THE ALLIES.
The other day I was in a country house whose owners are so lost to shame as
still to keep pets. There is a dog there which is actually allowed to eat,
in defiance of all those _Times'_ correspondents whose sole idea of this
stimulating and unfailingly devoted animal is that it is personified greed
on four legs. There are two or three horses of unusual intelligence, which
no doubt our friend the Hun would long since have devoured, but which, even
though hunting is over, are by some odd freak of sentiment or even of
loyalty still kept alive. There are rabbits. And there is a bird in a cage
against the wall of a small yard. This bird is a chaffinch, which a friend
had brought over from France.
After I had fraternised shamefully with all these deplorable drones, my
hostess drew my attention to the French chaffinch, a line big fellow, very
tame and cheerful. "We will feed him," she said, "and then you will see
something that happens every day. Something very interesting."
So saying she poured into a receptacle for the purpose enough seed, no
doubt, to make, mixed with other things, several admirable thimble-loaves
of bread substitute, and told me to watch.
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