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!