I Used to Kill Birds 



By Henry W. Longfellow 



[When Mr. Longfellow was a little boy he asked his mother to let him go 

 hmiting. She did so and he killed a little bird. He saw it die and felt sorry 

 that he had killed it. Then he went home and told his mother that he would 

 never kill birds again.] 



I used to kill birds in my boyhood, 



Bluebirds and robins and wrens, 

 I hunted them up in the mountains, 



I hunted them down in the glens. 

 I never thought it was sinful — 



I did it only for fun — 

 And I had rare sport in the forest 



With the poor little birds and my gun. 



But one beautiful day in the spring-time 



I spied a brown bird in a tree, 

 Merrily swinging and chirping, 



As happy as bird could be. 

 And raising my gun in a twinkling, 



I fired, and my aim was too true. 

 For a moment the little thing fluttered. 



Then off to the bushes it flew. 



I followed it quickly and softly, 



And there to my sorrow I found. 

 Right close to its nest full of young ones. 



The little bird dead on the ground ! 

 Poor birdies ! For food they were calling ; 



But now they could never be fed, 

 For the kind mother-bird who had loved them 



Was lying there bleeding and dead. 



I picked up the bird in my anguish, 



I stroked the wee motherly thing 

 That could never more feed its dear young ones. 



Nor dart through the air on swift wing. 

 And I made a firm vow in that moment. 



When my heart with such sorrow was stirred 

 That never again in my life-time 



Would I shoot a poor innocent bird! 



211 



