The Alien.
Once upon a time a poet was sitting at his desk in his cottage near the
woods, trying to write.
It was a hot summer day and great fat white clouds were sailing across
the sky. He knew that he ought to be out, but still he sat on, pen in
hand, trying to write.
Suddenly, among all the other sounds of busy urgent life that were
filling the warm sweet air, he heard the new and unaccustomed song of a
bird. At least not new and not unaccustomed, but new and unaccustomed
there, in this sylvan retreat. The notes poured out, now shrill, now
mellow, now bubbling like musical water, but always rich with the joy of
life, the fulness of happiness. Where had he heard it before? What bird
could it be?
Suddenly the poet's housekeeper hurried in. "Oh, Sir," she exclaimed,
"isn't it a pity? Someone's canary has got free, and it's singing out
here something beautiful."
"Of course," said the poet--"a canary;" and he hastened out to see it.
But before he could get there the bird had flown to a clump of elms a
little way off, from which proceeded sweeter and more tumultuously
exultant song than they had ever known.
The poet walked to the elms with his field-glasses, and after a while he
discerned among the million leaves, the little yellow bird, with its
throat trembling with rapture.
But the poet and his housekeeper were not the only creatures who had
heard the strange melody.
"I say," said one sparrow to another, "did you hear that?"
"What?" inquired the other sparrow, who was busy collecting food for a
very greedy family.
"Why, listen," said the first sparrow.
"Bless my soul," said the second. "I never heard that before."
"That's a strange bird," said the first sparrow; "I've seen it. It's all
yellow."
"All yellow?" said the other. "What awful cheek!"
"Yes, isn't it?" replied the first sparrow. "Can you understand what it
says?"
"Not a note," said the second. "Another of those foreigners, I suppose.
We shan't have a tree to call our own soon."
"That's so," said the first. "There's no end to them. Nightingales are
bad enough, grumbling all night, and swallows, although there's not so
many of them this year as usual; but when it comes to yellow
birds--well."
"Hullo," said a passing tit, "what's the trouble now?"
"Listen," said the sparrows.
The tit was all attention for a minute while the gay triumphant song
went on.
"Well," he said, "that's a rum go. That's new, that is. Novel, I call
it. What is it?"
"It's a yellow foreigner," said the sparrows.
"What's to be done with it?" the tit asked.
"There's only one thing for self-respecting British birds to do," said
the first sparrow. "Stop it. Teach it a lesson."
"Absolutely," said the tit. "I'll go and find some others."
"Yes, so will we," said the sparrows; and off they all flew, full of
righteous purpose.
Meanwhile the canary sang on and on, and the poet at the foot of the
tree listened with delight.
Suddenly, however, he was conscious of a new sound--a noisy chirping and
harsh squeaking which seemed to fill the air, and a great cloud of small
angry birds assailed the tree. For a while the uproar was immense, and
the song ceased; and then, out of the heart of the tumult, pursued
almost to the ground where the poet stood, fell the body of a little
yellow bird, pecked to death by a thousand avenging furies.
Seeing the poet they made off in a pack, still shrilling and squawking,
but conscious of the highest rectitude.
The poet picked up the poor mutilated body. It was still warm and it
twitched a little, but never could its life and music return.
While he stood thoughtfully there an old woman, holding an open cage and
followed by half-a-dozen children, hobbled along the path.
"My canary got away," she said. "Have you seen it? It flew in this
direction."
"I'm afraid I have seen it," said the poet, and he opened his hand.
"My little pet!" said the old woman. "It sang so beautifully, and it
used to feed from my fingers. My little pet."
The poet returned to his work. "'In tooth and claw,'" he muttered to
himself, "'In tooth and claw.'"
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[Illustration: HOW TO UTILISE THE ART OF "SUGGESTION."
The Doctor, six down at the turn, "suggests" to his opponent that they
are playing croquet, and wins by two and one.]
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