"Was that how it happened?"
"Sure. I've seen the boys throwing stones up the trees, but it ain't often they bring down a bird."
Making a tremendous effort, the bird flew on to a low branch of the birch. Amid the young green leaves its dress of orange and black showed gayer than ever. It reminded Hertha of one of Ellen's children, a little girl with shining black face and bright black eyes, who used to wear as a kerchief her mother's bandana. She was like a bird herself, swift of movement, trilling with song.
"It was a mean thing to do," Hertha cried indignantly as she watched the warbler flutter and fall to the ground again. "Why couldn't they let it stay in the tree top? I suppose the boys think it's fun to bring it down with a stone."
"Sure," said Bob cheerfully.
"Don't you do it," his companion commanded. "Can't you see how it hurts? It's crippled through no fault of its own."
"What do you think'll happen?" Bob asked, a little anxiously. Hertha's tone was making an impression on him.
"I'm afraid it will die. Any animal can seize it now."
"I tell you what." Bob's face brightened. "I'll catch it and put it in our old canary cage. Our bird's dead now, and we can feed this and hear it sing."
He crouched to make a sudden spring, but Hertha held him back. "Don't!" she said.