56 
BY THE WAYSIDE 
and a letter of approval by Mr. Sparrow. 
Even the staid old Mr. Crow left his 
cornfield to come, for he declared, “Do I 
not help the farmers by clearing their 
fields of cut worms, mice and insects, and 
am I not the scavenger of the land?” 
Mrs. Thrush and Mrs. Phoebe came 
together, and also though they made no 
speeches on account of diffidence, they 
applauded heartily at the remarks of 
others. 
Mr. Quail put in his claim to be ex¬ 
empt from the rifle as he had no beauti¬ 
ful plumage and did he not always pre¬ 
dict the coming of rain by his “More wet”? 
Mrs. Humming Bird darted in long 
enough to say that she had often been 
obliged to undergo the agony of seeing 
her relatives pinioned to a hat or bonnet 
and,she wished to ask that they might 
be allowed to hum, and gather honey in 
peace and she would carry pollen and 
kill insects as a tribute. 
Mrs. Bluejay came in all out of breath. 
She had seen such a queer creature that 
she was almost frightened to death. She 
had, at first, thought it to be an immense 
bird, but on closer investigation it seemed 
like the parts of many birds—wings, tails, 
beaks and heads of different birds all 
mingled together. It reminded her of 
the famous pie baked for the king only 
the four and twenty were, not all black¬ 
birds, and, alas, they did not commence 
to sing. She was told that the object 
which.she saw was the indirect cause of 
the meeting,, and that it was nothing 
more nor less than a fashionable lady 
decked out in the feathers of numerous 
birds whereupon she immediately fainted. 
Mr. Crane tried hard to get there. Al¬ 
though he had long legs, he was delayed 
because he saw a man with a gun among 
the rushes and cat-tails, and he had to 
stay in hiding so long that the meeting 
was about to adjourn when he arrived. 
The meeting closed with a solo by Mr. 
Oriole in the tune of “Auld Lang Syne.” 
“Don't kill the birds, the little birds, 
That sing about the door. 
Soon as the joyous spring has come, 
And chilling storms are over. 
The little birds that sweetly sing, 
Oh, let them happy live. 
And do not try to take the life 
That you can never give. 
Don’t kill the birds, the little birds; 
Do not disturb their play; 
But let them warble forth their songs; 
Till cold drives them away. 
Don’t kill the birds, the happy birds, 
That cheer the field and grove; 
So harmless, tender, timid, mild, 
They claim our warmest love.” 
The members of the meeting all joined 
in chirruping: 
“Hasten the dawning of the day 
When peace shall over all the earth 
Its ancient splendors fling, 
And the whole world give back the song 
That now the angels sing.” 
“Oh, gramma,” said* thoughtless Tom¬ 
my, “What is the matter with all the 
birds? There was such a flock of them 
in the old pear tree; and such a twitter¬ 
ing and flying about I never saw. And 
I just saw a goldfinch fly away and he 
looked as if half his feathers had been 
pulled out. I believe I will climb the 
tree and see. Perhaps I can get some 
eggs for my collection.” 
Just then Mrs. Fashionable happened 
along, returning from a missionary society 
meeting. 
‘‘Why, Tommy,” said she, “Are you 
going to rob the dear little bird of her. 
eggs?” 
“Yep,” he boldly replied. 
“Aren’t you sorry for the poor mother ? 
Just imagine how she will feel.” 
“She won’t care; she ain’t coming 
back,” said he. “She’s down there on 
your hat. 
—Maud Hawkins. 
