“Well, if that is so, Chummy,” I said, “why don’t men and women take better care of birds, and not let them be killed so much?”
“Give me time to think that over,” said Chummy. “I will answer it some other day. Just now I must take this bread to Jennie,” and he flew away.
That was some days ago, and Chummy has not answered my question yet. I can not wait for him to do so, for I must close my story. Summer days will soon be upon us, and the first duty of a canary to the world is to raise families and not concern himself too much with the affairs of other creatures.
Then something wonderful happened yesterday—a
little egg hatched out in our nest. The whole world for me is swallowed up in that tiny beak. Shall I ever get tired of looking in it? Shall I ever beat my own little first baby bird, and say coldly, “Who are you?” as my father Norfolk said to me?
“Yes, you will,” chirps my faithful Daisy; “but don’t worry about that. It is the way of birds, and it makes us independent. Feed him and love him while you can, and be good to everybody, everybody, everybody,” and as I close my story she is chirping me a funny, jerky little song to cheer me up, for she says Chummy is trying to make a hard-working, worrying sparrow out of me, instead of a gay, cheerful little canary.
“What is that I hear outside?” she said suddenly. “I don’t see why birds sing so loudly when there are young ones in the nest.”
I listened an instant, then I exclaimed, “It’s Vox Clamanti, and he is caroling, ‘Better times for birds, better times for birds, robins ’specially, robins ’specially!’”
“So he has got hold of it too,” said Daisy crossly; “he had better go help poor Twitchtail look for worms—and you, Dicky-Dick, fly
quickly to the table and get some fresh egg food for your own baby. Our Mary is just bringing some in—” and as I did not just fly on the instant, she began to chirp in quick notes, “Feed your baby, feed your baby, baby, baby!—that’s what you’re here for, here for, here for!”