"But I think I can make it sing much better than ever,--only just let me
try! They say that if you put out the eyes of a canary, it--"

Gabriel was not allowed to conclude his sentence; for here rose that
clamour of horror and indignation from both painter and model which
usually greets the announcement of every philosophical discovery,--at
least, when about to be practically applied; and in the midst of the
hubbub, the poor little canary, who had been fluttering about the cage to
escape the hand of the benevolent operator, set up no longer the cheerful
trill-trillela-la-trill, but a scared and heart-breaking chirp,--a
shrill, terrified twit-twit-twitter-twit.

"Damn the bird! Hold your tongues!" cried Gabriel Varney, reluctantly
giving way, but still eying the bird with the scientific regret with
which the illustrious Majendie might contemplate a dog which some brute
of a master refused to disembowel for the good of the colics of mankind.

The model seized on the cage, shut the door of the wires, and carried it
off. Tom Varney drained the rest of his porter, and wiped his forehead
with the sleeve of his coat.

"And to use my pipe for such cruelty! Boy, boy, I could not have
believed it! But you were not in earnest; oh, no, impossible! Sukey, my
love--Galatea the divine--calm thy breast; Cupid did but jest.

'Cupid is the God of Laughter,
Quip and jest and joke, sir.'"

"If you don't whip the little wretch within an inch of his life, he'll