On the Tuesday morning that followed, the inhabitants of the City of
Birds, when they came downstairs and began the business of the day, were
astonished to find a new shop in the Market Square; astonished, because
no one could remember either what the house was like before, or who had
then lived in it, or indeed that there had been a house there at
all--not even the house-agent, who felt more than a little annoyed in
consequence, deeming himself defrauded of his just fees.
There, however, stood the house, leaving no room for doubt as to its
existence. There it stood, spick and span, with white window-curtains
tied up with red ribbons, and rows of flower-pots on the sills, and a
shining brass handle and knocker on the door, and a dark blind in the
shop window through which, howsoever noses might be flattened against
the glass, nothing could be seen. Hanging out over the pavement was a
quaint sign-board bearing the words
'THE AMELIORATOR.'
And, to crown all, in the branches of the silver birch before the house
a thrush was singing, while the swallows were already busy under the
gable.