“The forecastle of a steam-ship (even of a big one) is a poor exchange for a snug cottage to any one but a sailor.  To Jack, the ship was home. He had never lived in a wood, and carolled in tree-tops.  He preferred blue to green, and pine masts to pine trees; and he smoked his pipe very comfortably in the forecastle, whilst the ship rolled to and fro, and swung the bird’s cage above his head.  To the thrush it was only an imprisonment that grew worse as time went on.  Each succeeding day made him pine more bitterly for his native woods—­for fresh air and green leaves, and the rest and quiet, and sweet perfumes, and pleasant sounds of country life.  His turf dried up, his groundsel withered, and no more could be got.  He longed even to be back with the old woman—­to see the apple-tree, and the window-plants, and be still.  The shudder of the screw, the blasts of hot air from the engine and cook’s galley, the ceaseless jangling, clanging, pumping noises, and all the indescribable smells which haunt a steam-ship, became more wearisome day by day.  Even when the cage was hung outside, the, sea breeze seemed to mock him with its freshness.  The rich blue of the waters gave him no pleasure, his eyes failed with looking for green, the bitter, salt spray vexed him, and the wind often chilled him to the bone, whilst the sun shone, and icebergs gleamed upon the horizon.

“The sailor had been so kind a master, that the thrush had become deeply attached to him, as birds will; and while at the cottage he had scarcely fretted after his beloved wood.  But with every hour of the voyage, home-sickness came more strongly upon him, and his heart went back to the nest, and the pine-top, and the old home.  When one sleeps soundly, it is seldom that one remembers one’s dreams; but when one is apt to be roused by an unexpected lurch of the ship, by the moan of a fog-whistle, or the scream of an engine, one becomes a light sleeper, and the visions of the night have a strange reality, and are easily recalled.  And now the thrush always dreamt of home.

“One day he was hung outside.  It was not a very fine day, but he looked drooping, and the pitying sailor brought him out, to get some air.  His heart was sore with home-sickness, and he watched the sea-birds skimming up and down with envious eyes.  It seemed all very well for poor men, who hadn’t so much as a wing to carry them over the water, to build lumbering sea-nests, with bodies to float in the water like fish, and wings of canvas to carry them along, and to help it out with noisy steam-engines—­and to endure it all.  But for him, who could fly over a hundred tree-tops before a man could climb to one, it was hard to swing outside a ship, and to watch other birds use their wings, when his, which quivered to fly homewards, could only flutter against the bars.  As he thought, a roll of the ship threw him forward, the wind shook the wires of the cage, and loosened the fastening; and, when the vessel righted, the cage-door swung slowly open.