"Yes," said Mr. Skimpole, turning his bright face about, "this is the bird's cage. This is where the bird lives and sings. They pluck his feathers now and then and clip his wings, but he sings, he sings!"
He handed us the grapes, repeating in his radiant way, "He sings! Not an ambitious note, but still he sings."
"These are very fine," said my guardian. "A present?"

"Yes," said Mr. Skimpole, turning his bright face about, "this is the bird's cage. This is where the bird lives and sings. They pluck his feathers now and then and clip his wings, but he sings, he sings!"
He handed us the grapes, repeating in his radiant way, "He sings!"
"These are very fine," said my guardian. "A present?"
