the river told the meadow,
And the meadow told the bee,
That the tender buds were swelling
On the old horse-chestnut tree.

And the bee shook off its torpor,
And it spread each gauzy wing,
As it flew to tell the flowers
Of the coming of the spring.

THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH

I

It was spring. The apple trees and the cherry trees were pink and white
with blossoms. They filled the air with fragrance. The maples were red,
and on the oak and poplar the buds were swelling. The brooklets were
rushing and leaping on toward the sea.

It was spring everywhere. The robin and the bluebird were piping sweetly
in the blossoming orchard. The sparrows were chirping, and hungry crows
were calling loudly for food. The farmers of Killingworth were plowing
the fields, and the broken clods, too, told of spring.

A farmer heard the cawing of the crows and the song of the birds.

He said, "Did one ever see so many birds? Why, when we plant our seeds,
these birds will take them all. When the fruit ripens, they will destroy
it. I, for one, wish there were no birds, and I say kill them all."

Another farmer said, "Yes, let us call a meeting of the people of the
village and decide what is to be done with the pests."

The meeting was called, and all came: the squire, the preacher, the
teacher, and the farmers from the country round about.

Up rose the farmer who had said he wished there were no birds.

"Friends," he said, "the crows are about to take my field of corn. I put
up scarecrows, but the birds fly by them and seem to laugh at them. The
robins are as saucy as they can be. Soon they will eat all the cherries
we have. I say kill all birds; they are a pest."

"So say I," said another farmer.

"And I," said another.

"And I," "And I," came from voices in every part of the hall.

The teacher arose and timidly said:

"My friends, you know not what you do. You would put to death the birds
that make sweet music for us in our dark hours: the thrush, the oriole,
the noisy jay, the bluebird, the meadow lark.

"You slay them all, and why? Because they scratch up a little handful of
wheat or corn, while searching for worms or weevils.

"Do you never think who made them and who taught them their songs of
love? Think of your woods and orchards without birds!

"And, friends, would you rather have insects in the hay? You call the
birds thieves, but they guard your farms. They drive the enemy from you