Annette's canary-bird's cage, with the canary in it, was brought into the library and hung upon a hook beside the window.
Out popped a mouse from a hole behind the bookcase.
"Why, what are you doing here, canary?" she said. "I thought your place was the bay-window in the dining-room."
"So it is—so it is!" beginning with a twitter, answered the canary; "but they said I talked too much!"—ending with a trill.
"Talked!" repeated the mouse, sitting up on her hind-legs and looking earnestly at him. "I thought you only sang!"
"Well, singing and talking mean about the same thing in bird-language," said the canary. "But goodness g-r-r-racious!" he went on, swinging rapidly to and fro in his little swing at the top of his cage, "'t was they that talked so much—my mistress and the doctor's wife, and the doctor's sister—not me. I said scarcely a word, and yet I am called a chatterbox, and punished—before company, too! I feel mad enough to pull out my yellowest feathers or upset my bathtub.

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