He never got over them; so he never came back. For a few days he hid himself in different trees of the garden, and sang the praises of sorrow; but his family, though they comprehended him not, recognised his note, and came searching him with beak and claw, and drove him out so as not to have him near them committing such scandalous noises to the ears of the public. “He lies in his throat!” said the old Jackdaw. “Everything he says he garbles. If he is our son he must have been hatched on the wrong side of the nest!” After that, wherever he went, all the birds jeered at and persecuted him. Even the nightingales would not listen to his brotherly voice. They made fun of his black coat, and called him a Nonconformist without a conscience. “All this has come about,” thought he, “because God never meant anything beautiful to come true.” One day a man who saw him and heard him singing, caught him, and took him round the world in a cage for show. The value of him was discovered. Great crowds came to see the little Jackdaw, and to hear him sing. He was described now as the “Amphabulous Philomel, or the Mongrel-Minstrel”; but it gave him no joy. Before long he had become what we call tame--that is to say, his wings had been clipped; he was allowed out of his cage, because he could no longer fly away, and he sang when he was told, because he was whipped if he did not. One day there was a great crowd round the travelling booth where he was on view: the showman had a new wonder which he was about to show to the people. He took the little Jackdaw out of his cage, and set him to perch upon his shoulder, while he busied himself over something which he was taking carefully out of ever so many boxes and coverings. The Jackdaw’s sad eye became attracted by a splendid scarf-pin that the showman wore--a gold pin set with a tiny emerald that burned like fire. The bird thought, “Now if only the beautiful could become true!” And now the showman began holding up a small glass bottle for the crowd to stare into. The people were pushing this way and that to see what might be there. At the bottom sat the little fairy, without her wand, weeping and beating her hands on the glass. The showman was so proud he grew red in the face, and ran shouting up and down the plank, shaking and turning the bottle upside down now and then, so as to make the cabined fairy use her wings, and buzz like a fly against the glass. The Jackdaw waggled unsteadily at his perch on the man’s shoulder. “Look at him!” laughed some one in the crowd, “he’s going to steal his master’s scarf-pin.” “Ho, ho, ho!” shouted the showman. “See this bird now! See the marvellous mongrel nature of the beast! Who tells me he’s only a nightingale painted black?”