ntic with delight. "Poor thing!"
I said, "you are lonely, no wonder." I had given him a new and shining
cage, a green curtain, a sunny window; but of what avail are these to a
desolate heart? Who does not know that the soul may starve in
splendor? "Solitude," says Balzac, I think, "is a fine thing; but it
is also a fine thing to have some one to whom you can say, from time to
time, that solitude is a fine thing." I know that I am but a poor
substitute for a canary-bird,--a gross and sorry companion for one of
ethereal mould. I can supply seed and water and conch-shells, but what
do I know of finchy loves and hopes? What sympathy have I to offer in
his joyous or sorrowful moods? How can I respond to his enthusiasms?
How can I compare notes with him as to the sunshine and the trees and
the curtain and views of life? It is not sunshine, but sympathy, that
lights up houses into homes. Companionship is what he needs, for his
higher aspirations and his everyday experiences,--somebody to whom he
can observe "The sand is rather gritty today, isn't it?"

"Very much as usual, my dear."

"Here is a remarkably plump seed, my dear, won't you have it?"

"No, thank you, dear, nothing more. Trol-la-la-r-r-r!"

"Do let me help you to a bit of this hemp. It is quite a marvel of
ripeness."

"Thank you. Just a snip. Plenty."

"My dear, I think you are stopping in the bathtub too long this
morning. I fancied you a trifle hoarse yesterday."

"It was the company, pet. I strained my voice slightly in that last
duet."

"We shall have to be furnished with a new shell before long. This old
one is getting to be rather the last peas of the picking."

"Yes, I nearly broke my beak over it yesterday. I was quite ashamed of
it when the ladies were staring at you so admiringly."

"Little one, I have a great mind to try that swing. It has tempted me
this long while."

"My love, I beg you will do no such thing. You will inevitably break
your neck."

Instead of this pleasant conjugal chit-chat, what has he? Nothing. He
stands looking out at the window till his eyes ache, and then he turns
around and looks at me. If any one comes in and begins to talk, and he
delightedly joins, he gets a handkerchief thrown over his cage.
Sometimes the cat creeps in,--very seldom, for I do not trust her, even
with the height of the room between them, and punish her whenever I
find her on forbidden ground, by taking her upstairs and putting