"I don't know what you mean," said Eric.

"Why, you fit into it, too," said the Witch, looking hard at him. "Your
yellow hair and blue eyes match the yellow and blue flowers. Would you
like me to make a pretty cage for you and put you into it?"

"No, no!" Eric was suddenly afraid of the Beautiful Wicked Witch.

But she laughed at his fear, and danced a little dance, humming to
herself, around the room. Then Eric noticed other cages. The walls were
lined with them. Some hung from the ceiling, and some stood in corners.
In every cage was a bird or animal. The one standing nearest to him held
a pretty gray squirrel, running 'round and 'round on a wheel. He stopped
every now and then to peer out through the bars with quick, bright eyes.
In the cage next was a tiny brown field mouse. But he had given up
running and playing long ago, and was huddled in the farthest and
darkest corner of his cage, his little beady eyes open and watchful.

Eric walked around the room, looking at all the poor little animals and
birds. One and all peered through their bars with watchful and fearful
eyes. Eric remembered himself in the canning factory and pitied them
more than he could ever have done had he not once been a caged little
creature too. How he longed to open their doors and the window, and see
them scamper and fly away!

But the Witch had stopped her dancing by the bird cage in the middle of
the room, and her little hands were between the bars stroking the bright
bird-breast. She was saying, "Sing for us, bird. Sing your nicest song
for us. Little Eric wants to hear it."