The bullfinch had only just been caught. I thought this a point against the bird. But my wife thought it all in its favor. “For now,” she said, “we can train it exactly as we like.”
Meanwhile the bird, being quite uneducated, was dashing about in its cage, and little feathers came floating down, and all the cage furniture was in a heap in the corner. There was evidently a very clear field for instruction, and my wife was eager to begin at once.
“Bullfinches are very fond of hemp seeds,” said she oracularly, and proceeded to offer one to the bird. The result was eminently discouraging, for the terrified creature went into fits. For a time my wife was very patient, and stood there with the slippery little seed between her fingers. The bird, exhausted at last with its frantic efforts at escape, was on the floor of the cage, panting from fear and fatigue.
“I am sure he will get quite tame,” said my wife, inspirited by this cessation of the bird’s struggles. “Pretty Bully;” and she changed the seed to the left hand, for the other was tired. The motion was sufficient, however, to set the bird off in another paroxysm of fluttering, to which in the same way succeeded another relapse. And so it went on for half an hour, this contest between the wild thing’s terror and the woman’s patience. And the bird won the day.
“You are a very stupid little bird,” said my wife solemnly and emphatically to the open-beaked creature, as she withdrew from the strife to make acquaintance with the canary.
The canary was of another sort altogether, an old hen bird, born and bred in captivity, an artificial person without a scrap of soul.
