The Canary
Mansfield
..

 ...You see that big nail to the right of the front door?
I can scarcely look at it even now and yet I could
not bear to take it out. I should like to think it was there always
even after my time. I sometimes hear the next people saying,
"There must have been a cage hanging from there." And it
comforts me; I feel he is not quite forgotten.
 ...You cannot imagine how wonderfully he sang. It was
not like the singing of other canaries. And that isn't just my
fancy. Often, from the window, I used to see people stop at
the gate to listen, or they would lean over the fence by the
mock-orange for quite a long time -- carried away. I suppose
it sounds absurd to you -- it wouldn't if you had heard him --
but it really seemed to me that he sang whole songs with a
beginning and an end to them.
  For instance, when I'd finished the house in the afternoon,
and changed my blouse and brought my sewing on to the
veranda here, he used to hop, hop, hop from one perch to
another, tap against the bars as if to attract attention, sip a
little water just as a professional singer might, and then break
into a song so exquisite that I had to put my needle down to
listen to him. I can't describe it; I wish I could. But it was
always the same, every afternoon, and I felt that I understood
every note of it.
...I loved him. How I loved him! Perhaps it does not
matter so very much what it is one loved in this world. But
love something one must. Of course there was always my
little house and the garden, but for some reason they were never
enough. Flowers respond wonderfully, but they don't sympathise.
Then I loved the evening star. Does that sound foolish?
I used to go into the backyard, after sunset, and wait for it until
it shone above the dark gum tree. I used to whisper, "There
you are, my darling." And just in that first moment it seemed
.. 

to be shining for me alone. It seemed to understand this...
something which is like longing, and yet it is not longing. Or
regret -- it is more like regret. And yet regret for what? I have
much to be thankful for.
...But after he came into my life I forgot the evening star;
I did not need it any more. But it was strange. When the
Chinaman who came to the door with birds to sell held him
up in his tiny cage, and instead of fluttering, fluttering, like the
poor little goldfinches, he gave a faint, small chirp, I found
myself saying, just as I had said to the star over the gum tree,
"There you are, darling." From that moment he was mine.


...It surprises me even now to remember how he and I
shared each other's lives. The moment I came down in the
morning and took the cloth off his cage he greeted me with a
drowsy little note. I knew it meant "Missus! Missus!" Then
I hung him on the nail outside while I got my three young
men their breakfasts, and I never brought him in until we had
the house to ourselves again. Then, when the washing-up was
done, it was quite a little entertainment. I spread a newspaper
over a corner of the table, and when I put the cage on it he used
to beat with his wings despairingly, as if he didn't know what
was coming. "You're a regular little actor," I used to scold
him. I scraped the tray, dusted it with fresh sand, filled his
seed and water tins, tucked a piece of chickweed and half a
chilli between the bars. And I am perfectly certain he understood
and appreciated every item of this little performance. You
see by nature he was exquisitely neat. There was never a speck
on his perch. And you'd only to see him enjoy his bath to
realise he had a real small passion for cleanliness. His bath
was put in last. And the moment it was in he positively leapt
into it. First he fluttered one wing, then the other, then he
ducked his head and dabbled his breast feathers. Drops of
water were scattered all over the kitchen, but still he would not
get out. I used to say to him, "Now that's quite enough.
You're showing off." And at last out he hopped and,
standing on one leg, he began to peck himself dry. Finally he
gave a shake, a flick, a twitter and he lifted his throat -- Oh, I
can hardly bear to recall it. I was always cleaning the knives at
the time. And it almost seemed to me the knives sang too, as
I rubbed them bright on the board.
.. 

...Company, you see -- that was what he was. Perfect
company. If you have lived alone you will realise how precious
that is. Of course there were my three young men who came
in to supper every evening, and sometimes they stayed in the
dining-room afterwards reading the paper. But I could not
expect them to be interested in the little things that made my


day. Why should they be? I was nothing to them. In fact,
I overheard them one evening talking about me on the stairs as
"the Scarecrow." No matter. It doesn't matter. Not in the
least. I quite understand. They are young. Why should I
mind? But I remember feeling so especially thankful that I
was not quite alone that evening. I told him, after they had
gone out. I said, "Do you know what they call Missus?" And
he put his head on one side and looked at me with his little
bright eye until I could not help laughing. It seemed to amuse
him.
...Have you kept birds? If you haven't all this must sound,
perhaps, exaggerated. People have the idea that birds are
heartless, cold little creatures, not like dogs or cats. My washerwoman
used to say on Mondays when she wondered why I
didn't keep  "A nice fox-terrier," "There's no comfort, Miss, in
a canary." Untrue. Dreadfully untrue. I remember one
night. I had had a very awful dream -- dreams can be dreadfully
cruel -- even after I had woken up I could not get over it. So
I put on my dressing-gown and went down to the kitchen for a
glass of water. It was a winter night and raining hard. I suppose
I was still half asleep, but through the kitchen window, that
hadn't a blind, it seemed to me the dark was staring in, spying.
And suddenly I felt it was unbearable that I had no one to whom
I could say "I've had such a dreadful dream," or -- or "Hide me
from the dark." I even covered my face for a minute. And
then there came a little "Sweet! Sweet!" His cage was on the
table, and the cloth had slipped so the a chink of light shone
through.  "Sweet, Sweet!" said the darling little fellow again,
softly, as much as to say, "I'm here, Missus! I'm here!" That
was so beautifully comforting that I nearly cried.
...And now he's gone. I shall never have another bird,
another pet of any kind. How could I? When I found him,
lying on his back, with his eye dim and his claws wrung, when
I realised that never again should I hear my darling sing, something
.. 

seemed to die in me. My heart felt hollow, as if it was


his cage. I shall get over it. Of course. I must. One can get
over anything in time. And people say I have a cheerful
disposition. They are quite right. I thank my God I have.
...All the same, without being morbid, and giving way to
 -- to memories and so on, I must confess that there does seem
to me something sad in life. It is hard to say what it is. I don't
mean the sorrow that we all know, like illness and poverty and
death. No, it is something different. It is there, deep down,
deep down, part of one, like one's breathing. However hard
I work and tire myself I have only to stop to know it is there,
waiting. I often wonder if everybody feels the same. One can
never know. But isn't it extraordinary that under his sweet,
joyful little singing it was just this -- sadness? -- Ah, what is it?
-- that I heard.