E. V. Lucas

“ Suddenly the poet's housekeeper hurried in. "Oh, Sir," she exclaimed, "isn't it a pity? Someone's canary has got free, and it's singing out here something beautiful."
"Of course," said the poet—"a canary:" and he hastened out to see it. But before he could get there the bird had flown to clump of elms a little way off, from which proceeded sweeter and more tumultuously exultant song than they had every known.
The poet walked to the elms with his field-glasses, and after a while he discerned among the million leaves the little yellow bird, with its throat trembling with rapture. ”

“ We shan't have a tree to call our own soon."
"That's so," said the first, "There’s no end to them. Nightingales are bad enough, grumbling all night, and swallows, although there's not so many of them this year as usual; but when it comes to yellow birds—well."
"Hullo," said a passing tit, "what’s the trouble now?"
"Listen," said the sparrows.
The tit was all attention for a minute while the gay triumphant song went on. ”