o long as she did not attempt to
flutter about, she did not seem very bad, and my spirits rose a little.
Still we must have seemed rather a doleful procession making our way
along the street, for my face and eyes were swollen with crying, and
Charley looked very grave, as we followed Mamma and Anna, Mamma carrying
the starling's cage containing poor Coo-coo, as if it was the most
wonderful treasure that ever was seen. And all the people came out of
the shops and houses to look at us, for already the news had spread of
the terrible misfortune that had happened to the little "foreign" lady,
and several people whose shops we had sometimes been to nodded their
heads, and said, "Poor little Miss," very sympathizingly, as we passed.
I couldn't help feeling rather ashamed, and I wished my eyes were not
quite so red.

[Illustration: "The Canary-gentleman."]

It was such a funny place where the gentleman of the canaries, as Anna
called him, lived. We went down a very narrow passage, and, across a
little court-yard and down another passage and up a rickety stair and at
last found ourselves in a room filled with birds--nothing but birds, and
all canaries! There were cages and cages full of them--grown up ones and
old ones, and baby ones just hatched. Some were singing brilliantly, so
that we could scarcely hear ourselves speak, and the man who had come
forward to meet us took us into another room, a little kitchen, where
there were only one or two cages and no noise.

He was a shoemaker as well as a birdfancier--he had on a leather apron,
and he had a half-made boot in his hand when we went in. But plainly,
what he considered his real calling in life was canaries--I think indeed
he thought the world was made for canaries, and he only looked at us
with interest because "we belonged to Coo-coo," as Charley said.

"It is not broken," he said, after he had carefully examined the poor
wing, stretching it out in a way that made me shiver to see; "it is only
sprained. It will get better, but it will perhaps never be quite well.
See--this is all that can be done," and he took a feather from a cup
with some fine oil in it, standing on a table. "You must paint it with
oil--so--two or three times a day. You see?" and Mamma nodded her head,
and said, yes, she quite understood.

"She will get better," repeated the man, "she will not die of her wing,
but she will die of loneliness. You must get her a companion."

I came forward eagerly.