"I really can't help killing them. I wonder why they were made at all," said Jane.
"But, Jane, do you never think how displeased God must be if you kill even a beetle?" said Grace. "I remember reading somewhere——
'The poor beetle that we tread upon,
In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great
As when a giant dies.'"
"I can't help it," said Jane; "I do hate beetles; and even if they do suffer, I must kill them."
By this time the two girls had come close to the place where Herbert and Charley were, and they heard what Jane said quite plainly. Herbert was about to express his indignation, when Polly called out, "I'm shocked! leave the room! murder! oh dear! oh fie!"
"You may well say so, Polly," said Herbert. "I cannot understand how any one can kill one of God's creatures—more especially a girl."
That afternoon, when the children were busily engaged playing at blowing soap bubbles, Jane stole out into the garden, and crossed over to where Polly was sitting among the bushes. Of late Mrs. Polly had rather enjoyed being set at liberty, and, with Cockatoo, would sometimes defy the cat and her kittens. Coming up to her now, Jane began to tell Polly she never meant to kill an animal or an insect again; and that she meant to strive very hard, in the hope that the good fairy would let her understand the language of the birds.
Herbert, who had been playing as busily as any of his cousins, began to notice that the cockatoo was a good deal afraid of the airy soap bubbles—especially when they lighted on his back—and so he took him off his perch as quietly as possible, not to disturb the game, and carried him away, to place him beside Mrs. Polly. By this means he had overheard Jane's speech.
"I am very glad to hear you say so," he said. "I am sure if you would only take the trouble to examine a little more closely the insects you are so fond of killing, you would be surprised at their beauty. I will lend you my book, if you like. I really cannot understand why boys and girls take such little interest in natural history. Speaking of fairies, you will read of them there in the shape of the butterflies—what can be more fairy-like?—and I will tell you what mamma often says: if we only knew what pleasure we could draw from common objects around us, rainy days would be less dreary, and we should have happier hearts and more contented minds."
"I feel you are right there, Master Herbert," said the cockatoo. "I have felt twice as happy since Mrs. Polly persuaded me to make the most of my present condition; and I ought to have known it by experience—having brought all my troubles upon myself by cherishing a discontented spirit."