When I discovered that Joe could be bought off with gingerbread it can be imagined that I was always glad on the days when the pungent odors of cinnamon, ginger, and molasses issued from the cook-stove.

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.