}2 OUR FRIENDS, THE BIRDS. 
they have been persecuted and murdered until the 
life of a bird is one of constant fear. 
Longfellow has made a beautiful plea for the 
birds in his story of the “Birds of Killingworth.” 
Some extracts from it I quote: 
‘“Do you not think what wondrous beings these? 
Do you ne’er think who made them and who taught 
The dialect they speak, where melodies ‘ 
Alone are the interpreters of thought 
Whose household words are songs in many keys, 
Sweeter than instrument of man e’er caught? 
Whose habitations in the tree tops even 
Are half-way houses on the way to heaven? 
“Think, every morning when the sun peeps through 
The dim leaf-latticed windows of the grove, 
How jubilant the happy birds renew 
Their old, melodious madrigals of love! 
And when you think of this, remember, too, 
’*Tis always morning somewhere, and above 
The awakening continents from shore to shore, 
Somewhere the birds are singing evermore. 
“Think of your woods and orchards without birds, 
Of empty nests that cling to boughs and beams 
As, in an idiot’s brain, remembered words 
Hang empty ‘mid the cobwebs of his dreams! 
Will bleat of flock or bellowing of herds 
Make up for the lost music when your teams 
Drag home the stingy harvest, and no more 
The feathered gleaners follow to your door ? 
