This incident was only yet another instance of the tenderness of
woman's nature, and I could not reconcile it with what my mother had
told me.

"No, no," I repeated as I cuddled my head under my wing, "never can I
believe that woman, tender-hearted woman, who is all love and mercy,
all gentleness and pity, never can I believe she is our enemy." And
resolving to ask my mother to more fully explain her unjust assertion I
fell asleep.

But a source of fresh anxiety arose which for a time caused me to
forget the matter.

The lindens which fringed the wood were now in full leafage, adorned
with their delicate ball-like tassels, and hosts of birds flitted among
them daily. Many of them were of the kind frequently known as indigo
birds, smaller than the ordinary bluebird. In color they were of the
metallic cast of blue which has a sheen distinct from the rich shade
seen on the jay's wings or the brilliance of the bluebird. Flashing in
and out among the hanging blossoms their beautiful blue coats made them
an easy target for the boys who attended the neighborhood country
school.

[Illustration: The Indigo Bird.]

To bring down a sweet songster with a shower of stones, panting and
bleeding to the ground, they thought was the best sport in the world,
and the woods rang and echoed with their whoops and cheers as each poor
bird fell to the earth. A mere glimpse of one of the blue beauties as
he hid among the leaves seemed to fire these cruel children with a wish