Motherless Babies 37 



and never had a brighter one dawned, to make 

 glad the earth. If the small boy hadn't had the 

 gun, perhaps he wouldn't have felt so much like 

 flying, but if it were the cause of that wild ex- 

 uberance, it held it in check by its own weight, 

 that pretty effectually kept his feet on the earth. 

 Only one more field to cross, and he would be 

 out on the Point, over which ducks flew between 

 the Lake and inlet, and he would have a try at 

 them, and get them, too, and people would say 

 of him as they said of Simon Kenton, "Our hunter 

 never misses." No, that was almost too much 

 to hope, that he could ever really gain such 

 deathless fame. There had been a law-suit over 

 this land, and the previous year it had not been 

 cultivated at all, but had grown up to weeds, 

 higher than his head. Suddenly, a great bird 

 got up almost at his feet. It seems as though 

 the little Frenchman is at his elbow telling him 

 what to do, and he does it like a flash, and down 

 comes the dead thing not four yards away. Yes, 

 it was like Kenton, he, too, was destined to have 

 that glorious reputation, "Our hunter never 

 missed." But what are these gray shadows at 

 his feet, living things turning into dead leaves, as 

 Pete Jackson had told him Baby Quail could. All 

 this he sees out of the tail of his eye, as he rushes 

 to gather up his prize. A Prairie Chicken, 

 not bad for a first wing-shot, brother Kenton? 



