The Canary by Katherine Mansfield

Books of Bedtime by Calming Anxiety The Canary by Katherine 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 always there 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, years 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, and they would lean over the fence by the mock orange for quite a long time, just carried away.

I suppose it sounds absurd to you. It wouldn't if you had heard him, but it rarely seemed to me that he sang whole songs with a beginning and an end to them. For instance, when I finished the house in the afternoon, and changed my blouse and brought my sewing up onto the veranda here, he used to "pop, pop, pop" from one perch to another, tap against the bars as if to attract my attention, sip a little water just as a professional singer-mide, 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 that one loves in this world, but loves something one must. Of course, there was always my little house in the garden, but for some reason they were never enough. Flowers respond wonderfully, but they don't sympathize. Then I loved the evening star.

Does that sound foolish? I used to go into the backyard of the sunset and wait for it until it shone above the dark gantry. 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 is not longing. Or regret, it is more like regret, and yet regret for what? I have so much to be thankful for. But after he came into my life, I forgot the evening star.

I did not need it anymore. But it was strange. When the China man who came to the door with birds to sell held an up in his tiny cage, and instead of fluttering, fluttering, like the poor little gold finches, he gave a faint small chirp. I found myself saying, "Just as I had said to the star over the gantry, "There you are, my darling."

From that moment, he was mine. It surprises me now, even to remember how he and I shared each other's lives. The moment I came down in the morning and took the cloth of his cage, he greeted me with a drowsy little note. I knew it meant "misses, misses."

Then I hung him on the nail, outside, while I got my three young men there breakfast, and I never brought him in until we have 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, tapped a piece of chickweed and half a chili between the bars. 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 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 heads and dabbed his breast feathers. Drops of water was 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 only showing off." And at last 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 that time, and it almost seemed to me that the knives sang too, as I rubbed them bright on the board. "That's 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 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 a 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 misses?"

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 well perhaps exaggerated.

I'll have the idea that birds are heartless, cold little creatures, not like dogs or cats. My wash woman 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 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 dreadful dreams or hide me from the dark. I even covered my face for a minute. And then there came a little sweet, sweet.

He came on the table and the cloth had slipped so that a chink of light shone through. Sweet, sweet said the darling little fellow again, softly. As much to say, I'm here Mrs. 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 rung?

When I realized 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 never get over it. Of course, I must.

One can get over anything with time. And people always 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 be 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's something different. It is there deep down, deep down, part of one, like one's breathing. However hard I work and time myself, I've 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?