But I told you this bird had a shield too, and when he lifts up his crest over his head, he shoots out his shield in front of his breast, at the same time, and this shield is something of the same shape as the crest or helmet, only smaller, and always of a lovely bluey-green colour, with a glossy sheen upon it that is just like that upon satin. Yes, _always_, for the colours that go to sleep in the other parts of the Black Bird of Paradise's plumage, keep wide awake in the shield on its breast, or, if you ever do catch them napping, it is only just for a single instant, and then out they flash again, wider awake than ever. So now, if you were to say--as I am sure you would say--that the Black Bird of Paradise was a wonderful, wonderful bird, even if you were to see him with only his crest lifted up, what, ah, _what_ would you say if you were to see him with his crest lifted up and his shield shot out at the same time? Why, I think that then you could not say less than that he was a wonderful, wonderful, _wonderful_ bird--three wonderfuls instead of only two. And indeed you would be right. Yes, he is a wonder, is the Black Bird of Paradise, though I must tell you that he has not any of those long, silky feathers that hang down like cascades and shoot up like fountains, from the sides of those other Birds of Paradise I have been telling you about. And he has no long "funny feathers" in his tail either. You see he cannot have everything, and his crest and shield are instead of those. They are not quite so beautiful, perhaps, but I think they are still more wonderful. Even when his crest--his helmet--is laid down and his shield is not stuck out, the Black Bird of Paradise is a wonder, but when he raises the one up and shoots the other out, both at the same time, and says to the hen, "Look at me!" and all the colours that have been asleep in the helmet, or awake in the shield, gleam and flash and sparkle together, ah, _then_ he is a wonder of wonders. Then, do you think he is a bird that ought to be killed and killed and killed, only to have those beautiful, bronzy-black crests, and satiny-green, gleaming shields of his set in hats where they soon get dull and dusty, and where he can never raise them up or shoot them out or pay proper attention to them--because he is dead, dead, dead? Is he to be killed and killed till he is gone for ever, and there is not one more beautiful Black Bird of Paradise in the whole world? Oh no, no, no; it ought not to be so--it must not, it _shall_ not--because you will prevent it--yes, you. You will turn to your mother now, this minute, if she is there, if she is reading this to you, or, if not, you will run to her--oh, so quickly, so quickly--and ask her, beg her--keep on asking and asking, begging and begging her to promise--till she _has_ promised--never, _never_ to buy a hat that has a beautiful Black Bird of Paradise in it.