A little canary bird, the only pet poor Lingave
could afford to keep, chirp'd merrily in its cage on the wall. How
slight a circumstance will sometimes change the whole current of our
thoughts! The music of that bird abstracting the mind of the poet but
a moment from his sorrows, gave a chance for his natural buoyancy to
act again.
Lingave sprang lightly from his bed, and perform'd his ablutions and
his simple toilet--then hanging the cage on a nail outside the window,
and speaking an endearment to the songster, which brought a perfect
flood of melody in return--he slowly passed through his door,
descended the long narrow turnings of the stairs, and stood in the
open street. Undetermin'd as to any particular destination, he folded
his hands behind him, cast his glance upon the ground, and moved
listlessly onward.
Hour after hour the poet walk'd along--up this street and down
that--he reck'd not how or where. And as crowded thoroughfares are
hardly the most fit places for a man to let his fancy soar in the
clouds--many a push and shove and curse did the dreamer get bestow'd
upon him.
The booming of the city clock sounded forth the hour twelve--high
noon.
"Ho! Lingave!" cried a voice from an open basement window as the poet
pass'd.
He stopp'd, and then unwittingly would have walked on still, not fully
awaken'd from his reverie.
"Lingave, I say!" cried the voice again, and the person to whom the
voice belong'd stretch'd his head quite out into the area in front,
"Stop man.
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