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.”

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.