Little heads hung down with dull eyes that had glistened only a short time before, and teeny claws curled up — gripping nothing. Tears came to Blinky’s eyes. Something terrible had happened. The bush he knew was so kind, everything was alive and sparkling, rustling with life and twittering with gladness; but here everything was still and songless, except for the dreadful fight that was in progress. Two butcher-birds were fighting savagely, each trying to knock the other out of the tree. At last Blinky could not bear to look on any longer.

“Here, you two birds,” he shouted, “stop fighting and pecking one another.”

He really felt terribly brave, but was surprised to hear his own voice sounding so loud.

“Oh, it’s funny nose!” called out one of the butcherbirds.

“What do you think you’re doing in our tree?”

Blinky thought very quickly for a moment, then, summoning up all his courage, replied:

“I just called to show you my knickerbockers!”

“Is that the name of the funny looking thing on your face?” called back the rude butcher-birds again.

This was too much for Blinky. He scrambled on to the branch where the birds stood, and glared at them savagely.

“I might have a funny nose,” he cried, “but I’ve got very sharp claws.”

The butcher-birds twittered and trembled. Their hooked beaks opened with fright and they clung to the tree very tightly.

“What’s all the noise about?” Blinky demanded in a gruff tone.

“Well, you see — it’s this way,” the largest bird began. “Mrs Possum is holding a bazaar in aid of the poor rabbits who came through the bush-fire. Their homes have been wiped out and all the grass burnt, so that there is no food. Some even had their whiskers and tails singed.”

“What’s all the noise about?” Blinky demanded in a gruff tone.

“They shouldn’t have whiskers and tails,” Blinky remarked. “Look at me — no tail — no whiskers. Tails are stupid things,” he said rudely, gazing at the butcher-birds’ tails. “Always getting in the way and making animals squeak and yelp when they’re trodden on. And, besides, think of the extra washing to be done; as it is my ears take an awful time to clean.”

“What polish do you use for your nose?” the butcher-birds asked.

“No polish,” Blinky grunted, “only paws.” But feeling the conversation was becoming personal he asked more about the bazaar.

“Look at me — no tail — no whiskers.”

“Where is the bazaar to be held?”

“Down in the gully,” both birds echoed.

“What’s a bazaar, anyway?” Blinky asked, pretending not to be very interested.

“We all sell things and make things, and there’s lots to see and hear. Last bazaar Mrs Thrush sang for us, and Gertrude Spider spun her finest web and showed us how to catch flies, and Mrs Spotty Frog’s pupils gave an exhibition of jumping.”

“Yes,” chimed in the other butcher-bird, “and just to make things more exciting Mrs Snake shed her skin, her very own skin — even the part that covered her eyes!”

“It must have been wonderful!” exclaimed Blinky in wonderment. “And what did you do?”

“We help to supply the supper,” said the big bird, “and that’s just what we were talking about when you came along.”

“It seemed to be an angry talk,” Blinky replied.

“It’s all your fault!” the little bird piped looking at his companion. “He stole my nicest bird that took me hours and hours to catch.”

“Stuff and nonsense!” croaked the big bird. “Look at the fine birds I’ve caught, and yours was such a teeny thing.”

“But it has the brightest feathers,” complained the little bird.

“I think you’re both very cruel,” said Blinky, looking at the rows of dead birds. “If I had a gun I’d shoot you!”

Hearing this, the big bird put back his head and pealed with laughter. Blinky stood amazed. Such beautiful clear flute-like notes rang through the air. There was Mr Butcher-bird, the cruellest of birds, singing as no other bird could sing, except of course, Mrs Thrush. Note after note rang out and his mate joined in the chorus. The trees seemed to hush their rustling leaves to listen to such beautiful music.

When the song had finished all thoughts of unkindness had left Blinky’s mind. Everything had its own way of being cruel and kind he thought, and after all he must not say rude things to the butcher-birds as he wanted to see the bazaar.

He sat down in a corner of the tree and presently began to nod his little head. His eyes blinked and wouldn’t stay open. The tree was so comfortable and he was so tired. He fell asleep and into dreamland. A dreamland of bears.