“What are you reading, Billy Boy, all alone to yourself?” asked
Somebody one evening after supper.
“Story about an old grey and white sea-gull that got mixed up
with some crude oil which a ship had thrown out, and got his
feathers so covered with it that he could neither swim nor fly,”
answered the boy named Billy, “and how some children fed him and
took care of him until he got a new coat of feathers; he was sure
in a bad fix, only for their kindness.”
“I was reading in a book about birds the other day,” said Big
Sister, “that the gull is a protected bird, but it did not state
why. I suppose on account of its beauty, isn’t it?”
“Not entirely,” said Somebody. “They are splendid scavengers,
and are protected on that account--your friend the gull who got
into trouble, Billy, was very likely following the vessel for
the things thrown out from the kitchen--but outside of that they
ought to be protected on account of their grace and beauty and
the life and movement that they give to the upper air. They are,
as far as I know, the only birds in the world to have a monument
erected to them, and not a small one either but a great shaft of
granite.”
“Oh, say, Somebody,” said the boy named Billy, “you’re so much
better than any story book--what about these wonderful birds?”
“It was like this,” said Somebody. “When the Mormons went all
the way across the sands of the desert, to improve the land on
the shores of the Great Salt Lake in Utah, they met with many
hardships and discouragements. After two years, when they had
succeeded in getting water on the land, had planted things that
were growing beautifully, and even had fields of waving grain
which they were looking forward to harvesting, young fruit
orchards started and vegetables growing, it seemed like a dream
come true.”
“I’ll say so,” said the boy named Billy.
“Well, then,” said Somebody, “just as they had all those things
and were as happy as could be, waiting for harvest time, and
working at building more homes, along came a plague of black
crickets, and began to devour every growing thing in sight. The
crickets ate anything and everything. When the fields no longer
looked promising they began on the clothing and bedding. It was
impossible to hang out the family washing, because a drove of
these hungry crickets would swoop down on it and leave a trail of
gnawed holes.
“The people fought the pests with every weapon they had, but it
did no good, and they had to simply stand by and see everything
eaten and destroyed.
“When everything they knew of had been done, there was sent out
a call for the people to come into the middle of town for prayer
that the scourge might be lifted.
“All day long they prayed--and just before evening there came
a white cloud from the west which proved to be _millions_ of
sea-gulls, every one of which had brought along a perfectly
good appetite for black crickets, and before you could say Jack
Robinson there wasn’t a single cricket left to tell the tale.
Right then and there, those poor Mormon farmers turned the prayer
meeting into a day of Thanksgiving.
“In fact, so thankful were they that they built in Temple Square
in Salt Lake City a beautiful granite monument called The
Monument To The Sea-Gulls, and declared the sea-gull to be the
sacred bird of Utah forever.”
“Well, _could_ you blame ’em?” said the boy named Billy.