THE BEAUTY OF LIFE 53 
of times more beautiful than a live blackbird or thrush 
or swallow or robin-redbreast, but when it is dead it 
is not so beautiful as they are. Its feathers are more 
beautiful, still, of course, but where are the waving 
feathers, the floating plumes, the bright eyes, the quick, 
graceful movements, and the flight—the glorious flight 
—ofabird. They are gone, they are gone for ever, 
and, in their place, there is only stiffness and deadness 
and dustiness. Oh never, never wish to see a dead 
Bird of Paradise in a hat, when you can see a living 
thrush or blackbird on the lawn of your garden, or a 
living swallow flying over it. And even if you can 
never see a living Bird of Paradise—as I daresay you 
never will be able to—what then ?—what then? You 
cannot see everything, but have you not got an ima- 
gination (your mother, who has got one, will tell you 
what it is), and is it not better to imagine a beautiful 
bird flying about in life and loveliness than to see it 
dead? And the people who have these hats with the 
Birds of Paradise, or with other beautiful birds, sewn 
into them, how much do you think they really care 
about them? Do they ever look at them after they 
have once bought them? Oh no, they never do. 
Sometimes they look in the glass with the hat on— 
yes—but then it is only to see themselves zz the 
hat, not the hat. 
So now you know what kind of birds the Birds of 
