Love on the Line - Deeanne Gist [31]
Georgie tried not to gloat, but she knew the catchy waltz would be yodeled in their homes for several weeks to come, reminding them what a treasure the cuckoo bird was. Cuckoos which filled Brenham’s trees and yards.
Jana flushed with pleasure in response to the robust round of applause.
Thanking her, Georgie stepped to the front. “Bird life is disappearing from the United States.”
A hush fell over the room.
“Our songbirds, plumage birds, tropical birds, and waterfowl are shot in cold blood for no other reason than the barbaric purpose of decorating women’s hats.”
She looked around, glad to see the women had heeded the instructions in her invitation: No clothing or hats with bird parts were to be worn to the meeting, though many of the women owned such garments.
“I have stood in our own churchyard and heard many bemoan the mistreatment of a horse or dog. Yet the deliverer or sympathetic listener of this woe stood wearing the wings, plumes, heads—if not the entire carcass—of innocent birds. Our birds. The birds of popular song.”
Some lowered their eyes. Others wielded their fans, partially shielding their faces.
She continued giving examples, statistics, then anecdotes about her backyard birds. Finally, she called for action.
“I propose we wage a war against the businesses who profit from wholesale bird slaughter, starting with Mr. Ottfried’s millinery.” She picked up a piece of paper. “This is a pledge to cease wearing bird-bedecked hats. If everyone signs this vow, it will cripple, if not completely end, our milliner’s need for the carnage of birds.”
Mrs. Oodson, a frail-looking woman with the busiest tongue in town, pinched her lips together. “But Norma Ottfried is a member of Kaffeklatsch. To wage war against Ottfried Millinery is to wage war against Norma.”
A murmur rippled through the room. Kaffeklatsch had started out as time to share coffee and gossip. And though it had developed into an official ladies’ society where fashion, literature, and recipes were discussed, its primary function was to gossip. Mrs. Oodson had been reigning chairwoman for an unprecedented three years.
“I’m not trying to put Mr. Ottfried out of business,” Georgie assured. “I’m simply trying to eradicate bird parts from his inventory.”
“Nevertheless, if we must choose between losing a few birds or offending one of our own, I’m afraid we’ve no choice but to sacrifice the birds.”
Georgie forced herself to use a gentle tone. “We aren’t sacrificing the birds, Mrs. Oodson, we’re slaughtering them, murdering them, blotting them completely out of existence.”
Mrs. Whitchurst, a full-bodied woman in her fifties, tsked. “Now, Georgie. There’s no such thing as murdering a bird. God gave us dominion over all the animals to do with as we see fit. And that includes putting an animal down when the situation calls for it.”
“Our songbirds are not in need of being put down.”
Mrs. Dimple raised her hand. Her husband ran the local poultry farm. And though Georgie had heard pet owners often resembled their animals, she hadn’t seen it firsthand until meeting Mrs. Dimple. Her eyes bugged out, her nose hooked, and loose folds hung from her chin. “Tell me, dear. Do you ever eat chicken? Or eggs? Or use eggs in your recipes?”
Georgie released a huff of breath. “Chickens are not birds.”
A murmur of laughter scattered throughout the room.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I mean, of course they’re birds, but they aren’t being massacred so fashion-conscious women can parade them about on their heads.”
“No, that’s true. But they are being slaughtered every day in order to supply sustenance for our bodies, and eggs are whisked from mothers’ nests morning after morning. As I consider this pledge, I’m wondering if you might someday ask the ladies of Brenham to sign a similar vow about chickens. And if they did, what would happen to me, Myron, and our passel of little ones?”
“And