te of his native country took a hand
in it, my Uncle Peter claimed that it had become a subject of national
importance and that no true patriot could be indifferent to it. Finally
he admitted, in a moment of confidence, that the real reason for his
interest was the fact that so many of his friends were engaged in the
strife, on both sides, and were being badly pummeled; and that he would
like to take some part in it himself. I asked him what part. He
answered that he proposed to himself the part of peace-maker. I pointed
out that this part is usually the most perilous and painful. He said
that this should not deter him from doing his duty, and he added that
he thought he could do it in such a way that no one could tell that he
was doing it. A week later he brought me the following paper, which he
called

THE TRAGEDY OF LITTLE RED TOM:

_A Contribution to the Fight About Nature-Books._

He was the youngest of the family, a late-comer at the feast of
life. Yet the rose-garlands on the table were not faded when he
arrived, and the welcome that he received was not colder, indeed it
was probably several degrees warmer, because he was so tardy, so
young, so tiny.

There was room for him in the household circle; joyous affection
and merry murmurs of contentment greeted his coming. His older
brothers never breathed a word of jealousy or unkindness toward
him. He grew peacefully under the shelter of mother-love; and it
would have been difficult to foresee, in the rosy promise of his
youth, the crimson tragedy in which his life ended.

How dull, how insensible to such things, most men and women are!
They go on their way, busily and happily, doing their work, seeking
their daily food, enjoying their human pleasures, and never
troubling themselves about the hidden and inarticulate sorrows of
the universe. The hunter hunts, and the fisher fishes, with
inconsiderate glee. A man kills a troublesome insect, he eats a
juicy berry or a succulent oyster, without thinking of what his
victims must feel.

But there are some tender and sensitive souls who are too fine for
these callous joys. They no longer imagine that human emotions are
confined to man. They reflect that every plant and every animal is
doomed to die in some way which the average man would regard as
distinctly unpleasant. To them the sight of a chicken-house is full