THE SERMON OF "DICK" THE CANARY BIRD.
By J. Hyatt Smith
A LITTLE STORY WITH A BIG MORAL.
WHEN I was settled in Cleveland, I had a pet canary whose name was "Dick." He and I were on the most intimate terms. We roomed together; his cage was inside my cage, for he knew no home but my study. I always gave brother "Dick" the largest liberty, even granting him an "open door," when once in the room with my cage door closed. How often he used to sit on my slipper and eat his seed supper, and sing "grace" in his own bird way. In the midst of the preparation of my sermon, I would hear a sort of an interrogatory chirp, and "Dick" would be right at my elbow on the desk, those little bead eyes on me, and the chirp evidently saying "Hyatt, how are you getting along?" He was a bird of Baptist habits with that little bath-tub of his, and sure I am that he and I enjoyed much "close communion." However, as a faithful chronicler of my departed friend—for dear "Dick" has long since died—I must say that he had one prominent, and to me, cruel failing. Although we were on terms of all possible intimacy, and never exchanged an unkind chirp or word, there was one positive disagreement which no manifestation of love on my part could remove. So often as I would put my hand into his cage to fill his seed cup, simple "Dick" would hop down from his perch and pick my fingers. All my acts of love could not convince him that the taking out of that seed cup was right. The cup filled and restored to its place, then all was right again, and "Dick" would feed his fill, and repay his master with a song of praise. Preacher "Dick!" Dear, feathered brother! How often I think of your seed-cup sermon! It is daily repeated by my featherless brethren. When the heavenly Master sends "the snow and the rain upon the earth to give seed to the sower and bread to the eater," what murmurings and complaints do I hear. "Isn't this abominable weather!" "What is the use of all this snow and rain?" And in the autumn, when the harvests come in, and barns are filled to bursting, how loudly my featherless brethren sing the harvest hymn! It is a rare exercise of faith to sing the song when the hand of infinite love appears in life's strange cage to fill our seed cup. Foolish Dicks that men are to pick the fingers that come only to "give us this day our daily bread." Oh, for a faith that can trust the hand, anticipate the gift, and sing when the seed cup seems to go away!—J. Hyatt Smith.