It was spring, and the little town of Killingworth told of the joy of
living again. Every little rivulet had broken from its frozen chain,
which had held it fast during the long winter, and was rushing on,
rejoicing at its freedom. The purple buds, holding wonderful secrets of
things to come, were bursting forth from every tree and bush, while from
the topmost boughs the birds called and sang to their mates: "Oh! be
happy, be happy, for spring has come!"

There were all the messengers of spring--the robin, the oriole, and the
bluebird--filling the orchard with their glad melody. The little sparrow
chirped in glee for the very joy of living, and the hungry crows, in
great crowds, called loudly the tidings of spring. But not long could
they stop to sing, for the homes must be made, and soon from every tree
and bush could be seen these dainty, downy nests, and in every nest the
eggs, and in every egg a wonderful secret about which all the happy
birds twittered and sang together.

The farmers, as they plowed their fields and made their gardens that
spring, heard these tree-top concerts, and saw the multitude playing and
working about them, and they shook their heads and said: "Never before
have we had so many birds in Killingworth. We must surely do something,
or they will eat up half of our crops, and take the grain and fruits
that should go to feed our own children." Then it was decided to have a
meeting. All in the town were free to come, and here they were to decide
what was to be done with the troublesome birds. The meeting was held in
the new town hall, and to it came all the great men of the town, and
from far and near the farmers gathered. The great hall was crowded. The
doors and windows were open, and through them came a beautiful flood of