In one there was a pretty little rose-tree.

I paused to admire its lovely blossoms.
'Oh, never mind that!' said he, contemptuously.

'That's only _Mary Ann's_ garden; look, THIS is mine.' After I had observed every flower, and listened to a disquisition on every plant, I was permitted to depart; but first, with great pomp, he plucked a polyanthus and presented it to me, as one conferring a prodigious favour.

I observed, on the grass about his garden, certain apparatus of sticks and corn, and asked what they were.
'Traps for birds.' 'Why do you catch them ?' 'Papa says they do harm.' 'And what do you do with them when you catch them ?' 'Different things.

Sometimes I give them to the cat; sometimes I cut them in pieces with my penknife; but the next, I mean to roast alive.' 'And why do you mean to do such a horrible thing ?' 'For two reasons: first, to see how long it will live--and then, to see what it will taste like.' 'But don't you know it is extremely wicked to do such things?
Remember, the birds can feel as well as you; and think, how would you like it yourself ?' 'Oh, that's nothing! I'm not a bird, and I can't feel what I do to them.' 'But you will have to feel it some time, Tom: you have heard where wicked people go to when they die; and if you don't leave off torturing innocent birds, remember, you will have to go there, and suffer just what you have made them suffer.' 'Oh, pooh! I shan't.