Dickey Downy by Virginia Sharpe Patterson


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Page 7

For myself I did not know who Abraham Lincoln was. I had never heard
the name before, but I was quite sure from the proud tone of the
professor's voice that he was a distinguished man, as I was equally
sure from the story of his pity for the helpless bird, that he was a
good man.

"You mentioned the industry of the grakle a moment ago," resumed the
professor. "Do you know that the redwing is equally as useful, and
besides he is a delightful singer?

"The redwing flutes his o-ka-lee.

"Do you remember that line, colonel?" and the professor softly whistled
a strain in imitation of a bird's note. "The services of our little
brothers of the air are exceedingly valuable to the horticulturist.
And think of the damage done to arboriculture by the woodborers alone
were it not for the help given by the birds. Did you ever notice those
borers at work, colonel? Some writer has well described them as
animated gimlets. They just stick their pointed heads into the bark
and turn their bodies around and around and out pours a little stream
of sawdust. The birds would pick off such pests fast enough if people
would only give them a chance and not scare them off with shotguns."

"Yes, the birds earn their way, there is no denying it, and he is a
very stupid farmer who begrudges them the little corn and wheat they
take from the fields. The account is more than balanced by the good
they do." Then the conversation ceased, for the colonel and his friend
moved off to inspect the quince bushes.

Pleased by the praises they had bestowed on us for our efforts in
cleaning the fruit trees and cornfields of injurious insects, I went to
work with new vigor to get out some bugs for my luncheon, and was thus
pleasantly employed when a sharp twitter from my mother attracted my
attention.

"Look, children!" she exclaimed. "Here come our young ladies with some
company from the city. Be careful to notice what they have on their
heads and then tell me what you think of our sweet, pretty ladies."

One of my brothers was swaying lightly on a little swing below me. I
flew down hastily and placed myself on the next bough, where I could
also get a good view of the ladies as they strolled toward us. They
were in a very merry mood and each one seemed striving to say something
more arousing than her companions. Miss Dorothy led the way, her arm
linked in that of one of the stranger guests. Then followed the others
with Miss Katie and Marian hand in hand in the rear. They were all
very handsomely dressed, and having just returned from a drive had not
yet removed their hats.

As they came under the tree where we were perched, which was a favorite
spot with Miss Katie, they halted for some time and consequently I had
an excellent opportunity to look, as my mother had bidden me.

And what did I see?

I saw six ladies' hats trimmed with dead birds. Fastened on sidewise,
head downward, on one was a magnificent scarlet tanager, his body half
concealed by folds of tulle, his fixed eye staring into vacancy. On
another was the head and breast of a beautiful yellow-hammer; it was
surmounted by the tall sweeping plumes of the egret, which this bird
produces only at breeding time. Oh, how much joy and beauty the world
had lost by that cruel deed! A third hat had two song sparrows
imprisoned in meshes of star-studded lace. Their blithesome carol had
been rudely silenced, their cheer to the world cut short, simply that
they might be used for hat trimming. Of the remaining ones some were
as yet unknown to me, but my mother, who had an extensive acquaintance
with foreign birds, said that in that strange murderous mixture of
millinery, far-away Australia had furnished the filmy feathers of the
lyre bird which swept upward from a knot of ribbons, and that the
forests of Germany had contributed the pretty green linnet. Dove's
wings and the rosy breast of the grosbeak completed the barbarous
display.

How my heart sickened as I gazed at these pleasant, refined,
soft-voiced women flaunting the trophies of their cruelty in the
beautiful sunlight.

Had they no compassion for the feathered mother who had been robbed of
her young for the sake of a hat?

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Books | Photos | Paul Mutton | Fri 10th Jan 2025, 7:37