the sale of aigrettes." Another man, named Woodrow
Wilson, whose courage also was so great that he always did what he
believed to be right, would not permit, when he was Governor of New
Jersey, a company to sell aigrettes in that State; he said, "I think New
Jersey can get along without blood-money."

Many another great man, besides, served the cause of Ardea. So many, in
fact, that there is not room here to tell about them all. But there is
room to say that the children helped. For, you know, every Junior
Audubon Society sends money to the National Association of Audubon
Societies--not much, but a little; and when the Knight of the Snowy
Heron was killed, that little helped the National Association to hire
another soldier to take his place. Now, think of that! There was another
soldier who so believed in the Herons' right to life and plumage, that
he was ready to protect them though it meant certain danger to himself!

Yes, there is to this very day a soldier at Heron Camp. Do you know a
way to keep him safe? Why, you children of America can do it if you
will, and it need not cost one of you a penny. You can do it with your
minds. For if every girl makes up her mind for good and all that she
will never wear a feather that costs a bird its life; and if every boy
makes up his mind for good and all that he will never be a
feather-hunting dragon--why there will not be _anybody_ growing up in
America to harm Ardea, will there? You can keep the Soldier of Heron
Camp safe by just wishing it! That sounds wonderful as a fairy story
come true, does it not? And like the knight in some old fairy tale,
could not Ardea's new Soldier "live happily forever after"?

IX

THE FLYING CLOWN

There are many accounts of the flying clown, in books, nearly all of
which refer to him as bull-bat or nighthawk, and a member of the
Goatsucker or Nightjar family. But he wasn't a bull and he wasn't a bat
and he wasn't a hawk and he wasn't a jar; and he flew more by day than
by night, and he never, never milked a goat in all his life. So for the
purposes of this story we may as well give him a name to suit ourselves,
and call him Mis Nomer.

He was a poor skinny little thing, but you would not have guessed it to
see him; for he always wore a loose fluffy coat, which made him look
bigger and plumper than he really was. It was a gray and brown and
creamy buff-and-white sort of coat, quite mottled, with a rather plain,
nearly black, back.