"What?" inquired the other sparrow, who was busy collecting food for a very greedy family. "Why, listen," said the first sparrow. "Bless my soul," said the second. "I never heard that before." "That's a strange bird," said the first sparrow; "I've seen it. It's all yellow." "All yellow?" said the other. "What awful cheek!" "Yes, isn't it?" replied the first sparrow. "Can you understand what it says?" "Not a note," said the second. "Another of those foreigners, I suppose. 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. "Well," he said, "that's a rum go. That's new, that is. Novel, I call it. What is it?" "It's a yellow foreigner," said the sparrows. "What's to be done with it?" the tit asked. "There's only one thing for self-respecting British birds to do," said the first sparrow. "Stop it. Teach it a lesson." "Absolutely," said the tit. "I'll go and find some others." "Yes, so will we," said the sparrows; and off they all flew, full of righteous purpose. Meanwhile the canary sang on and on, and the poet at the foot of the tree listened with delight. Suddenly, however, he was conscious of a new sound--a noisy chirping and harsh squeaking which seemed to fill the air, and a great cloud of small angry birds assailed the tree. For a while the uproar was immense, and the song ceased; and then, out of the heart of the tumult, pursued almost to the ground where the poet stood, fell the body of a little yellow bird, pecked to death by a thousand avenging furies. Seeing the poet they made off in a pack, still shrilling and squawking, but conscious of the highest rectitude. The poet picked up the poor mutilated body. It was still warm and it twitched a little, but never could its life and music return. While he stood thoughtfully there an old woman, holding an open cage and followed by half-a-dozen children, hobbled along the path. "My canary got away," she said. "Have you seen it? It flew in this direction." "I'm afraid I have seen it," said the poet, and he opened his hand. "My little pet!" said the old woman. "It sang so beautifully, and it used to feed from my fingers. My little pet." The poet returned to his work. "'In tooth and claw,'" he muttered to himself, "'In tooth and claw.'" * * * * * [Illustration: HOW TO UTILISE THE ART OF "SUGGESTION." The Doctor, six down at the turn, "suggests" to his opponent that they are playing croquet, and wins by two and one.] * * * * * OUR BOOKING-OFFICE. (_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerics._)