Once upon a time, nearly seventy years ago, a little boy in a New
England town was given a gun on the condition that he must not shoot any
birds except those that robbed the corn fields. In those days farmers
thought that the crow, brown thrasher and crow-black-bird stole so much
grain that it was right to kill them and therefore a bounty, large for
that time, of twenty-five cents was offered for every crow destroyed.
Nowadays we are wiser and this very boy who has grown into a tall, gray
haired, tender-hearted man, says that there is not a bird living that is
not more of a blessing than a curse.
But to go on with my story. The little gunner went out one day to see
what he could hit with his new gun. About a quarter of a mile from the
house he spied a little bird in a tree on the edge of the woods. He took
aim and fired. He did not kill the bird, did not even seriously wound
it, only injured one of its wings. The bird dropped down at his feet and
began chirping and scolding as if to demand an explanation.
The boy tried to get away but every time he moved aside the poor little
outraged creature hopped in his path, never ceasing his vehement,
indignant protest against the unwarrantable deed.
Finally the conscience-smitten boy, seeing that there was no escape for
him and pitying the wounded condition of the bird, killed it outright,
carrying away in his throat a great lump and in his heart a sharp pain
that will never die out. Although he is now over eighty years of age he
says that he would gladly give all the money he owns if he could undo
that one thoughtless act.
When a bird can say so plainly that his life is his own and no one has a
right to wantonly take it from him, what must have been the thought of
that bird’s loving Creator, without whose knowledge and pity not even a
sparrow falls to the ground!
Fannie Skelton Bissell.