nt of the noble city ladies who had pledged
themselves not to wear us any more.

"Tuesday's paper?" her mother asked; she was busy at the time fastening
a poor, little, mute swallow on a rich hat. "Perhaps it was thrown
behind the counter. Did you want it for any special purpose?"

Polly replied that she wanted to read something in it.

"Well, it is probably torn up by this time," said her mother. "If it
isn't on the table in the back room, or on the shelf by the window, or
behind the counter, I'm sure I don't know where it is."

The young clerk who was arranging the goods on the counter had heard
Polly's inquiry, and she now asked if it was the newspaper that told
about the women who thought it wrong to wear birds. It seemed to me
that Polly hesitated a little as she replied that that was the very
paper she wanted.

"Goodness, child, is that the piece you want to read?" Her mother's
voice sounded rather sharp, as if she were vexed. "I hope that subject
hasn't turned your head too," but she said no more, for just then a
customer coming in, she laid down her work and went forward to greet
her.

Polly looked troubled, but she confided to Miss Katharine that she
wanted very much to read the account.

"Fortunately I cut the piece out to give to my sister. I knew she'd be
interested in it, but I have always forgotten to give it to her," said
the clerk. She seemed to be very much in earnest as she continued, "I
do wish something could be done to save the birds. If women must have
feathers, why can't they content themselves with wearing ostrich tips
and plumes? There is nothing cruel or wicked in the way they are
procured."

She opened the little satchel hanging at her belt, and from it took a
folded slip of paper which she handed to Polly, telling her she might
have it to read, and when she had finished it to please bring it back
to her. Polly thanked her, and ran away to a quiet corner of the back
room, where I saw her slowly reading the clipping as she rocked herself
in her pretty birch chair. When she had read it through, she sat for
some time looking very thoughtful. At last she rose and carried the
paper back to Miss Katharine, halting a moment as she passed my cage,
to whisper softly:

"Dickey Downy, you dear little fellow, I'm going upstairs right this
very minute to take the feathers off my best Sunday hat and I'm never,
never going to wear birds any more."

CHAPTER XII

TWO SLAVES OF