It was a surety of peace, of a cessation of hostilities as
long as the cake lasted.
All went fairly well for a little while, but as the novelty of
possession gradually wore off, my little jailer grew negligent and left
me much of the time without water or food. Frequently my throat was so
parched from thirst that I could not utter a protesting chirp. I knew
no other way to attract attention to my wants than to flutter to the
bars and thrust out my head; unfortunately this action was attributed
to wildness and a desire to escape, and I was allowed to suffer on.
"That bird is the most annoying, restless thing I ever saw," complained
Betty's mother one evening when I was thus trying to tell them my cup
was empty. "It spends all its time poking its head through the wires
or thrashing around in the cage, instead of getting up on its perch and
behaving itself quietly as a decent bird should."
"Do you reckon it's sick?" suggested Betty, and she came to my cage and
looked at me attentively.
"Reckon it's hungry, you mean," growled her father, who was in one
corner of the kitchen cleaning his gun.
"She never feeds it any more," commented the mother. "What's the use
of keeping it? I'd wring its neck and be done with it. Betty don't
keer a straw for it.
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