Outside the window, you heard the song of a canary,--a dingy, smoke-coloured canary that seemed shedding its plumes, for they were as ragged as the garments of its master; still, it contrived to sing, trill-trill-trill-trill-trill, as blithely as if free in its native woods, or pampered by fair hands in a gilded cage.

The bird was the only true artist there, it sang as the poet sings,--to obey its nature and vent its heart.

Trill-trill-trillela-la-la-trill-trill, went the song,--louder, gayer than usual; for there was a gleam of April sunshine struggling over the rooftops.

The song at length roused up Gabriel; he turned his chair round, laid his head on one side, listened, and looked curiously at the bird.
At length an idea seemed to cross him; he rose, opened the window, drew in the cage, placed it on the chair, then took up one of his uncle's pipes, walked to the fireplace, and thrust the shank of the pipe into the bars.

When it was red-hot he took it out by the bowl, having first protected his hand from the heat by wrapping round it his handkerchief; this done, he returned to the cage.