220 BEAU SIFUL BIRDS 
in it, starving—slowly starving! if it was always 
there, always before them—that pitiful picture—and 
if the voices came, too—the screams, and then the 
whispers—“ Feed us! feed us!” then, I think, 
they would take off those hats, and they would not 
wear them any more. They need not die or kill 
themselves, they would only have to take off those hats. 
And they will do that now, because you and 
every little child in the world will have asked them 
to. Yes, they will do it now. They will take off 
those hats—those hats of starvation and murder, of 
terrible and shameful cruelty—they will leave off 
wearing them, they will never put them on, again. 
Those plumes called ‘‘ ospreys,” that one sees every- 
where—in streets and in shop-windows, at concerts, 
at meetings, and in churches—that bend above fine 
sentiments, that wave over charities and goodnesses, 
and tremble, softly, in the breath that prayers are 
made of—they will tear them out of their hats and 
out of their hair—yes, and out of their hearts too. 
They will hate them, they will loathe them, and 
when they say, next time, in church, upon their knees, 
_ “Give us this day our daily bread,” they will try not 
to remember them, or only to think that they are 
unfashionable. 
Oh, make them unfashionable! for you have not 
yet, you have not said ‘‘ promise”’ yet. Oh, then, at 
