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“With this charitable intention he entered the house, and when he left it, his pocket was empty, and the thrush was carried tenderly in his handkerchief.

“‘The canary died last voyage,’ he muttered apologetically to himself, ‘and the money always does go somehow or other.’

“The sailor’s hands were about three times as large and coarse as those of the boy who had carried the thrush before, but they seemed to him three times more light and tender–they were handy and kind, and this goes farther than taper fingers.

“The thrush’s new home was not in the narrow streets. It was in a small cottage in a small garden at the back of the town. The canary’s old cage was comparatively roomy, and food, water, and fresh turf were regularly supplied to him. He could see green leaves too. There was an apple-tree in the garden, and two geraniums, a fuchsia, and a tea-rose in the window. Near the tea-rose an old woman sat in the sunshine. She was the sailor’s mother, and looked very like a tidily-kept window-plant herself. She had a little money of her own, which gave her a certain dignity, and her son was very good to her; and so she dwelt in considerable comfort, dividing her time chiefly between reading in the big Bible, knitting socks for Jack, and raising cuttings in bottles of water. She had heard of hothouses and forcing-frames, but she did not think much of them. She believed a bottle of water to be the most natural, because it was the oldest method she knew of, and she thought no good came of new-fangled ways, and trying to outdo Nature.

“‘Slow and sure is best,’ she said, and stuck to her own system.

“‘What’s that, my dear?’ she asked, when the sailor came in and held up the handkerchief. He told her.

“‘You’re always a-laying out your money on something or other,’ said the old lady, who took the privilege of her years to be a little testy. ‘What did you give for that?‘

“‘A shilling, ma’am.’

“‘Tst! tst! tst!’ said the old lady, disapprovingly.

“‘Now, Mother, don’t shake that cap of yours off your head,’ said the sailor. ‘What’s a shilling? If I hadn’t spent it, I should have changed it; and once change a shilling, and it all dribbles away in coppers, and you get nothing for it. But spend it in the lump, and you get something you want. That’s what I say.’

“‘I want no more pets,’ said the old lady, stiffly.

“‘Well, you won’t be troubled with this one long,’ said her son; ‘it’ll go with me, and that’s soon enough.’

“Any allusion to his departure always melted the old lady, as Jack well knew. She became tearful, and begged him to leave the thrush with her.

“‘You know, my dear, I’ve always looked to your live things as if they were Christians; and loved them too (unless it was that monkey that I never could do with!). Leave it with me, my dear. I’d never bother myself with a bird on board ship, if I was you.’

“‘That’s because you’ve got a handsome son of your own, old lady,’ chuckled the sailor; ‘I’ve neither chick nor child, ma’am, remember, and a man must have something to look to. The bird’ll go with me.’

“And so it came to pass that just when the thrush was becoming domesticated, and almost happy at the cottage, one morning the sailor brought him fresh turf and groundsel, besides his meal-cake, and took the cage down. And the old woman kissed the wires, and bade the bird good-bye, and blessed her son, and prayed Heaven to bring him safe home again; and they went their way.

“The forecastle of a steam-ship (even of a big one) is a poor exchange for a snug cottage to any one but a sailor. To Jack, the ship was home. He had never lived in a wood, and carolled in tree-tops. He preferred blue to green, and pine masts to pine trees; and he smoked his pipe very comfortably in the forecastle, whilst the ship rolled to and fro, and swung the bird’s cage above his head. To the thrush it was only an imprisonment that grew worse as time went on. Each succeeding day made him pine more bitterly for his native woods–for fresh air and green leaves, and the rest and quiet, and sweet perfumes, and pleasant sounds of country life. His turf dried up, his groundsel withered, and no more could be got. He longed even to be back with the old woman–to see the apple-tree, and the window-plants, and be still. The shudder of the screw, the blasts of hot air from the engine and cook’s galley, the ceaseless jangling, clanging, pumping noises, and all the indescribable smells which haunt a steam-ship, became more wearisome day by day. Even when the cage was hung outside, the, sea breeze seemed to mock him with its freshness. The rich blue of the waters gave him no pleasure, his eyes failed with looking for green, the bitter, salt spray vexed him, and the wind often chilled him to the bone, whilst the sun shone, and icebergs gleamed upon the horizon.