This is a fable of the Bird and the Ink-Pot. The Bird inhabits a curious building on Bow Street, and during, the winter months refuses to be tempted from the comfort of his tiled nest, even when summoned by Telegram. The Ink-Pot's den is a short distance from the Bird's cage but what a gap it is in fact. Strangely enough, the Bird was originally drawn by Ink from its neighbor, but that is never admitted--not even by the Ink-Pot, whereupon the cover was clapped on; after a small tempest and flapping of wings, he was released. That is the reason for his present bedraggled condition.

Now it is a fact that the Bird and the Ink-Pot have certain annual customs, among which is a game, played between them, with Puck. And in this year it was to be played today, were not conditions entirely too bad. But the ice is entirely lacking on the surface, and the Bird is in great fear of getting his feet wet; besides, he likes ice elsewhere than in the rinks by the Charlesbank. And due to the forementioned disaster inside the Ink-Pot, his wings will not carry him, and he must depend on his legs spindly things at best, on which the Bird is not accustomed to stand. As for the Ink-Pot, he is very much afraid of an overflow of slush, which would cause him to become full; and that generally renders him rather helpless. While he is perfectly competent to slide across the smooth surface of good ice, an Ink-Pot is not adapted to navigation through fields of muck and is always handicapped when it gets into the devious paths the Bird frequents.

So the Bird and the Ink-Pot have abandoned their game with Puck, and will wait for the Spring day when they have their annual Bat, before meeting this year.