm at the end of the cherry 

 walk, which he reaches by scrambling from branch 

 to branch, and he puts himself to bed regularly 

 at eight o'clock each evening. 



Seeing him eat their food, the dogs have wel- 

 comed him as a brother, and the cats regard him 

 with awe and respect. Often in the morning they 

 are all to be found outside the kitchen door waiting 

 for scraps ; and sometimes, when one of the dogs 

 has had an especially fine meaty bone, the bird 

 has been known to commandeer it with an imperious 

 peck. 



He can fly just enough to reach the rail of the 

 bridge, and there he will stand for hours together 

 with his neck low down on his shoulders, brooding. 

 I think he never dreams of higher flights. He 

 has flung away ambition. 



Is he happy ? Is a bird that cannot fly happy ? 

 . . . He has more food than he would ever have 

 in the wild state, and he likes to walk on carpets. 

 He will come into the house and tread daintily, 

 caressing the thick pile of the Donegal carpet with 

 his feet. He follows us about, and has more than 



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