"Poor Quiver felt very strange and queer and sad. It took him several days to get better, and he didn't like the food they gave him, though of course they meant to be kind. At last, one day he was able to hop about and even to flap his wings a little. "'Now I shall soon be able to fly home again,' he thought joyfully. 'If once I can get to the sea I'll be sure to meet some gulls who can show me the way.' "And when the boy came to look at him, he was pleased to hear himself said to be quite well again. "'We can let him out into the garden now, can't we?' he said to the gardener, 'and we'll see if he's such a good slug catcher as you say.' "'No fear but he's that, sir,' said the gardener. 'But first we must clip his wings, else he'd be flying away.' "And he took Quiver up in his arms, and stretching out his wings, though not so as to hurt them, snipped at them with a big sharp pair of scissors. Quiver didn't feel it, any more than we feel having our nails cut, but he was dreadfully frightened. And he was still all shaking and confused when the gardener set him down on the garden path--though he got better in a minute and looked about him. It was a pretty garden, and he was pleased to be out in the air again, though he felt something strange in it, for he had never before been away from the sea. And he ran a few steps just to try his legs, and then turned round meaning to say good-bye to the boy and thank him in his sea-gull way for his hospitality before starting off. Having done this he stretched his wings to fly--but--oh dear, what was the matter? He could not raise himself more than a few inches from the ground--wings!--he had none left, and with a pitiful cry he rolled over on the ground in misery and despair. "'Poor bird!' said the boy; 'you shouldn't have clipped his wings, Barnes. It would have been better to let him fly away.' "'He'd never have got to his home; he's too young a bird to fly so far. And he'll be uncommon good for the slugs, you'll see, sir.' "So all the summer poor Quiver spent in the garden. He got more used to it after a while, but still he had always a pain at his heart. He used to rush along the paths as if he was in a desperate hurry and eager to get to the end, and then he would just rush back again. It was the only way he could keep down his impatience and his longing for the sea. He used to pretend to himself that when he got to the end of the path he would feel the salt air and see the waves dancing; but the children of the house, who of course didn't understand his thoughts, used to laugh at him and call him 'that absurd creature.' But his heart was too sore for him to mind, and even catching slugs was very little consolation to him. "And so Quiver lived all through the summer and the autumn till the winter came round again, and all this time whenever his wings began to grow longer, Barnes snipped them short again. I don't think there ever was a bird so severely punished for discontent and impatience.