I knew a charming little girl,
Who’d say, “Oh, see that flower!”
Whenever in the garden
Or woods she spent an hour.
And sometimes she would listen,
And say, “Oh, hear that bird!”
Whenever in the forest
Its clear, sweet note was heard.
But then I knew another—
Much wiser, don’t you think?
Who never called a bird a “bird”;
But said “the bobolink”
Or “oriole” or “robin”
Or “wren,” as it might be;
She called them all by their first names,
So intimate was she.
And in the woods or garden
She never picked a “flower”;
But “anemones,” “hepaticas,”
Or “pansies,” by the hour.
Both little girls loved birds and flowers,
But one love was the best:
I need not point the moral;
I’m sure you see the rest.
For would it not be very queer,
If when, perhaps, you came,
Your parents had not thought worth while
To give you any name?
I think you would be quite upset,
And feel your brain a-whirl,
If you were not “Matilda Ann,”
But just “a little girl”!
—Alice W. Rollins, in the _Independent_.
[Illustration: SNOWY HERON]
VI
FEATHERS AND HATS
_The White Heron_
“Perhaps the boys may not be interested in hearing about feathers and
hats,” said Gray Lady, “but the two birds whose pictures you see here
are very interesting in themselves; and it is well that both boys and
girls should realize all the different reasons why some kinds of birds
have been growing fewer and fewer, until it is necessary to take active
measures for their protection.
“Boys have robbed nests and thoughtless men have shot and caged
song-birds, and have often killed many more food-birds than they could
eat, merely for what they call the ‘sport’ of killing.
“Girls who seldom rob nests, unless they are following the examples of
their brothers, and women who would shrink from touching firearms or
killing a bird, will still, as far as the law allows and sometimes
further, wear birds’ feathers on their hats.
“Not many years ago we often saw whole birds, such as Humming-birds,
Swallows,—like those on Eliza’s hat,—Bluebirds, and many of the pretty
little warblers used as hat trimming. To-day, this is against the law in
all of the really civilized of the United States, and any one offering
the feathers of these birds for sale may be arrested and fined.”
“Please, is it any harm to wear roosters’ feathers or Guinea hens’ and
ducks’ wings?” asked Ruth Banks. “’Cause I’ve got two real nice duck
wings and a lovely spangled rooster tail—home-made ducks, you know,
that we hatch under hens,” she added.
“No, it is no harm to use the feathers of domestic fowls, or other
food-birds,” said Gray Lady; “only, unless we have raised the fowls from
which they come ourselves, it is not easy to be sure about the matter,
unless the feathers are left in their natural colours. They may tell you
in a shop that the wing or breast you see is made of dyed chicken or
pigeon feathers. You must take their word that this is so, and many
times they may have been misled in the matter themselves.
“Birds’ feathers, it cannot be denied, are very beautiful and
ornamental, but to my mind it is very bad taste to wear anything dead
merely for ornament,—furs, of course, keep the wearer warm as
well,—but I myself do not care for any hat trimming that can only be
had by taking life.
“There is one kind of feather,—the Heron or Egret plume,—that I am not
only sorry, but ashamed, to say is still in use, because it comes from
birds that live in other countries, and these birds we cannot yet
protect. Not only must these birds be killed to obtain the coveted
plumes, but the killing is done in a brutal way, and at a time of
year—the nesting season—when, according to the wise law of nature,
every bird should be cherished and its privacy respected.
“Look at this great White Heron in the picture beside me here. He
measures two feet from the tip of his bill up over his head to his tail,
though you cannot really see the tail as he is pictured on account of
the beautiful sweeping cloak of fine feathers that cover it. This bird
has yellow eyes and feet, beak and legs partly yellow and partly black,
but is everywhere else white of an almost dazzling brilliancy.
“Many birds wear more beautiful and highly coloured feathers in the
nesting season than at any other. These Herons, both male and female,
are pure white all the year through, but as the nesting season
approaches a change comes,—a number of slender plumes grow out from
between the shoulders and curve gracefully over the tail, forming a
complete mantle, and it is these feathers that are sought by the
professional plume hunters to be made into the feathery tufts sold as
egrets, though the word Eliza used by a slip of the tongue, _re_grets, I
think much more suitable, for surely any one with a warm woman’s heart
would _regret_ ever having worn them if she realized how they are
obtained.”
“Miss Barker gave my mother hers,” put in Eliza, “’cause she’d just
found out where they came from and dassn’t wear it to church ’cause her
minister belongs to a society that wouldn’t like it. She didn’t tell us
why, though; she only said regrets was counted stylish in N’ York.”
“Yes,” said Gray Lady, “that is all the idea some people, who think
themselves very clever, have of honour. To give away a feather that one
cannot wear, for fear of what some one will say, is like giving stolen
goods to some one who does not know that they are stolen.
“Not many years ago this Snowy Heron and his cousin, the American Egret,
almost twice his size, might be found everywhere in the swampy groves of
temperate and tropical America, from New Jersey across to Minnesota and
Oregon, and as far south as Patagonia in South America. Within a few
years I have seen one or two in autumn in the marshes back of our bay
below, for like many birds they wander about after the nesting season.
Their food consists of small fish,—shrimps, water-beetles, etc.,—so
that they never make their homes far from moist places. Now, in this
country at least, the race is nearly gone, and it will be only by the
strictest laws and most complete protection that it will be possible for
the tribe to increase. To regain its old footing cannot be hoped for.
“The beginning of the tragedy came by woman’s love of finery, and only
by her resolutely giving it up can the trouble be ended.
“Through some happening it was discovered that this mantle of feathers
could be made into ornaments for hats and hair that were not only widely
sought, but brought a high price. This was enough; bands of hunters were
organized to search the swamps for the Herons and obtain the plumes
_when they were in the best condition_. How it was to be done did not
matter, and indeed it has taken the world many years to realize the
horror of it all.
“These Herons breed in colonies. The nest, a stoutly built, slightly
hollowed platform of small sticks, reeds, etc., is placed either in a
tree or tall bush, care being always taken to keep it safely above the
water-line. As the birds are very sociable, a single bush or tree would
often contain many nests.
“When the nesting season was well under way and the feather cloaks in
their first perfection, through the lagoons and sluggish waterways came
noiseless flat-bottomed boats, low on the water, and poled by the
guiding Indian or half-breed. Astern sat the plume hunters, guns at rest
and eyes eagerly scanning the foliage above their heads. ‘Ah! here is a
rookery at last!’ (rookery being the name given to colonies of many
birds beside the Rook). The parent birds are sailing gracefully to and
fro, their long legs trailing behind, while they feed the newly hatched
nestlings. For with the most crafty calculation the plume hunters wait
for the time when the birds are hatched because they know that the
parents are then less likely to take alarm and fly beyond reach.
“The boat is stopped by the guide, who grasps an overhanging branch
close to where an opening in the under-brush gives a good view of the
colony.
“Bang! bang! Bodies crashing through the branches and pitiful cries of
alarm mingle for several minutes, as the confused birds rise, remember
their young, and return to die! When the smoke has lifted, the hunters
clear the ground of the dead and dying and piling them in the boat begin
to tear off that portion of the back, the ‘scalp,’ that holds the
precious plumes. If all the birds were dead, the horror would be less,
but time is precious; there are other rookeries to be visited that day,
and so the still breathing and fluttering birds are also torn and
mutilated.
“Then the boat glides on, leaving death behind. Yes, but not the silence
that usually goes with death, for there in a hundred nests are the
clamouring hungry broods that will die slowly of hunger, or be victims
of snakes or birds of prey,—the happier ending of the two.
“After a day’s work the plume hunters find ground dry enough for a camp,
where they pass the night, and at dawn they again glide forth on their
ghastly errand.
“Sometimes storm, pestilence, and famine may nearly exterminate a
species of bird or beast, but Nature in some way, if she still needs the
type, always manages to restore and undo her own mischief; but, as a
lover of these birds has said, ‘When man comes, slaughters, and
exterminates, Nature does not restore!’ It is only the men and women who
have done the evil that may be allowed to undo it, and sometimes it is
too late.
“Now you see why no one should wear egret plumes, the feathers of the
bird that has been called ‘The Bonnet Martyr.’ Girls and boys, whoever
you may be, who hear or read this story of the vanishing Snowy Heron, be
courageous, and wherever or whenever you see one of these regret plumes
ask the wearer if she knows how it was obtained and tell her its story,
for whether the bird who bore it lived in this or another country the
manner of taking is the same.
“There have been foolish stories told of raising these birds in
captivity and gathering the plumes after they are shed. This is not
true. They would, when shed naturally, be worn and useless, and the
egret will always be what one of the Wise Men has called it, the ‘White
Badge of Cruelty.’”
* * * * *
“Now, Tommy Todd,” said Gray Lady, “you may take down the Heron and put
the other picture in its place. The bird in it is not graceful and
beautiful like the Heron; in fact, it looks more like some sort of a
camel than a bird, but its story is much more cheerful. Its feathers may
be worn by every one, for it is not necessary to kill or hurt the bird
in order to get them. Some of you have guessed its name already, I am
sure.
_The Ostrich_
“Ostriches live in warm countries as well as Herons, but here the
comparison begins and ends, for the Ostrich loves the open sandy desert
and was originally found wild in Africa, Arabia, and also in Persia. The
Ostrich, the largest bird now alive, is most peculiar both in appearance
and habits. Standing sometimes eight feet in height, it has a long,
almost bare neck, and small stupid-looking head; its wings are so small
that it cannot fly, but its strong legs, ending in two-toed feet, give
it the power of running as fast as a horse, and it can kick like a horse
also, with this difference,—an Ostrich kicks forward so if you wish to
be perfectly safe you must stand _behind_ it! At the base of the wings
and tail grow tufts of long and substantial feathers, the wing tufts
being the longer and best. In truth, but for the fact of the feathers
that cover its body, no one would guess that it was a bird, and even
with these it looks like some strange beast that has put on a borrowed
coat to go, perhaps, to the great Elephant Dance that little Toomai saw
once upon a time in the Jungle, about which Rudyard Kipling tells so
well that sometimes we wake up in the morning and really believe that we
ourselves have ridden to the dance upon the great Elephant instead of
Toomai.
“In wild life birds have always been hunted for their plumage as well as
for food. It is thought that the savage at first killed solely for food,
and then used the hides of beasts and feathers of birds for clothing and
decoration as an afterthought, some of the royal garments of kings and
chiefs of tribes being woven of countless rare feathers.
“When man as we know him, white or civilized man as he is called,
explored wild countries, he introduced two things that wrought great
harm to wild creatures and savages alike,—the money-trading instinct
and strong drink. In order to buy this drink, which always proved his
ruin, the savage looked about for something to offer in exchange, and
what was there for him but to kill beast or bird and offer some part of
it in trade?
“In this way the elephants’ tusks, of which ivory is made, rare furs,
alligator hides, and Ostrich eggs and plumes, as well as rough uncut
gems, became known to the people of Europe.
“The savages hunted the wild Ostrich with bow and arrows that were
sometimes poisoned, and the bird being killed, of course, yielded but
one crop of feathers.
“As the Ostrich cannot fly and is a very stupid bird, living in open
deserts where there were few places to hide, it was very easily
destroyed—its only means of escape being to outrun its pursuers, who
were on foot. But presently when firearms were used to hunt him, the
Ostrich seemed as utterly doomed as the White Heron.
[Illustration: CLIPPING OSTRICH PLUMES]
“But the day came when men who realized the great demand there was for
these feathers and the profit to be made by selling them, tried the
experiment of raising the birds in captivity, just as we do our barnyard
fowl, treating them kindly, and feeding them well, so that they might
yield not only one but many crops of plumes, because they knew that the
Ostrich is not only long-lived but, like the smaller birds, changes its
feathers every year.
“The Ostrich was a difficult bird to catch and tame when full grown, for
at that time they weigh several hundred pounds and their habit of
kicking has to be remembered, the same as with a wild horse. So the plan
was tried of collecting the eggs and hatching them out, and even this
was not as easy as it seems.
“Though Ostriches are so foolish that, when chased, they will often
stand still and hide their heads in the sand, evidently thinking that if
they cannot see their pursuers, they themselves cannot be seen, they
make devoted parents. And this plan was so successful that Ostriches are
now raised like domestic fowls, not only in Africa but in this country,
where the birds were introduced in 1882, and there are now many
successful Ostrich farms in Arizona, California, and Florida, where
alfalfa can be raised all the year, for this is the best food for them.
“The breeding habits of the Ostrich in captivity are different from
those of the wild birds of the desert who live half a dozen hens to a
family like our barnyard fowls. The nest is merely a hollow in the sand
a foot or so deep, and several broad, made by the pressure of the great
breast-bone and sides. Eggs are laid, one every other day, until a
‘clutch’ of a dozen or more has accumulated, and these must be kept warm
for nearly a month and a half before the chicks will be hatched.
“When you realize that one of these eggs would make an omelet as large
as two dozen and a half hens’ eggs, and weighs three or four pounds, so
that the omelet would feed an entire family, you will understand that it
takes both patience on the part of the parents and a great deal of heat
to hatch these eggs. Sometimes the owners prefer to hatch the eggs in an
incubator.
“You have some of you seen a Robin stand up in the nest and shuffle her
feet; when she does this she is turning her eggs, and the great Ostrich
eggs are also turned every day. When domesticated, the mother Ostrich
tends the eggs during the daylight hours, but the father takes her place
in the later afternoon and remains until morning. This is evidently the
result of the instinct for colour protection. The gray female shows the
least plainly in daylight on the sand, while the black-and-white male
can scarcely be seen at night. In fact, the domesticated bird is a
creature of such regular habits that, according to reliable accounts,
the male takes his place on the nest promptly at 5 P.M. and does not
move until 9 A.M. This account does not say whether Mrs. O. lets her
husband have an evening out once in a while to go to his club or lodge,
but perhaps, as he has the rest of the year to himself, he does not
expect a vacation in the important nesting season. But one thing is
known to be true, that Ostriches are very devoted to each other and that
the pairs when once mated remain together for life, an attribute of many
birds, especially the very long-lived species. It is said that the wild
Ostrich lives to be 100 years old. This may be true, for Ostriches who
have been captives 40 years are still alive and healthy. In the deserts
Ostriches are supposed to be able to go without water for days at a
time, but in captivity they drink freely every day. This either proves
that the habits alter very much, or else, that those who reported their
wild life did not see correctly.
“When the young Ostriches are hatched, they are about the size of a
Plymouth Rock hen and are mottled and fuzzy. They grow very rapidly, so
that at nine months old the bird will be nearly six feet tall, and after
this the plumes are plucked at intervals of nine months; the feathers do
not reach perfection, however, until the third year, and the birds do
not reach maturity and mate until they are four years old,—and a fine
male Ostrich of six or seven years of age is worth $1000 and will yield
from $50 to $80 worth of feathers yearly.
“When a little over a year old, the mottled plumage that the young birds
wear slowly changes, the female becomes a dusky gray, and the male
glossy black, though they both grow long white wing-plumes. By this you
may learn that all the gayly coloured plumes that you see are dyed, and
even those that remain black or white go through many processes of
cleansing and curling before they are sold in the shops.”
“How do they get the feathers off?” asked Sarah Barnes; “do they wait
until they moult or pull ’em like they do geese?—only that hurts some
’cause the geese squawk something dreadful.”
“I’m glad that you asked that question,” said Gray Lady, “because it is
one of the special points about Ostrich feathers that should be made
known to every one. If they waited for the feathers to be shed, they
would be worn and broken. You all know how very shabby the long
tail-feathers of a rooster become before the summer moulting time. When
Ostriches were first raised in confinement, their owners used to pluck
out the plumes. But they soon found that not only was this troublesome,
for the pain of it made the birds struggle, but the next crop of
feathers suffered in consequence. Nature has reasons for everything she
plans and there is evidently some substance in the butt of the old quill
that, by keeping the skin soft and open, prepares the way for the new
one that is to follow and causes it to be of better quality.
“Now the plumes are clipped off, and later on the stubs, which are then
dry, come out easily. The feathers of these birds are much fuller and
finer than those that came from the wild Ostriches.
“The picture shows an Ostrich in the little three-cornered pen with the
men holding up the tufts and preparing to snip off the feathers. The pen
is made in this shape so that there will be standing-room for the men,
but not room enough for the Ostrich to turn round and kick forward. A
hood shaped like a stocking is drawn over his head, and he is perfectly
quiet, for he feels no pain and no blood is drawn.
“Now you can judge for yourselves that Ostrich feathers may be safely
worn by every one who likes beautiful things, for certainly there are no
feathers so graceful as a sweeping Ostrich plume with the ends slightly
curled.
“In addition to the fact that the growing and taking of these feathers
is perfectly humane, their use encourages a large industry which gives
employment to many people here in _our own country_.”
“I wish my ma had an Ostrich plume in her Sunday hat instead of that
mean egret,” sighed Eliza Clausen, half to herself. “I can take the
smaller wings out of mine and leave the ribbon, but the feather’s the
whole topknot of ma’s.”
Softly as Eliza had spoken, her words could be heard in the silence that
came when the reader closed her scrap-book.
“Bravo! bravo! little girl,” said Gray Lady, smiling so brightly that
Eliza forgot to be embarrassed. “You see that your mother was right when
she said, ‘When people get to hearing about birds they stop caring to
wear them in their hats,’ even though she did not mean it quite in this
way. Very few people would wear the cruel kind of feathers if they only
understood. I will give you a pretty little Ostrich tuft to take to your
mother in exchange for the egret, when you explain to her about it, and
I’m sure Anne can find something among Goldilocks’ boxes to replace your
Swallow’s wings.”
Eliza’s eyes sparkled, and all signs of resentment left her face.
“But,” asked Gray Lady, “what will you do with the poor little wings and
the egret? You surely will not give them to any one else.”
“No, ma’am, I’ll have a funeral, and bury them down in the meadow, where
my kitten is that fell in the water barrel and sister’s canary!”
Then all the children laughed, including Eliza herself, and Gray Lady
joined.
“School is over for this afternoon,” said Gray Lady, “but before you go
we must arrange for our next meeting. I, myself, belong to the Humane
Society. How would you like to organize a little school society of your
own to help one another remember to be kind to everything that lives,
and also to see and learn all you can about our little brothers of the
air, whose life and happiness depends as much upon our mercy as our food
and shade, beautiful flowers, and luscious fruit depend upon their
industry?
“Let us call it ‘The Kind Hearts’ Club.’ Who will join it? Goldilocks
and Jacob Hughes are the first two members—how many more are there
here? Oh! Tommy Todd! one hand is enough to raise, unless you expect to
work for two people!”
VII
THE KIND HEARTS’ CLUB
“While you were playing hide-and-seek in the orchard this morning, Miss
Wilde and I had a long talk about the Friday afternoons at school,” said
Gray Lady, “and what do you suppose? She has given every other Friday
afternoon to us, to you and to me, not only that we may all learn about
birds and animals and how to be kind to them, but other things as well.”
“That will be lovely!” exclaimed Sarah Barnes, but suddenly her face
clouded and she added; “that will only be twice a month, though, and if,
when it comes winter, it’s such bad weather that school has to be closed
up of a Friday, then it would be once a month, and that would be _very_
long to wait!”
“Ah! but you have not heard all of the plan yet,” said Gray Lady. “Two
Fridays of each month I will go to your school, and two Saturday
mornings in every month you are to come to my house, that is, if you
wish to,—of course you are not _obliged_ to come. And it will only be a
very bad snow-storm, deeper than horses’ legs are long, that will keep
me away from Foxes Corners, for did not you and I become friends on a
very dreary, rainy afternoon?
“On the Friday afternoon at school I will either tell or read you
stories of the birds of the particular season, and I shall give you
every chance to ask questions and tell anything that you have noticed
about birds or such little wild beasts as we have hereabouts, for you
know it is a very one-sided sort of meeting where one person does all
the talking.
“I may be a sober-minded Gray Lady, but I very well know how tiresome it
is to sit still for a couple of hours, even if one is listening to
something interesting. I think that one can hear so very much better if
the fingers are busy. So, with Ann Hughes’ help, I am going to give the
girls some plain, useful sewing to do, patchwork, gingham
cooking-aprons, and the like. This plain sewing will be Friday work. On
the Saturday mornings that you come to me you shall have something more
interesting to work upon,—that is, as many of you as prove that they
know a little about handling a needle. You shall learn to dress dolls
and make any number of pretty things besides.”
“I haven’t got any thimble,” said little Clara Hinks, called “Clary” for
short, in a quavering voice. “Grandma is going to give me a real silver
one when I’m eight, but that won’t be until next spring, and now I have
to borrow my big sister Livvie’s when I sew my patchwork, and it’s too
big, and it wiggles, and the needle often goes sideways into my finger.
Besides, she wouldn’t let me bring it to school, ’cause it’s got her
’nitials inside a heart on one side of it, and George Parsons gave it to
her, an’ anyways she’s using it all the time, ’cause she’s sewing her
weddin’ things terrible fast.”
Gray Lady had great difficulty to keep from laughing outright at this
burst of confidence, but she never hurt any one’s feelings, and her lips
merely curved into a quizzical smile, as she said, “What Clara says
about her thimble reminds me to tell you that Ann has a large work-box
with plain thimbles of all sizes, scissors, needles, and thread. This I
used last winter in the city in teaching some little girls to sew, who
were about your ages. I will lend you these things, and then later on,
if you do well, you will have a chance to earn work-boxes of your own.”
“Have we boys got to sew, too?” asked Tommy Todd, with a very
mischievous expression on his freckled face; “’cause I know how to sew
buttons on my overalls, and I can do it tighter’n ma can, so’s they
don’t yank off for ever so long!”
“No, I had thought of something quite different for you boys, though it
would not be amiss for you all to know how to take a few stitches for
yourselves, for you are all liable at some time in your lives to travel
in far-away places, and even when you go down to the shore and camp out
in summer, buttons will come off and stitches rip.
“It seemed to me that hammers and saws and chisels and nails and
jack-knives would be more interesting to you boys than dolls and
patchwork!” As Gray Lady pronounced the names of the tools slowly, so
that she might watch the effect of her words, she saw five pairs of eyes
sparkle, and when the magic word “jack-knives” was reached, they were
leaning forward so eagerly that Dave slipped quite off his chair and for
a moment knelt on the floor at Gray Lady’s feet.
“But what could we do with all those carpenters’ tools down at school?”
asked Dave, when he had regained his chair and the laugh at his downfall
had subsided. “Dad says it’s a wonder Foxes Corners’ schoolhouse don’t
fall down every time teacher bangs on the desk to call ’tention,—we
couldn’t hammer things up there.”
“No, that is very true,” said Gray Lady, “but the tools are to be used
at the ‘General’s house’ on Saturdays, and the jack-knives at school on
Fridays! I see that you cannot guess this part of the plan, so I will
not tease you by making you wait as I had first intended.
“As you may remember, Goldilocks told you this morning that Jacob
Hughes, who now lives with us since he has left the sea, and keeps
everything in repair about the place, besides being a good carpenter can
whittle almost anything that can be made from wood with a knife.
“In the attic of this house are two large rooms. One of these Jacob is
fitting up for a playroom for my little daughter, now that she will soon
be able to enjoy it. The other room was the workroom where her father
had his tools and workbench when he was a lad like you, for the General
had him taught the use of all the tools and he used to make bird-houses
and boats and garden seats and even chairs and such things for the
house. He grew to be so skilful that he learned to carve them
beautifully.
“Since he went away to his father and mother in heaven no one has used
the room; but it is not right to let things be useless when others need
them, and now Jacob is putting that room in order also. Then for half of
the time on Saturday morning he will take you up there, teach you the
use of the tools, and show you how to make bird-houses and many other
things, while on the Friday afternoons, when the girls are sewing, he
will bring some pieces of soft wood to school, and something that he has
carved as a model, and each boy must strive to make the best copy that
he can!”
“That’ll be bully!” cried Tommy Todd, adding, “and I think it is just
fine of you to let us use those tools that belonged to—to—” And here
Tommy faltered for the right word.
“To my husband,” said Gray Lady, very gently, and the children saw the
little mist that veiled her eyes, and understood better than words could
tell them why gray hair framed the face that was still young and why
there were no gay colours in her dress,—in short, it came to them why
their Gray Lady earned her name, and yet was never sad nor wished to
sadden others.
“S’pose we haven’t all got jack-knives—that is, ones that’ll cut?”
piped little Jared Hill, blushing red at having dared to speak. He was
the smallest boy in the school and lived with his grandparents, who,
though well-to-do, evidently believed it sinful to spend money for
anything but food and clothing, for the only Christmas presents Jared
ever had were those from the Sunday-school tree, and though he was seven
years old he had never owned a knife.
“If I lend the girls thimbles and scissors, I must, of course, lend the
boys jack-knives, and give them an equal chance of earning them for
their very own!” And from that moment Jared Hill firmly believed that
angels and good fairies had fluffy gray hair and wore shimmering gray
garments that smelled of fresh violets, like Gray Lady.
“Let me see,” said she, glancing at a little calendar in a silver frame
that stood upon her desk, “two weeks from to-day will be the 27th; then
you come here again. I should like every boy who can, to bring some bits
of old weathered wood with him. Either a few mossy shingles, the hollow
branch of a tree, a bundle of bark,—anything, in short, that will make
the bird-houses that you build look natural to the birds, who dislike
new boards and fresh paint so much that they will not use such houses
until they are old and weathered.”
Again Gray Lady consulted her calendar. “There will be eight Saturday
meetings before the Christmas holidays, and we must all be very
industrious so as to be ready for our fair.”
“Where? what?” cried Sarah Barnes and three or four other girls
together, for to these children on this remote hillside the word “fair”
meant visions of the County Agricultural Fair, and this stood for the
very gayest of times that they knew.
“A little fair of our own to be held in Goldilocks’ playroom and the
workroom where the ‘Kind Hearts’ Club’ will offer its friends
bird-houses, dolls, button-bags, cooking-aprons, and home-made cake and
candy. Then, with the money thus earned, the Club will have a little
fund for its winter work, and each member will, of course, have a vote
as to how the money is to be spent.”
Gray Lady opened a small drawer in her desk, and took from it two
packages of picture cards. The picture on the cards of the first pack
was of a little boy releasing a rabbit that had been caught in a trap.
The picture of the other cards was of a little girl standing in a
doorway, and scattering grain sweepings to the hungry birds on the
snow-covered ground.
“Now, who wishes to join the ‘Kind Hearts’ Club’? We must have some
members before we can elect our officers and begin. The promise you make
is very simple.” On the cards they read only these words: “I promise to
be kind to every living thing.” Under this was a place to write the name
of the member.
“How can we always tell what it is kind to do? Some folks think
different ways,” asked Eliza Clausen, the hat feathers still fresh in
her mind.
“Our hearts must tell us that, Eliza,” said Gray Lady, very gently. “We
cannot carry rules about with us, but, if we have kind hearts always in
our breasts, we shall not make mistakes. And even if our hearts do not
feel for others in the beginning, they may be taught by example, just as
our heads may learn from books. That is what I wish our Kind Hearts’
Club to stand for—to be a reminder that there is nothing better to work
for in this world than that our hearts may be kind and true to
ourselves, each other, and to God’s dumb animals that he has given for
our service and has trusted to our mercy, for this is true worship and
doing His will.”
Each one of the children present signed silently and Gray Lady copied
the names in a book, but let the children keep the cards, both as a
reminder and to show their parents.
Miss Wilde came forward at this moment and she and their hostess
explained the manner of electing officers. Before they trooped out on to
the lawn, even then reluctant to go, Goldilocks had been made president,
Miss Wilde, vice-president, Sarah Barnes, treasurer, and Tommy Todd, who
wrote a very clear, round hand, secretary, Dave, Jared Hill, and the two
Shelton boys, a committee to collect old wood, and Eliza Clausen, Ruth
Banks, and Mary Barnes, a committee to collect odd patterns for
patchwork, something in which the older country folks showed great
ingenuity and took no little pride.
* * * * *
“Oh my, do look at the Swallows—there’s hundreds of them on the wires,”
said Tommy, as Goldilocks was wheeled out on to the front walk to tell
the party “Good-by,” her mother following.
“I wish I knew what really truly becomes of them,” said Sarah Barnes;
“father says nobody knows, though some people say that they go down in
pond mud and bury themselves all winter like frogs, and though you see
them last right by water, I don’t believe it’s likely, do you, Gray
Lady? Though at the end they disappear all of a sudden.”
“It is not only unlikely, but impossible. I think next Friday we will
begin our real lessons with these fleet-winged birds of passage that are
passing now every day and night.”
After the good-bys were said again and again, the children scattered
down the road, talking all together, very much like a twittering flock
of Swallows themselves, and like the birds they were neither still nor
silent until darkness fell. Miss Wilde followed, smiling and happy, for
she had found a friend who not only did not belittle her work in the
hillside school, but showed her undreamed-of possibilities in it.
VIII
THE PROCESSION PASSES
Time—September 20th. Place—The School at Foxes Corners.
These are the stories that Gray Lady told or read from her scrap-book
between September and Flag Day. She allowed them to be copied at Miss
Wilde’s request for the pleasure of the other children in the township.