sibility for which I was unfit. That is the truth of the matter.
But, had I washed my hands of the affair, had I left the parent birds and the yellow cat to decide the fate of the fledgling between them, should I feel any happier than I do? I trow not.
I wish the little thing, when it tumbled from its nest, had taken some other road than that which led it by the garden window. This summer how many Wiltshire chicks have essayed a too early flight and perished miserably of cold or at the fangs of predatory beasts? Who shall say? I know there must have been many thousands of them. But the knowledge disturbs me no wit. In the same way I know that thousands of human babies die every year because their ignorant fathers and mothers take insufficient care of them. And I cannot pretend that I suffer acutely because of this. But if a child that I loved were among them
It is only because the fate of this particular fledgling was forced on my notice that I am distressed. Being distressed, I feel resentment—but against whom, against what? The chick? That were folly. The parent birds? That were worse. They were getting food for the little thing. They cannot possibly be blamed. Myself remains. Yet, knowing nothing of birds, I was on the horns of a
