were hatched every year without me to rear them. At the same time, I
had a general idea that grown-up people always _did_ throw cold water
on splendid plans like mine; so I was more indignant than surprised
when my friend the curate tried to show me that it was quite
impossible to do as I wished. The end of all his arguments was that I
must leave the nest in its place. But I had a great turn for
disputing, and was not at all inclined to give up my point. "You told
me on Sunday," I said, pertly, "that we were never too little to do
kind things; let me do this."

"If I could be sure," he said, looking at me, "that you only wish to
do a kind thing."

I got more angry and rude.

"Perhaps you think I want to kill them," I said.

He did not answer, but taking both my hands in his, said, gravely,
"Tell me, my child, which do you wish most--to be kind to these poor
little birds? or to have the honour and glory of having them, and
bringing them up?"

"To be kind to them," said I, getting very red. "I don't want any
honour and glory," and I felt ready to cry.

"Well, well," he said, smiling; "then I know you will believe me when
I tell you that the kindest thing you can do for these little birds is
to leave them where they are. And if you like, you can come and sit
here every day till they are able to fly, and keep watch over the
nest, that no naughty boy may come near it--the curate, for instance!"