The contagion caught even the magpie, the blackbirds, the Judge himself, who began to sneeze again and again, in the effort to recover his dignity. By fits and starts, the laughter would die down, only to burst out afresh with redoubled vigour, and it was long before the excitement subsided and heads ceased to wag. When at last the audience had recovered something like composure, even then fans could be seen here and there waving to hide behind their shield a last dying echo of hilarity. Meanwhile, the poor buffoon, the butt of all this scathing opprobrium, stood silent and uncomplaining, humbly waiting his chance to speak. Finally, when quiet was restored, he said— “I am aware, your Honour, that men and birds all hold me and mine in detestation. There is no villainy they do not impute to us, no crime they do not charge us with, and when we have the misfortune to show ourselves, the howl of hate rises as high about us as a tower. But are we criminals? Do we lurk in the woods to rob our fellow-birds by night or day? Do we plunder the granaries? Do we go thieving in the hedges? Do we ever interfere with the livelihood of any of God’s creatures with whom He has bidden us live in peace? Never, your Honour, never! All the day we lie quiet in our hole, loving our wives and children, and troubling nobody; then, when night is fallen, we win our nourishment by exterminating rats and mice, field-rats and field-mice. I would hurt no one’s feelings, but it is well to make comparisons sometimes, and I ask myself—Which fulfils the more useful function, he who from dawn to dark scours the orchards, stealing cherries, plums, and pears, so that the countryman, when winter comes, has but the half of the crop he hoped for, or he who, seconding the farmer’s toils with an incessant but unseen activity that wins no reward, secures him the proper reward of his pains?” Protests were heard at these words, the goldfinches and sparrows crying out indignantly— “Ah! he shifts the blame on us, the sly-boots! He knows he can say what he likes here, but outside the Court—why, he durst not so much as look us in the face.” “Oh! but, my good gentlemen,” retorted the orator quietly, “it is no fault of mine if I cannot look at you in the way you wish; a natural infirmity makes it impossible for us to see in daylight; such floods of light beat into the wide pupils of our eyes as would blind us if we had to face the sunshine long. That is the reason why you mocked at us just now, when you saw us disabled by this excess of light, whose rays pricked and pained our eyeballs like so many needles. Would you not feel yourselves at the same painful disadvantage if you were obliged to fly at night, when we owls come and go at our ease, our great pupils serving us as lamps to see by? You would very soon break your heads against a wall, let me tell you!