Vick is sitting on the top of the stone steps, her ears pricked, and her little black nose working mysteriously as she sniffs the morning air.
On the bright gravel walk stands the jackdaw, looking rather a funereal object in his black suit, on this gaudy-colored day; his gray head very much on one side, his round, sly eyes turned upward in dishonest meditation.

A worse bird than Jacky does not hop.

His life is one long course of larceny, and I know that if he had the gift of speech, he would also be a consummate liar.

I kneel on the walk, and, holding out a bit of cake, call him softly and clearly, "Jacky! Jacky!" He snatches it rudely, with a short hoarse caw, puts one black foot on it, and begins to peck.
"Jacky! Jacky!" say I, sorrowfully, "I am going to be married! Oh, you know that?
You may thank your stars that you are not." As I speak, my tears fall on his sleek black wings and his dear gray head.

I try to kiss him; but he makes such a spiteful peck at my nose, that I have to give up the idea.