“We are sorry,” cried all the children, and their cry still sounded as the picture faded away.
“Who gives the kiss of forgiveness? Will they ever get the kiss?” asked Kitty anxiously, for she had changed her mind about the punishment.
“There is one day in the year when every child can get it,” said the pale lady.
Before Kitty could ask another question she saw that another picture was appearing in the fog. The ground was strewn with pretty feathers of birds, with smashed speckled eggs, with cozy nests all spoiled. Hosts of lovely butterflies flapped about with crushed wings that thoughtless little hands had broken. Dream pussies, looking starved and in pain, haunted the place, curving their backs as if coming to be stroked and to rub themselves against friendly legs. Faithful-eyed dogs limped about. The mist seemed full of pipings of sorrowing birds, of reproachful mews, of pitiful whines, and all the children seemed grieved. Kitty recognized some of those who had dragged her along and would have robbed the bird’s nest.
“I know those are the cruel children. I hope they will be well punished,” said Kitty.
“They are punished. Look at their tears,” said the pale lady. “They did not know the pain they gave, because they did not think. Now they know when they have killed one of God’s dear innocent creatures they cannot mend it again, as a toy can be mended. They cannot mend the butterflies’ wings. They cannot give back the poor little yellow-beaked young to the grieving parent birds.”
Kitty saw that some of the children were shutting their ears not to hear the pipings and other cries of pain; others closing their eyes not to see the dead birds, the wounded cats and dogs. She presently perceived that a little girl was speaking to her. She recognized the child who could not speak distinctly, who had killed the butterfly.
“I am always seeing it. It flaps about me,” moaned the baby voice. “It keeps saying to me here, ‘I was so merry that day. The sun was shining and I was going to see how my friends the daisies were getting on, and if the buttercups were golden as yesterday. I was playing, as you love to play, and just as I was merriest, with the sunshine on my wings, you came and struck me like a big hammer. I had never done you any harm, and I was so merry.’ Oh, I wish I could make it live again! I wish I could make it live again!” moaned the baby voice.”
“The birds are worse, whose nests you have robbed, and whose little ones you have killed,” cried a boy. “They keep flying about you. They won’t leave you alone. They scream in your ear, ‘Good, good world! happy, beautiful world, but for the cruel children in it.’”
“It is I who am the most miserable,” sobbed another boy.