My Boyhood and Youth 



grows up amid savage traits, coarse and fine. 

 When father made out to get us securely locked 

 up in the back yard to prevent our shore and 

 field wanderings, we had to play away the com- 

 paratively dull time as best we could. One of 

 our amusements was hunting cats without 

 seriously hurting them. These sagacious ani- 

 mals knew, however, that, though not very 

 dangerous, boys were not to be trusted. One 

 time in particular I remember, when we began 

 throwing stones at an experienced old Tom, 

 not wishing to hurt him much, though he was 

 a tempting mark. He soon saw what we were 

 up to, fled to the stable, and climbed to the 

 top of the hay manger. He was still within 

 range, however, and we kept the stones flying 

 faster and faster, but he just blinked and 

 played possum without wincing either at our 

 best shots or at the noise we made. I hap- 

 pened to strike him pretty hard with a good- 

 sized pebble, but he still blinked and sat still 

 as if without feeling. "He must be mortally 

 wounded," I said, "and now we must kill him 

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