A WONDER OF WONDERS 81 
crest and shield are instead of those. They are not 
quite so beautiful, perhaps, but I think they are 
still more wonderful. Even when his crest—his 
helmet—is laid down and his shield is not stuck out, 
the Black Bird of Paradise is a wonder, but when he 
raises the one up and shoots the other out, both at the 
same time, and says to the hen, ‘“‘ Look at me!” and 
all the colours that have been asleep in the helmet, 
or awake in the shield, gleam and flash and 
sparkle together, ah, ‘ten he is a wonder of 
wonders. 
Then, do you think he is a bird that ought to be 
killed and killed and killed, only to have those beauti- 
ful, bronzy-black crests, and satiny-green, gleaming 
shields of his set in hats where they soon get dull 
and dusty, and where he can never raise them up or 
shoot them out or pay proper attention to them— 
because he is dead, dead, dead? Is he to be killed 
and killed till he is gone for ever, and there is not 
one more beautiful Black Bird of Paradise in the 
whole world? Oh no, no, no; it ought not to be so 
—it must not, it sha// not—because you will prevent 
it—yes, you. You will turn to your mother now, 
this minute, if she is there, if she is reading this to 
you, or, if not, you will run to her—oh, so quickly, 
so quickly—and ask her, beg her—keep on asking and 
asking, begging and begging her to promise—till she 
F 
