142 BEAUTIFUL, BIRDS 
than pretty little fingers. Think how pretty some- 
thing in muslin or puff-lace, like that, on a dress 
would be!—but it is ever, oh, ever so much prettier 
on a little Humming-bird, in little chestnut feathers 
with little green spangles at their tips. And that is 
why I call them “ fairy-wings,” for I think if any 
pair of wings that are xot a fairy’s could be pretty 
enough for a fairy, those would be the ones. 
And I think if you saw this sweet little Hum- 
ming-bird hanging in the air, with his breast all 
flashing and sparkling, and with his chestnut crest 
spread out above it, and his little chestnut and star- 
spangled wings flying out on each side of it, you 
would think him almost as pretty as a fairy could be. 
You would think his fairy-wings the real ones that he 
was flying with, because you would see them, whilst 
the other ones would be moving so quickly that they 
would be only like a mist or haze—a little night that 
he had made for himself for the star of his beauty to 
shine in. 
Now just try to imagine how lovely that little 
Humming-bird must be. Can you understand any 
one wanting to kill him? But now that I have told 
you about that wretched little demon with his charms 
to send people to sleep, and those two bad bottles of 
his, or, rather, the powders inside them—apathy and 
vanity—I daresay you can understand it. If I had 
