The little yellow canary that used to sing so sweetly grew sick and died.
The children wept to see it.
“Let us bury him under the apple-tree,” said Alice; “every spring it will
cover his grave with white blossoms.”
So Robert dug a small grave under the apple-tree, and Alice laid the
canary gently in it. They covered him with the soft earth.
Every spring the apple-tree sent down his white blossoms on the grave.