“I never took eggs away from a bird in my life,” said Frank; but he held his head down, for he thought of the little bird he had taken only a few weeks before.  So he told Jack about it, and how sorry he had felt ever since; but Jack laughed at him, and said: 

“Ah, you are nothing but a chicken-hearted fellow, any way; if you wasn’t always tied to your sister, you might come with us fellows, and have some fun.  Me, and Joe Miller, and Sam White, is going down the meadows, to hunt for more this afternoon, and if you’ll come, we’ll give you some.”

“No, indeed; I wouldn’t go for any thing; and I do wish you would let the poor birds be.  Just think how badly you’d feel if you was a bird, and had a nice little nest of your own, to find your eggs all stolen.”

“Ho, ho,” laughed Jack, “here’s a young parson, preaching to me, who wasn’t too good to help himself to a bird, a few weeks ago, when the old ones did all they could to keep him away from the nest.  Why didn’t you think then how you’d feel if you’d been the bird?—­ha?”

Frank did not answer; but he thought that he had suffered sufficiently for his thoughtlessness, without being taunted with it.  He tried to persuade Jack not to rob any more birds’ nests; but Jack only laughed at him, and told him to run home to his sister, like a good little boy.  Frank was the oldest, and he felt rather vexed at the sneering way in which Jack spoke; but he made no angry answer.

At school time, Frank and Fanny went to school again; but Jack played truant, as he had done in the morning, and went down in the meadows, with the boys, whom he had told Frank he was going with.

Miss Norton asked Frank, if he knew what had kept Jack away from school all day, and he repeated to her, as nearly as he could, the conversation which had taken place between them that noon.

The next morning, when Jack came into school rather late, Miss Norton called him up to her, and told him to read out loud, this piece, from the Village Reader.

    “Have you seen my darling nestlings?”

    A Mother robin cried: 
      “I cannot, cannot find them,
    Though I’ve sought them far and wide

    “I left them well this morning,
      When I went to seek their food;
    But I found upon returning,
      I’d a nest, without a brood.

    “Oh, have you naught to tell me
      To ease my aching breast,
    About my tender offspring,
      That I left within my nest?

    “I have called them in the bushes,
      And the rolling stream beside: 
    Yet they come not at my bidding
      And I fear they all have died.”

    “I can tell you all about them,”
      Said a little wanton boy,
    “For ’twas I that had the pleasure
      Your nestlings to destroy.

    “But I did not think their mother
      Her little ones would miss,
    Or ever come to hail me
      With a wailing sound like this.