I
There once was a wealthy old Housewife who wanted to breed canaries.
“I should like my old hen to have lots of babies this spring,” she said to herself one day; and fearing lest her cock should prove ill-equipped for the task, she went out and purchased another younger male. But the three little canaries did not get along well at all and were forever at each other’s throats.
“Dear me!” said the Housewife whenever she passed by the cage. “I wonder what is the matter with my canaries? If only they would lay eggs like I asked them to, but all they ever do is fight. And what is worse, I fear that the female is practicing contraception just to spite the males, like those awful suffragettes one hears about. Oh, doesn’t she know that it is a dangerous thing, contraception, and must not be practiced without consulting one’s doctor?”
But the canaries paid her no heed.
The Female Canary, for her part, could not hold back her feelings. “How awful is woman!” she exclaimed from the topmost perch of the cage. “Why, she fancies that she alone should require makeup and mirrors and veils, and never imagines that we lady canaries might require such things also. Well, I simply won’t stand for it, and demand to be given a mirror and makeup, a pair of blue booties, and a photograph of a handsome young actor this instant! We lady canaries are not so old-fashioned, you know.”
And looking down at the males, she declared: “Henceforth shall husbands be chosen by general election, to promote the restructuring of the family unit! Is that understood? We lady canaries are more enfranchised than our human counterparts!”
“What!” cried the older Male Canary, raising his head angrily. “Say that again? By general election? How very ridiculous! Why, if that were to be allowed, you senseless females would only ever choose to marry young fools!”
And there was nothing that bothered the older Male Canary more than to see a mature hen fawning over a young cock.
“Just think,” he railed on, “were you females to only lay eggs with young males, it would be the downfall of the canary race. A fledging can hardly be expected to raise a respectable bird. Indeed, that is a job for a wise and experienced male. And besides, do you honestly think that we, who are obliged to bear such an immense responsibility in the prime of our lives, would stand idly by while some young chick robbed us of our rightful mates? Balderdash! We are not at all like the cowardly old men of mankind!”
“How rude!” shouted the younger Male Canary, who considered himself a free-thinker and heard in his fat and balding adversary’s vociferations an attack upon his treasured idealism. “Have you no manners, or must I beat them into you? Surely the canary race will never be uplifted so long as there are arrogant males like you forcing yourselves on females and spawning idiots wherever you go. Well, I will have you know that unlike the youth of men, we younger male canaries believe in Freedom! Freedom!”
“Freedom, indeed!” responded the older male. “I know well what your ‘Freedom’ is worth. It is pure seduction! Indeed, you ask that our cage-door be left open when all you really want is to tempt this female to fly away with you!”
“Nothing of the kind!” said the Female Canary timidly. “To be sure, I see nothing wrong with having our cage-door left open, but one can never be too careful, for that capitalist Cat might get in. Oh, he has such long arms and sharp teeth, and is always laying claim to whatever he sees. Really, he is a perfect beast!”
“Silence!” shouted the older male. “I know what your game is! Don’t think that I don’t.”
“Ugh!” said the youth. “You are behaving like a jealous chick! Really, if you are so attached to the idea of sowing seeds, then by all means, go forth and multiply. Give birth to a generation of fools and slobs for all I care. Surely they will be a credit to the race. At any rate, we youths have far more important things to do than to argue with senile old birds.”
“I will murder you!” roared the older male, and he lunged at the younger’s throat.
“Stop it, you two!” cried the Female Canary, inserting herself between the two males. “Can’t you see the need for a general election?”
All of a sudden, the Housewife passed by and saw that the males were fighting again. “Shameless birds!” she exclaimed. “If only you had made babies like I asked you to, you would have lived like kings. But no, all you ever do is fight, and I’m sick of it!” And she gave the cage a good kick.
The cage-door swung open, and a warm spring breeze rushed in.
“Oh, dear!” cried the Female Canary. “Whatever shall we do? Now that capitalist Cat will eat us for sure! Oh, oh!” And she flew to the back of the cage.
In the meantime, the younger Male Canary flew outside and alighted on the veranda.
“I think I should like to see the world,” he said softly.
“Then get on with it!” yelled the older male.
“Good-bye!” said the youth, giving one last look to the female.
“Wait for me!” she cried. “Let me come with you!” and she rushed after him.
But the older male blocked her path. “Struggle and I’ll wring your neck!” he threatened.
“Oh, let me go!” begged the female, beating her wings in despair. “I want to live! You can’t keep me here! I am not a woman. I refuse to be silenced!”
“Well, I am not a man,” said her mate. “I refuse to be mocked!”
After he had put the battlefield of his cage behind him, the young Canary flew into the garden, where, on the branch of a pink cherry tree, a Sparrow sat lecturing a school of fledglings. The Sparrow was a wise professor who had often stopped by the canary cage to extoll the virtues of socialism to the captive birds inside.
The Canary was thrilled to see such a distinguished bird. “Professor!” he chirruped as he alighted on the branch next to him. “It certainly has been a while! As you can see, I am free at last and ready to learn how best to further the socialist cause.”
“Socialist!” exclaimed the Sparrow, looking sharply at the youth. “No, I am afraid you have me mistaken for someone else.”
But the Canary was an honest bird; and as such, he failed to understand the danger of speaking one’s politics in public.
“But Professor,” he said, “you used to come to our cage to talk socialism, did you not?”
“I did no such thing!” cried the Sparrow. “What on earth makes you think that?”
“I distinctly recall you saying that one day all the world would march together towards a bright socialist future, and that this was an indisputable fact.”
“Ridiculous!” said the Sparrow, and he looked round him nervously. “You fool!” he went on in a low voice. “Don’t you know that it is dangerous to speak in terms of facts? Why, there is a difference between what one says in one’s cage and what one says in the world. After all, in the world, there is nothing more variable than a fact. Indeed, facts change all the time. Which way will the wind blow? What will the weather be? Where stands the sun and the moon? One must observe facts in all their variations. Indeed, an understanding of their mutability is paramount to one’s success in the world. And those lacking such a faculty must simply step aside. Now, if we were more like man, who is infinitely superior to us, we might build jails and asylums, to which we could ship off our undesirables as fast as possible. But I digress . . . You say that you want to be a socialist? Pooh! That is nothing to be proud of. Better a parrot than a socialist crow—that’s what I say. At least you would entertain the masses. Meanwhile, those socialist crows are shunned as harbingers of doom wherever they go, and no one dares to so much as look at them. Oh, how I wish I could talk with you a little while longer, but I am expected to deliver a speech on communism in which I have been asked to sing the praises of some autocratic state. Ah, but such is the life of a poor professor!”
III
Some time later, in a small grove at the edge of town, a meeting was underway. It had been organized by a gang of socialist crows. Sentinels were posted to the trees in every direction, while seated on the topmost bough of a great pine tree, the Chair-Crow was delivering a fiery speech on the state of socialism.
“They call us radicals,” he declared. “We are feared everywhere and welcomed nowhere. There is no end to the indignities that we face from every creature. But tell me, are we deserving of such treatment? And is the paradise for which we strive so terrible?”
There was a pause for effect, during which he surveyed the crows that filled the upper and lower galleries of the neighboring trees.
“Incoming officer!” shouted one of the Sentries.
“What!” cried the Chair-Crow. “Has nobody paid our respects to the police?” And he glared at his Secretary with the crazed eyes of a despot.
“But sir, the meeting has just begun. It’s too early to pay our respects.”
“Nonsense!” thundered the indignant Chair-Crow. “Don’t you know that we must pay our respects to the police both before and after each meeting? Oh, if only our police were more like that of man! Surely they don’t take bribes! In any event, go and see who it is that is coming. And if he looks strong, you are to be courteous and allow him passage. But if he looks weak, you are to bring him to me at once.”
A few minutes later the Sentry returned with the young Canary.
“Now,” said the Chair-Crow in a lordly voice, “what is your reason for coming here?”
“I am but a simple youth looking for answers to the problems confronting our society,” said the Canary in all seriousness. “And hearing that you crows are the most ardent of socialists, I thought that I might carry out my research as a member of your party.”
“That is all well and good,” said the Chair-Crow, “but what do you intend to do about that colorful coat of yours?”
“My coat?” said the Canary, looking over his plumage. “Will I be obliged to don a black robe for the duration of my studies?”
“Naturally,” answered the Chair-Crow. “And though you may have heard that human socialists are fond of dressing up in silk shirts, frock coats, and shiny black shoes; that they drink warm sake, cold beer, and fine wines—or whatever it is their friend is drinking, so long as they don’t have to pay for it themselves; and that they frequent restaurants, theaters, and brothels so as to better understand the plight of the proletariat, we are of a different mind, finding it proper to wear the same clothes, eat the same food, and have the same standard of living as each other. Pray, what are your thoughts on eating rotten meat?”
“I cannot say that I would like to,” said the Canary apologetically.
“What about regular meat?”
“The same.”
“What do you eat, then?”
“Chestnuts and barnyard grass.”
“What luxury!” snorted the Chair-Crow in a disgusted manner. “Then you are no doubt the pet of some capitalist pig. What are your thoughts on theft and deceit? To be sure, this is more in line with the skills of human socialists, but do you think that you could manage it?”
“I am afraid not.”
“So you are not even cut out to be a human socialist! Some nerve you have wanting to join our party. What can you offer us?”
“I can sing!”
“A poet!” exclaimed the Chair-Crow. “So you are an aspiring nightingale? Well then, would you care to sing us one of your songs?”
The little Canary was so naïve that he completely failed to hear the condescension in the Chair-Crow’s words; and shaking out his golden feathers, which glittered in the light of the sun, he began to sing, and his voice was like a silver bell.
I see flowers bloom
And my soul yearns for freedom
I smell their perfume
And my heart leaps with joy
I listen to the brook
Thread its way through the grove
While I wait for the advent
Of our happy freedom
Like small waves washing
The shores of our hardship—
Knowing in my heart
That one day it will come
Then, when he had finished his song, the crows all burst out laughing.
“Hah!” snickered the Chair-Crow. “Do you honestly think that by singing such a ridiculous song you are qualified to join our hallowed ranks? And do you expect us to go out of our way to find you chestnuts and barnyard grass? No, we are not so kind. We are not artists or priests. We are not at all like those stupid human beings who keep useless creatures for pets.”
The Canary felt the eyes of all the crows upon his plumage.
“So if you really are intent on joining us,” continued the Chair-Crow, “you can start by removing that radiant coat of yours.” And turning to his fellow crows, he issued a terrifying order: “Come, let us help the poet with his coat!”
At this, a swam of crows fell upon the Canary, laughing and jeering as they pulled out his feathers, one by one. Unable to fight back, let alone cry, the young Canary simply allowed the crows to have their way with him.
Before long, a Sentry signaled the arrival of a hunter, and, in an instant, the crows all flew away. For a time the grove resounded with the flurry of beating wings, but this gradually subsided, replaced by the sound of rustling leaves.
“Oh, dear!” exclaimed a timid gray Squirrel as she cautiously put her head out of her hole. “Those socialists can be so cruel.”
“Why does one need to wear black to be a socialist anyways?” said a little Field-Mouse from her nest. “I do not find their robes to be particularly attractive! They are certainly not as pretty as what the Canary was wearing.”
“Indeed,” said the Squirrel. “And if it really was necessary for him to wear black, could they not have doused him with ink? Why, they tore off all of his feathers, the poor thing! How it must have pained him.”
Droplets of blood trickled from the body of the Canary. With his forehead pressed against the foot of a tree, he stared into a pool of his own blood and began to weep. Then, in a voice filled with pain and sadness, he sang—
I have purchased my freedom
With these blood-red rubies . . .
But before he could sing any more, a fat black Cat crawled out from under a bush. “Who is that I hear singing?” he said, licking his lips. “Why, if it isn’t the Canary who escaped from my master’s home. All right, back to your cage! Don’t make me hurt you!”
The Canary did not have the strength to stand. His body was battered and bruised, and his heart was broken beyond repair.
“I am an artist who longs for freedom,” whispered the Canary weakly. “I cannot go back to singing in a cage.”
“Silence!” hissed the Cat. “Haven’t you learned your lesson? Why, if it weren’t for us capitalists, you artists would never survive.” And he extended his claws to their full extent.
“I would rather starve than die by your claws!” cried the Canary, and he tried to fly away.
“Foolish bird!” growled the Cat, pinning the Canary down with his claws. “A little taste of freedom has given you dangerous thoughts. Ah, this is why I always say that canaries and nightingales should be locked up in cages. Now allow me teach you a lesson!” And he stripped the Canary from head to tail.
When he had finished, the Cat licked his paws and washed his face. “One must be tough with these artistic types,” he muttered under his breath, “or else they will never learn.” And he went his own way home.
The Squirrel reappeared at her hole, shivering with fear.
“How frightening!” she said, “I can still feel my heart racing. This is the first time I have seen a bird murdered in cold blood.”
“Me too,” said the Field-Mouse from her nest. “Pray, is that what they call a capitalist?”
“Yes, that was the capitalist Cat. He is said to keep a Housewife as his pet, and he always uses brute force to get what he wants.”
“He is too cruel.”
“Too cruel.”
“But you know,” added the Field-Mouse. “As cruel as that capitalist Cat is, he only ever strips the skin from his prey once, whereas human capitalists are not even satisfied after they have stripped the skin of a laborer ten times or more. Human beings are backwards creatures; but the cruelty of their capitalists is really something else.”
“Socialist, capitalist,” sighed the Squirrel, “what is the difference—they are all enemies of us honest creatures, are they not?”
“For sure,” nodded the Field-Mouse. “But especially the capitalists . . .”
IV
The next day the old Housewife was sitting in her bedroom watching her young Maid as she dusted the furniture.
“Madam,” said the Maid, “I hear that the young canary that escaped from its cage yesterday met a terrible end. First it was scolded by a sparrow, then it got bullied by some crows, and finally it was eaten by the cat.”
“Oh, that is too sad,” said the Housewife. “But you know, after it left, the other canaries calmed right down. No doubt it is with birds as it is with people. Say all that you want about free love and restructuring the family unit, there is nothing better than monogamy.”
“Especially when the woman is younger,” said the Maid.
“Youth has nothing to do with it,” remarked the Housewife. “For grace and wisdom are what really matter.” And catching a glimpse of the Maid’s slender neck, she added: “But you should have a young man yourself. You are a young woman after all.”
“I wouldn’t mind an older man,” sighed the Maid. “Someone like your husband perhaps. Older men can be so kind, wouldn’t you say?”
“Get out!” screamed the Housewife at the very top of her voice. “And tell my husband to come and see me this instant. Ugh! Men—why, they are all the same! Incapable of distinguishing between a lady and a common housemaid. Ah, but that is the democratic spirit for you!” And she slammed the bedroom door shut.