English literature -- England -- Lancashire; Legends -- England -- Lancashire
"Beshrew me!" said Holt, approaching nearer to the performer, "but
thou hast been bred to the black art, I think. Some o' ye have catered
excellently for our pastime." But who it was none could ascertain,
each giving his neighbour credit secretly for the construction of
these dainty devices. Yet new wonders were about to follow, when the
bride and bridegroom, though wedded to each other's company, came
forward to see the spectacle. Not a guest was missing. Even those most
pleasantly occupied at the tables left their sack and canary, their
spices and confections. The musicians, too, and the menials, seemed to
have forgotten their several duties, and stood gaping and marvelling
at the show. Suddenly there flew open a little door in the breast of
the automaton bird, and out jumped a fair white pigeon, which, after
having performed many surprising feats, in its turn became the parent
of another progeny--to wit, a beautiful singing bird, or nightingale,
which warbled so sweetly, fluttering its wings with all the ecstacy of
that divine creature, that the listeners were nearly beside themselves
with ravishment and admiration. The nightingale now opened, and a
little humming-bird of most surprising brilliancy hopped forth, and
jumping up to the Queen, held out its beak, having a label therein,
apparently beseeching her to accept the offering. She stooped down to
receive the billet, which she hastily unfolded. What effect was
visible on her countenance we cannot pretend to say, inasmuch as the
mask precluded observation; but there was an evident tremor in her
frame. She seemed to be overpowered with surprise, and held out the
note as though for the moment incapable of deciding whether to accept
it or no. Then with a sudden effort she crumpled it together, and
thrust it behind her stomacher. Wonder sat silent and watchful on the
face of every beholder. The actors in this strange drama had replaced
the automata in the box again, closing its lid. The Moor had made his
_salaam_, the Doctor his obeisance, disappearing behind the screen
from which they had so mysteriously come forth. But at their departure
a train of fire followed upon their track, and a lambent flame played
curiously upon the wooden crockets for a few seconds, and then
disappeared.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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