Only on the third morning of the voyage was the harmony on board the _Aquila_ disturbed by a passing moment of discord--due to an unexpected addition to the ranks of the passengers, in the shape of a lost bird! It was merely a weary little land-bird (blown out of its course, as the learned in such matters supposed); and it perched on one of the yards to rest and recover itself after its long flight.
The instant the creature was discovered, the insatiable Anglo-Saxon delight in killing birds, from the majestic eagle to the contemptible sparrow, displayed itself in its full frenzy.

The crew ran about the decks, the passengers rushed into their cabins, eager to seize the first gun and to have the first shot.

An old quarter-master of the _Aquila_ was the enviable man, who first found the means of destruction ready to his hand.

He lifted the gun to his shoulder, he had his finger on the trigger, when he was suddenly pounced upon by one of the passengers--a young, slim, sunburnt, active man--who snatched away the gun, discharged it over the side of the vessel, and turned furiously on the quarter-master.

"You wretch! would you kill the poor weary bird that trusts our hospitality, and only asks us to give it a rest?
That little harmless thing is as much one of God's creatures as you are.