All this time Sara had been aware of an irresistible curiosity about the table.  It looked somehow familiar and unpleasant; and yet it was of a beautiful primrose yellow, decorated with blue roses.  At last she put up her hand and whispered to Pirlaps, “The table!  Where did you get the table?  It wasn’t here the other day!”

Pirlaps laughed softly.  “Ah, Sara,” he said, “you aren’t easy to hoodwink!  That’s the Seven-Times table.  Avrillia and I had a regular battle about it.  Of course we never really quarrel,” he explained seriously, “but we sometimes have a lively clash of wills.  After we finished off the Fractions yesterday, I was determined to save that table for a memento.  Avrillia hated the idea, and positively refused to have it in the house; and then I won my point by remembering that we’d never had a table large enough for the birds to eat from when it snowed.  I told her we’d keep it on the lawn.  She tried to persuade me to order a plain Time-Table from your country, instead; saying that, though it would be bad enough to have our nice clean eternity cluttered up with a Time-Table, it would be better than one of these.  But I finally brought her around, by promising to paint it and make it as pretty as possible.  She’ll forget its real nature after a while, and I shall always value it greatly for its historical interest.”

Sara’s mind was distracted toward the close of this explanation by the peculiar, not to say angry, behavior of the Popinjay and the Squawk, who, she was sure, had become displeased about something.  One peculiarity of the Popinjay’s she had not noticed until she came near the table.  It was that, though he had two perfectly good feet, they seemed to have grown to a sort of perch, which was fastened crosswise to a sharp peg; and when he wished to move he had to hop from place to place, sticking this peg into the snow.  He was now hopping round and round the table with loud, incoherent cries, while the little When flitted from place to place to keep out of his way, and the Snicker laughed softly in his yellow satin sleeve.  Sara touched Pirlaps on the arm.

“Mercy me!” cried Pirlaps, speaking softly, but forgetting in his excitement to cover his mouth with his hand.  “The table is quite empty, and Avrillia has not come with the rest of the suet!  Yassuh should have brought more crumbs long ago.  Let’s go to the house and see what’s the trouble, Sara!”

They hurried to the house, and began looking everywhere.  They even opened the door of Avrillia’s own bed-room, which was upholstered entirely in pink morning-glory satin, with hangings of opalescent mist; Sara thought it was quite the most ravishing place she had ever seen; at least she though so until Pirlaps distractedly led her down into the basement to Avrillia’s kitchen.  A smell of something delectable scorching enveloped them as they opened the door.  And there beside the stove, all deliciously sticky and comfortable,