“I know just what that means,” said Billy, “for one day—only I’ve never told it, for I knew how it would grieve mother—I killed a little wren. I was quite a little chap and had no real intention of doing such a thing. I aimed a stone at the little thing, and down it came—dead.”
“Well, Billy, there’s this comfort,” said Mary Frances; “it didn’t suffer. That’s very different from injuring it and letting it live on in agony.”
“Yes,” said Billy, “you see I didn’t understand; boys don’t, I guess.”
“Birds and bees,” Mary Frances repeated, “keep us from starving. I suppose you know of many other beneficial animals or insects.”
“Oh, Billy, let’s have lots of birds in our garden!” she went on.
“Why, how?” asked Billy. “Perhaps we could put food out for them.”
“Yes, but I wasn’t thinking of that. I thought maybe we could put houses where they would build.”
“Of course,” replied Billy; “and we could keep a small bath tub full of water for them.”
“What fun!” exclaimed Mary Frances. “Billy, do you know how to build the right kind of houses for each different kind of bird?”
“No, I do not,” answered Billy; “I know of only a few. They are the ones our manual training teacher showed us. I have some pictures right here in my book. It’s queer I didn’t think of them!”