So, now, we have saved the White Egrets, as well as all those other birds that I have been telling you of, and that your mother has promised about. But does that save all the beautiful birds in the world? Oh no, for there are ever so many more than I have been able to say anything about, in a little book like this, more--oh, a great many more--than all the Birds of Paradise, and all the Humming-birds, and all the other ones in the other chapters--for, you know, there are not many--put together. And though the Humming-birds and the Birds of Paradise and the White Egrets and the others are, now, quite safe, yet, if your mother does not promise about the rest, people will go on killing them, till there are no more of them left in the world. Think what that would mean! Why, besides hundreds and hundreds of beautiful foreign birds, it would mean all the kingfishers--the star-birds (for there has been no promise about them)--and all the chaffinches and bullfinches and goldfinches and greenfinches--yes, and all the little robin-redbreasts too--being shot and shot, killed and killed, till there were no more of them left, either in England or anywhere else. For, of course, when all the beautiful foreign birds were gone, then the frozen-hearted women would begin to wear our own little birds, here at home, in their hats. You would hear one lady say to another: "I wanted to have a redbreast tippet this winter, but, my _dear_ they are so expensive. You see, hundreds go to one, because there's only the breast, so I'm afraid I must fall back on greenfinch. They're less, of course; you see, there's a greater surface, and they're not quite so rare. But I _did_ so want redbreast!" And, then, the other lady would say: "Well, I think I should manage it if I were you, dear, for, you know, they say there'll soon be no more real redbreast--only imitation. So it's best to get one, whilst there's time." And you may be sure that it would be managed somehow--things like that always are.