The bird began to beat its wings and breast against the bars. Again and
again its bright breast struck the door. But it did not fly open.

"It does not want to sing," laughed the Beautiful Wicked Witch; "but it
must. Sing, bird, sing! It does you no good to struggle. You can't get
away. Sing, sing!"

Then the bird sang. Its song was truly wonderful, high and clear, as
Eric had heard it from outside. But now that he could see the bird caged
he did not like the song so well. It was all too sad.

Eric wanted to go away then, out of the tree, and never, never see the
Witch again. He would find Ivra and the Forest Children and forget all
about these cages. So he said good-by to the Witch and ran down the
spiral staircase. But he could not find the door out. He went round and
round the wall, but there was no sign of a door. It was indeed as though
a flower had let him in and then closed its petals tight.

The little posies swung in their cases, the bird sang up stairs, and the
Beautiful Wicked Witch played and danced, and laughed at all his
searching. She would do nothing to help him find the door.

All that day he wandered up stairs and down stairs, or stood at the
window looking down through the green fir branches to the free
forest-floor. Once the Witch offered to tell him stories. But he wanted
no stories of caged things, and those were all the stories she knew. The
Witch did not mind his short answers and dark face. She seemed perfectly
able to have a good time with herself, and needed no comrades.

At last night fell. The rooms blossomed with candlelight. In the yellow