The children came back from Sunday school with muffled laughs and whispers. I knew they were upto something but wouldn’t tell me until I solemnly promised on all that was holy that I wouldn’t breathe a word of disapproval.I did and then they told me of a little bird ,a sparrow to be specific,they’d rescued on the way back from Sunday School. It was almost dead but the rescuers believed they could save it .They ran about getting water for it to drink, tried to find a box for it to sleep.M whistled a lullaby for it in ‘bird language”,( which I must admit he was pretty good at, I mean the whistling.)while A ran around getting soft towel to let it sleep. “Should I switch on the fan mumma?” he asked, before I could say something , his face turned somber and dark , the way it always does when things take an unexpected turn. ‘Mom’, he said trying hard to hold back tears,’ it looks like its dead’. I peered into the flat box they’d kept it in.Sadly it was.We buried it in our little garden. The poor boys were soo upset.