“How do people know what the different birds eat?” asked Mary Frances. “Did someone watch to see what each different bird took for a meal?” “No.” Billy referred to his clipping. “Scientists have examined the contents of the stomachs of the birds, and have learned what food each kind of bird uses. There was a time when people imagined that robins stole so many cherries and berries that it was a good deed to kill them. Now they have found that they destroy so many injurious insects that they do not begrudge them a few cherries. Besides, if mulberry trees are planted nearby, they will prefer their fruit to the cherries.” “Oh, Billy,” cried Mary Frances, “isn’t it wonderful! Not only do birds help us by destroying harmful insects and seeds, but they help us by their beauty. I believe they are the most beautiful of living things! They could have helped us just as much, and have been as ugly as—cutworms.” “Yes,” laughed Billy, “I believe that is so, but it takes a girl to think such things out. The most remarkable fact to me, however, is that without birds we would die of starvation. It has been estimated that if they were absent for one season alone, the United States would lose over $300,000,000, and if they disappeared entirely, agriculture and farming would be impossible within a few years.” “Bees and birds,” commented Mary Frances softly, “keep us from starving. How wonderful it all seems. Why, Billy, it must have all been planned out when God made the world!” “I have thought of that myself, Mary Frances,” said Billy; “it’s one of those thoughts a fellow doesn’t often speak out loud. I don’t know why.” “Everybody ought to take care of birds,” went on Mary Frances. “Surely the reason they don’t, is because they do not understand how wonderfully they help us. Do you recall Miss Carey’s poem—‘An Order for a Picture’? I learned a part of it in my literature course last winter: * * * * * * * “‘Afraid to go home, sir; for one of us bore A nest full of speckled and thin-shelled eggs, The other, a bird, held fast by the legs, Not so big as a straw of wheat: The berries we gave her she wouldn’t eat, But cried and cried, till we held her bill, So slim and shining, to keep her still. “‘At last we stood at our mother’s knee. * * * * * * * You, sir, know That you on the canvas are to repeat Things that are fairest, things most sweet, Woods and corn fields and mulberry-tree, But, oh, that look of reproachful woe! High as the heavens your name I’ll shout, If you paint me the picture, and leave that out.’” “I know just what that means,” said Billy, “for one day—only I’ve never told it, for I knew how it would grieve mother—I killed a little wren. I was quite a little chap and had no real intention of doing such a thing. I aimed a stone at the little thing, and down it came—dead.”