6o 



Helpless Pets. 



into that sleep that knows no waking." 



"Oh, no, grandpa, no," said the httle 

 boy, "don't make them die; make some 

 brave knight come and rescue them and 

 kill the cruel giant." 



"Ah, Bertie, that I cannot do, for the 

 story is a true one. What brave knight 

 rescued the little birds you took from their 

 nest last year?" 



"Birds! nest!" The boy looks puzzled. 



"Yes, child, yes; the young robins you 



took last spring are the children of my 

 story, and you who took them are the wick- 

 ed giant. Not a very big one," the old 

 man smiles, "but a monster in their eyes." 

 The little boy slips down from his grand- 

 father's knee, and going to the window, 

 looks out into the gathering gloom, trying 

 to see in the twilight the vacant nest in the 

 old oak tree in front of the house, and the 

 two little graves placed side by side at its 



foot. 



Etheldred B. Barry. 



HELPLESS PETS. 



AWAY back in the half-forgotten past 

 I was familiar with a poem written 

 on a "Bullfinch Starved to Death in its 

 Cage," and, as though the spirit of the bird 

 were yet speaking to the jailer of the cruel- 

 ty practiced, the concluding words ran thus: 

 " If you had shown me less cruelty, I would 

 be your prisoner still." 



It is no unfrequent thing to see a lady 

 shedding tears at the loss of a canary bird, 

 either from an unknown cause or from the 

 claws and teeth of a domestic cat. Now, 

 being a friend to birds, I am an enemy to 

 birds in cages. 



"But," says Mamie, "the canary knows 

 nothing about any other life than that in 

 the cage. It is weak and helpless, and 

 could not get its own living if set free." 

 This is equivalent to saying that the race 

 has been imprisoned so long that it has be- 

 come weak, helpless and degenerate. It 

 may be a humane thing, in the minds of 

 many, to take care of these little imbeciles 

 and encourage their increase under capti- 

 vity. There are persons who have time to 

 attend to their wants and have fortitude 

 enough to endure their shrill, rasping notes; 

 but to those who have delighted in hearing 

 real song birds in the open air, singing from 

 trees and meadows, the metallic ear-pierc- 

 ing notes of a canary are excruciating. 



I am reminded just here of what my friend 



Julia was telling me last winter: "You 

 know Mrs. Blank is so outspoken, indeed, 

 she says bad words and don't care a cent 

 whom she says them to, either. One day 

 when she called and we were having a so- 

 ciable old chat by the fire, my birds began 

 to sing. You know they always do when 

 people talk or sit down to a meal. Well, 

 they all tuned up and sang like everything. 

 She seemed much annoyed and put her 

 hands to her ears, and all at once started 

 up and rushed to the door, exclaiming, 'I 

 thought I could have a talk with you, but 

 these abominable little devils have set up 

 their clash !' Was not that awful ?" 



"What was awful?" 



"Why, such a speech as that !" 



" Oh, yes ; but not so awful as the provo- 

 cation for it." 



But notwithstanding the annoyance these 

 pretty little creatures inflict on a sensitive 

 nerve, I speak in their behalf and from pity 

 for the suffering, and the condition of the 

 majority of them. In the winter they are 

 kept in close, over-heated "sitting rooms," 

 where fumes from the kitchen and laundry 

 and even tobacco load the air ; often they 

 are watched daily by a murderous cat, and 

 must suffer untold agonies from instinctive 

 fear, until, in many cases, the little palpitat- 

 ing heart is stilled forever, and the arch 

 enemy licks the last drop of its life-blood 



