“Oh, I don’t know, I don’t know!” I said. “I never was in such a position. I am only a young bird. There has always been enough good food for us all in the bird-room. I don’t think I could hurt another bird to save my own young ones, but I don’t know.”
“Of course you don’t know,” said Chummy bluntly. “You never do know what you’ll do till you run up against some dreadful trouble; but I tell you, Dicky, I’ve made up my mind never to beat another wild bird. I’ll move away first.”
“That’s right, Chummy,” I said. “Those words have a nice sound.”
“The bird question is a queer question,” said Chummy. “I’ve heard old, old sparrows talk about it. They said that birds and beasts when left to themselves keep what is called the balance of nature, but when man comes in, he begins to make gardens and orchards, and plants
strange things and shoots wolves and foxes and bears and deer and birds, and brings into the country odd foreign insects-—”
“Why, Chummy,” I said, “how can he do that?”
“They come on grain and plants he gets from lands over the sea. Now, if he shoots the birds, they can’t eat the insects, so his grain suffers.”
“Well,” I said, “I understand that, but I don’t understand why he should not shoot wild beasts like wolves and foxes.”
“I don’t say that he shouldn’t, I merely say he does it, and suffers for it, because those animals kill little animals like mice and hares and squirrels which get into his crop. I’m trying to explain to you, Dicky, that man is great and wonderful, but very upsetting. Now, he is talking of wiping out sparrows and I say, ‘Don’t wipe out any creatures. Keep them down.’”
“Now I understand,” I said, “and I suppose you would say, ‘Don’t even put an end to cats, for they do some good.’”