the whole company started up and clapped their wings. The Portuguese awoke too, and rushed over to the other side: in so doing she trod upon the little singing-bird.
“Tweet,” he cried; “you trod very hard upon me, madam.”
“Well then, why do you lie in my way?” she retorted, “you must not be so touchy. I have nerves of my own, but I do not cry ‘tweet.’”
“Don’t be angry,” said the little bird; “the ‘tweet’ slipped out of my beak unawares.”
The Portuguese did not listen to him, but began eating as fast as she could, and made a good meal. When she had finished, she lay down again, and the little bird, who wished to be amiable, began to sing,—
The dew-drops glitter,
In the hours of sunny spring;
I’ll sing my best,
Till I go to rest,
With my head behind my wing.”
“Now I want rest after my dinner,” said the Portuguese; “you must conform to the rules of the house while you are here. I want to sleep now.”
The little bird was quite taken aback, for he meant it kindly. When madam awoke afterwards, there he stood before her with a little corn he had found, and laid it at her feet; but as she had not slept well, she was naturally in a bad temper. “Give that to a chicken,” she said, “and don’t be always standing in my way.”
“Why are you angry with me?” replied the little singing-bird, “what have I done?”
“Done!” repeated the Portuguese duck, “your mode of expressing yourself is not very polite. I must call your attention to that fact.”
“It was sunshine here yesterday,” said the little bird, “but to-day it is cloudy and the air is close.”
“You know very little about the weather, I fancy,” she retorted, “the day is not over yet. Don’t stand there, looking so stupid.”
“But you are looking at me just as the wicked eyes looked when I fell into the yard yesterday.”
“Impertinent creature!” exclaimed the Portuguese duck; “would you compare me with the cat—that beast of prey? There’s not a drop of malicious blood in me. I’ve taken your part, and now I’ll teach you better manners.” So saying, she made a bite at the little singing-bird’s head, and he fell dead on the ground. “Now whatever is the meaning of this?” she said; “could he not bear even such a little peck as I gave him? Then certainly he was not made for this world. I’ve been like a mother to him, I know that, for I’ve a good heart.”
Then the cock from the neighbouring yard stuck his head in, and crowed with steam-engine power.
