The birds eat up our corn," said they.

"They eat our wheat.

They eat our seeds and our cherries.

We will drive away all the birds.
Not one bird shall stay here."
One man loved the birds.

"The birds do not eat many seeds," said he. "It is the bugs and worms that eat them. Birds eat the bugs and worms.

The birds help you. They are your friends.
Think how pretty they are!
Think how sweetly they sing!

You may hear them every morning.

'It is always morning somewhere,

And from shore to shore,

Somewhere the birds are singing ever

more.""

We must be kind to the birds.

If you are not kind, your children will

not be gentle.

God made the birds.

He loves them. We must love them too."

The people did not mind the kind man. They drove all the birds away.

There were no robins or blue-birds left.

All the birds were gone.

But there were many bugs.

There were many caterpillars and worms.

The bugs ate the plants.

The worms ate the leaves of the apple

trees.

They ate the leaves of all the trees.
They got on the people.

The people were sorry that they had sent the birds away.

They wished the birds were back again. But wishing would not bring them back. This is what they did when Spring came. They put a great many cages into a wagon. Then they drove far away to find some birds.

Soon the cages were filled with birds. The wagon was covered with branches. The cages were hung on the branches.

The leaves made it shady and cool for

the birds.

The birds sang all the way.

When they got back, the cages were

opened.

Out flew the birds.

They made nests in the trees.

The people were then glad to see them. They were kind to them.

They knew the birds were their friends.

THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH.

The robin and the bluebird, piping loud,

Filled all the blossoming orchards with their glee ; The sparrows chirped as if they still were proud Their race in Holy Writ should mentioned be.

You slay them all! and wherefore? for the gain
Of a scant handful, more or less, of wheat,
Or rye, or barley, or some other grain,

Scratched up at random by industrious feet,
Searching for worm or weevil after rain.

Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these? Do you ne'er think who made them, and who taught The dialect they speak?

Whose household words are songs in many keys,

Whose habitations in the tree-tops even Are half-way houses on the road to heaven! Remember, too,

'Tis always morning somewhere, and above The awakening continents, from shore to shore, Somewhere the birds are singing evermore.

-Longfellow.