THE BIRD WORLD. 
Little Bird 
Friends. 
( 56 ) 
was originally colonised by emigrants from 
England. 
But the parents of Lapis Lazuli, as you know, 
did not remain here all the year. When the 
irresistible call “ Go north ! ” sounded in their 
ears, and they, with probably Lapis Lazuli him¬ 
self and thousands of other birds, sped north¬ 
wards, unconsciously they crossed the frontier. 
No custom-house officer stopped them to ask 
for their name or business, nor to examine their 
luggage and demand duties. No; while all 
slept—for even United States officials must 
need some rest—the crowd of free passengers, 
high up in the air above the sleeping cities of 
the great Republic, crossed the border line, and 
when dawn broke were under the protection of 
the British flag, and in part of that mighty 
Empire of which it is said that upon it the 
sun never sets. 
On British Soil. 
For they were now in Canada, and here en¬ 
joyed the glorious summer, again returning 
southwards as winter approached. When fly¬ 
ing across the wild prairies in the western parts 
of Canada, doubtless they saw some of the few 
remaining tribes of the Red Indians, that won¬ 
derful race of people who were owners of the 
land before the white people came. I hope 
some day you will make a point of reading 
about these Red Indians. It is a sad fact that 
wherever the wffiite man comes, by degrees the 
natives die out. Even if there are no wars, no 
cruelties (and in the case of the Red Indians 
there were both), still it is so. The natives were 
driven from their hunting-ground, wanted by 
the settlers for their towns and their fields. But 
few remain now, and they are but poor speci¬ 
mens of the brave, intelligent race who lived 
here more than a hundred years ago. Civilised 
life has not suited them, and, in addition to 
their own savage, heathen habits, they have 
copied the white man’s vices. Longfellow has 
written a splendid poem, called “ Hiawatha,” 
about these people in their primitive state before 
the intrusion of the white man. I advise you, 
whenever you get the chance, to read this. I 
first did so when I was quite a child, and I 
cannot tell you how often I have read it since. 
It is perfectly charming. 
(To be continued.) 
The Listening Thrush. 
“The sound of a voice that is still.” 
