Hemingway's "A Canary for One" is a short story about a mother looking to keep her daughter away from marrying a foreigner.
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The canary chirped and the feathers on his throats stood out, then he dropped his bill and pecked into his feathers again. The train crossed a river and passed through a very carefully tended forest. The train passed through many outside
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of Paris towns. There were tram-cars in the towns and big advertisements for the Belle Jardinière and Dubonnet and Pernod on the walls toward the train. All that the train passed through looked as though it were before breakfast. For several minutes I had not listened to the American lady, who was talking to my wife. “Is your husband American too?” asked the lady. “Yes,” said my wife. “We’re both Americans.” “I thought you were English.”
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An American mother refuses to let her daughter marry a foreigner she loves and looks to keep her under her care, bringing home a canary for her. The mother meets an American married couple and tells them about her daughter. The mother sees the American husband and says that they make the best husbands, yet unknown to her the couple are separated and they go to their separate residences, apparently their marriage is not so happilyu
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“Oh, no.” “Perhaps that was because I wore braces,” I said. I had started to say suspenders and changed it to braces in the mouth, to keep my English character. The American lady did not hear. She was really quite deaf; she read lips, and I had not looked toward her. I had looked out of the window. She went on talking to my wife. “I’m so glad you’re Americans. American men make the best husbands,” the American lady was saying. “That was why we left the Continent, you know. My daughter fell in love with a man in Vevey.” She stopped. “They were simply madly in love.” She stopped again. “I took her away, of course.” “Did she get over it?” asked my wife. “I don’t think so,” said the American lady. “She wouldn’t eat anything and she wouldn’t sleep at all. I’ve tried so very hard, but she doesn’t seem to take an interest in anything. She doesn’t care about things. I couldn’t have her marrying a foreigner.” She paused. “Some one, a
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very good friend, told me once, ’No foreigner can make an American girl a good husband.’” “No,” said my wife, “I suppose not.”
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“Americans make the best husbands,” the American lady said to my wife. I was getting down the bags. “American men are the only men in the world to marry.” “How long ago did you leave Vevey?” asked my wife.
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“Two years ago this fall. It’s her, you know, that I’m taking the canary to.” “Was the man your daughter was in love with a Swiss?” “Yes,” said the American lady. “He was from a very good family in Vevey. He was going to be an engineer. They met there in Vevey. They used to go on long walks together.” “I know Vevey,” said my wife. “We were there on our honeymoon.” “Were you really? That must have been lovely. I had no idea, of course, that she’d fall in love with him.”
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“It was a very lovely place,” said my wife. “Yes,” said the American lady. “Isn’t it lovely? Where did you stop there?” “We stayed at the Trois Couronnes,” said my wife. “It’s such a fine old hotel,” said the American lady. “Yes,” said my wife. “We had a very fine room and in the fall the country was lovely.” “Were you there in the fall?” “Yes,” said my wife.
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The porter brought a truck and piled on the baggage, and my wife said good-by and I said good-by to the American lady, whose name had
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been found by the man from Cook’s on a typewritten page in a sheaf of typewritten pages which he replaced in his pocket. We followed the porter with the truck down the long cement platform beside the train. At the end was a gate and a man took the tickets. We were returning to Paris to set up separate residences.