“Hair!” shrieked the old Mother-bird, “HAIR!! Feathers, you mean. Hair, indeed! As though any chick of mine ever had hair!”
“But—am I a chick of yours?” cried Coppertop, feeling that some terrible change must have taken place.
“I suppose so,” replied the old Bird; “but I never could count.”
“And am I—am I like the other chicks?”
“Like as two rice!” replied the old Mother-bird, as she dropped a worm into one of the ever-open beaks.
This was all such terrible and confusing news to the poor child, that her brain failed to grasp it at once.
“And what kind of a bird are you?” she asked, for she had never seen one like it before.
“An UN-KIND, if you ask any more foolish questions!” snapped the old Mother-bird.
“Just as if you didn’t know that we are all Scarecrows!” she added.
“Oh, I know I’m a plain little thing!” said Coppertop, tearfully, “but I never thought I was a Scarecrow before.”