throats poured out among the bloom of the Banksia flowers. And when one of the brown birds came and sat on a branch by him, swaying itself and drinking the rain-drops off a leaf, he ventured to ask, as well as he could for the iron that strangled him, why they were so safe, and what made them so happy.
The bird looked at him in surprise.
"Do you not know?" he said. "It is you!"
"I!" echoed Lampblack, and could say no more, for he feared that the bird was mocking him, a poor, silly, rusty black paint, only spread out to rot in fair weather and foul. What good could he do to any creature?
"You," repeated the nightingale. "Did you not see that man under the wall? He had a gun; we should have been dead but for you. We will come and sing to you all night long, as you like it; and when we go to bed at dawn, I will tell my cousins, the thrushes and merles, to take our places, so that you shall hear somebody singing near you all day long."
Lampback was silent. His heart was too full to speak. Was it possible that he was of use, after all.
"Can it be true?" he said, timidly.
"Quite true," said the nightingale.
"Then the master knew best," thought Lampblack.
The colors in the studio had all the glories of the
