nd put fresh sand and water, and
seed, and groundsel. The people at the opposite side of the street got
to know me quite well by sight, and would smile and nod to me. And all
was as happy as possible till one sad day which I will tell you about.

Mamma had two or three times said to me, "Take care, Sally, when you put
the cage on the window-sill to see that it is quite steady. The sill is
broad and even, inside, but outside the stone slopes downward," and I
_had_ always taken care.

But this morning, just as I had finished cleaning and all, I saw a piece
of sugar on the table, which, it suddenly struck me would be a nice
treat for the canaries. I sprang across the room hastily to get the
sugar, and was just turning back with it, when a smashing, crashing
noise made me start. It was--no I can hardly tell it, even now I
remember the horrible feeling--it was the cage falling, _fallen_ out of
the window, down into the street below. I screamed and rushed into the
furthest corner of the room, shutting my eyes and clasping my hands over
my ears. It was very silly I know, but I was really almost out of my
mind.

"They are dead, they are killed!" I cried screaming again so loud that
Mamma rushed in from the next room to see what was the matter. She saw
it in an instant without my speaking, and indeed I was by this time
choking with sobs.

"Stay there, Sally," said she, and down stairs she ran. I just took my
fingers out of my ears for an instant, but I heard a hubbub in the
street below, and I shuddered and put them back again. It was _too_
horrible.

In a few minutes Mamma came up, carrying something in her hand, and
looking very sad.

"Sally dear, I am very sorry for you," she said, "but it might have been
still sadder. Coo-coo seems very little the worse--she has had a
wonderful escape. But poor Frise-tete is dead. I have brought him up--I
think he must have been killed at once, and not have suffered."

It was some time before she could persuade me to look at my poor pet.
It was indeed a sad sight. Even the death of a little bird is sad, I
still think. His pretty yellow feathers all rumpled and torn, his bright
eyes glazed and filmy.

"Oh, my dear, sweet Frise-tete," I said. "To think that I should have
brought you all the way from home for this."

And poor Mamma was so sorry for me that she actually cried too!

We made a little coffin out of some cardboard, and wrapped him in
cotton-wool, and buried him in the o