Oh, it is wonderful--wonderful! In Africa, where the people believe in witchcraft, one man will throw a spell upon another man that he hates, so that wherever that man goes and whatever he does, he always sees his face, his enemy's face. There it is, always before him, and, at last, he gets so tired of seeing it that he dies, or even kills himself. Of course, he does not _really_ see the face, and his enemy does not _really_ cast a spell upon him, because there is no such thing as witchcraft, _really_; it is all superstition, as I think you know. But as the one man _thinks_ he sees the face, and the other man _thinks_ he is casting a spell upon him, and making him see it, it comes to very nearly--if not quite--the same thing as if it were real, especially as the one man does _really_ die. Ah, if those hats could cast a spell (not quite the same one as that, but something like it), if, wherever the women who wore them went--whether it was to concerts where they heard beautiful music, or to meetings where good things were talked about, or to church where they kneeled down and prayed--they always saw a picture of a nest, with young birds in it, starving--slowly starving! if it was always there, always before them--that pitiful picture--and if the voices came, too--the screams, and then the whispers--"Feed us! feed us!" then, I think, they would take off those hats, and they would not wear them any more. They need not die or kill themselves, they would only have to take off those hats. And they will do that now, because you and every little child in the world will have asked them to. Yes, they will do it now. They will take off those hats--those hats of starvation and murder, of terrible and shameful cruelty--they will leave off wearing them, they will never put them on, again. Those plumes called "ospreys," that one sees everywhere--in streets and in shop-windows, at concerts, at meetings, and in churches--that bend above fine sentiments, that wave over charities and goodnesses, and tremble, softly, in the breath that prayers are made of--they will tear them out of their hats and out of their hair--yes, and out of their hearts too. They will hate them, they will loathe them, and when they say, next time, in church, upon their knees, "Give us this day our daily bread," they will try not to remember them, or only to think that they are unfashionable. Oh, make them unfashionable! for you have not yet, you have not said "promise" yet. Oh, then, at once, at once! Break the spell of the demon, that spell that is so real and so cruel, that spell that kills the soul. Thaw the poor frozen heart, thaw it with your own warm one, with your lips, with your soft hands and arms. Thaw it with the tears in your eyes, as they look up, thaw it with the words that you say, "Mother, do not kill parents, and make children starve! Mother, do not wear 'ospreys!' Oh, mother, promise, promise!"