eeming death of civilisation some housemaids at least
survived, and some fires had been lit.

One of these fires, crackling in the grate of one of those
dining-rooms which look fondly out on the river and tolerantly across
to Battersea, was being watched by the critical eye of an aged
canary. The cage in which this bird sat was hung in the middle of
the bow-window. It contained three perches, and also a pendent hoop.
The tray that was its floor had just been cleaned and sanded. In
the embrasure to the right was a fresh supply of hemp-seed; in the
embrasure to the left the bath-tub had just been refilled with clear
water. Stuck between the bars was a large sprig of groundsel. Yet,
though all was thus in order, the bird did not eat nor drink, nor did
he bathe. With his back to Battersea, and his head sunk deep between
his little sloping shoulders, he watched the fire. The windows had for
a while been opened, as usual, to air the room for him; and the fire
had not yet mitigated the chill. It was not his custom to bathe at so
inclement an hour; and his appetite for food and drink, less keen than
it had once been, required to be whetted by example--he never broke
his fast before his master and mistress broke theirs. Time had been
when, for sheer joy in life, he fluttered from perch to perch, though
there were none to watch him, and even sang roulades, though there
were none to hear. He would not do these things nowadays save at
the fond instigation of Mr. and Mrs. Adrian Berridge. The housemaid
who ministered to his cage, the parlourmaid who laid the Berridges'
breakfast table, sometimes tried to incite him to perform for their
own pleasure. But the sense of caste, strong in his protuberant little
bosom, steeled him against these advances.

While the breakfast-table was being laid, he heard a faint tap against
the window-pane. Turning round, he perceived on the sill a creature
like to himself, but very different--a creature who, despite the
pretensions of a red waistcoat in the worst possible taste, belonged
evidently to the ranks of the outcast and the disinherited. In
previous winters the sill had been strewn every morning with
bread-crumbs. This winter, no bread-crumbs had been vouchsafed; and
the canary, though he did not exactly understand why this was so,
was glad that so it was. He had felt that his poor relations took
advantage of the Berridges' kindness. Two or three of them, as
pensioners, might not have been ami