Reuben Skinner, the blacksmith, once said that 
John had been a famous shot when a young man 
and had often killed quail and grouse that used 
to be found about there. So far as most of the 
people could remember, though, he had never 
been known to shoot anything but his neighbors’ 
cats that climbed over his fence and the robins 
that in cherry time came into his trees. He 
especially hated tame squirrels, and twice he had 
passed a week in jail for refusing to pay a fine 
for killing some of these trusting little animals 
that all the children loved to feed. 
Now in the rear of John Baukman’s lot were a 
dozen or more old apple trees. They were 
knotted and twisted and had holes in them. 
Indeed they were just the kind of apple trees 
one might expect to find on such an old worn-out 
place as this. One spring morning, I believe it 
was in May, a kingbird came down out of the 
sky and, alighting on the top twig of one of these 
trees, looked inquiringly about him. He must 
have come a long distance, for a bird that lives 
almost entirely on insects that fly about the 
gardens and trees cannot pass the winter in a 
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