"A jack squealer, begorra," he exclaimed triumphantly, as I reached the same level that he was on. Then Thady went on to say that he had picked him up last night. "He's tired with coming," he explained, "poor bit of a bird, but if yer can keep him safe for a day or two, he'll live to fly with the best over crypt and arch." So Thady and I bore away our prize, and mounted to the old chamber, which is known as the leper's room, and there we deposited our little feathered friend. "He'll do here," said Thady, "no cat can get him here. Give him a dish of water, and he'll catch flies for himself." The little bird was of a dusty black, with faint green reflections, and with a light drab tint beneath his beak, but with no white whatever under the tail. His short face expressed no fear at human contact. His legs I noted were very short. I put him down on the powdery dust of the chamber. He did not attempt to fly away, but when I placed him against my dress, he ran up my shoulder, to quote Thady's words, "as active as a rabbit in a field of clover." "He's a late un," said Thady, contemplating his little prize. "'Last to come, first to go,' I've heard 'em say about swallows, but I don't know if 'tis true or not; but he's pretty in a way, and doesn't know what fear is." Then Thady went on to say nobody hurts a squealer, not even Wenlock boys, even _they_ let him be. He's the Almighty's prime favourite, after a wren or a cock robin, Thady gave as an explanation. Then he told me how he found him at the bottom of the Bull Ring last night. "Tired he was," continued Thady, "like a tired horse that had taken three parties to a wedding. So I took him up safe from the cats; and old Timothy, him as they call Maister Theobalds, he said, leaning on his stick and his smock floating behind him like a petticoat, 'Let the lady of the Abbey have 'im. Varmint and such toys be all in her line. She or the lady Bess wull be sure to like 'im.' So I brought 'im here." "He is most fascinating," I answered, watching my new pet; "but how can I catch him flies?" "Let him be," answered Thady; "feeding birds is mostly killing 'em. With water he'll freshen up, and go and get his own meat." I stood a few minutes watching the little bird. He ran about on the floor, and apparently found what was necessary for his subsistence; but his wings were so weak that he could not rise. Thady disappeared for a moment, and then reappeared with an armful of branches. "These will be a pleasure to him and harbour insects, and such birds like shade. Now he'll do." We arranged the boughs, and Thady fetched a saucer of water, which he put down. The bird, after a moment's hesitation, plunged in, expanded his wings with a cry of pleasure, and then lay contentedly on the ground.