“What about the slaves who rebel at first and afterward yield?”

“Oh, they denounce the god very severely when he lays down some new law they don’t happen to like, but as all the other slaves are obediently complying with it they dislike to be set off by themselves as different, and so they reluctantly give in after a time.  Sometimes they try to compromise with the god by going half-way.”

I inquired what the other slaves thought of that.

“They mildly tolerate them,” said she.  “Sometimes they look askance at them when they meet, and try to show their superiority as being obedient, full-blooded, genuine slaves, while the others are only lukewarm servants of the monarch!”

I wondered how the slaves regarded the woman who was independent and wouldn’t worship the god.

My mother twittered softly at my question, and I knew she was smiling to herself.  “Why,” said she, “they call that kind of a woman a crank—­whatever that is.”

It was very evident that this god Fashion was a cruel tyrant, and it was clearly through his influence that we were killed, and I so told my mother.  She looked very sorrowful as she replied: 

“Yes, the women do not hate us.  They do not dislike to hear our pretty songs; they have no revenge to gratify; but the god orders them to have us killed, and they do it.  He tells them that to wear our poor mutilated dead bodies will add to their appearance, and so we are sacrificed on the altar of their vanity and silly pride.  As members of humane societies women have denounced the docking of horses’ tails as cruel, but from what I know of woman’s indifference to the sufferings of the innocent birds, I venture to assert that were Fashion to say that she should trim her cloak with horse tails there would not be left an undocked horse in the country.”

I knew my mother was very excited or she would never have been so vehement.

“Just hear how those birds twitter,” remarked one of the ladies, looking up into our tree.  “One would think they were holding an indignation meeting over something.”

“Yes, the dear little things; I love to hear them chirp,” commented Miss Katie, turning a sweet glance toward us, and then the party moved to go and we saw the six hats loaded with their mournful freight file off to the house.  We followed the retreating hats with sad eyes till they were lost to view.

My brother broke the silence by asking, “Are there any Christian women who wear birds, and are among the god’s worshipers?”

My mother’s manner grew very grave and solemn.  “That is not for me to say,” she replied.  “They know whether they are guiltless of our wholesale slaughter, and they know too, how the gentle, merciful Christ regarded us when he declared that ’not a sparrow is forgotten before God.’”

CHAPTER IV

DICKEY’S COUSINS