JOHN ATWOOD. 33 



in the purchase of a gun, which could be bought for $1.50. 

 It was an old flintlock musket that had been altered to 

 percussion, and we bought it. A grand hunt was ar- 

 ranged, and off we went. By drawing lots it was decided 

 that I was the first to carry the gun until game was shot 

 at, and then it was to be passed to the next. No knight 

 who, after watching his armor alone all night, girded it 

 on for the first time to engage in tournament or battle, 

 was prouder than I at shouldering the musket after John 

 had loaded it; nor did Natty Bumpo ever scan the dis- 

 tance for sign of Mingo keener than my eyes penetrated 

 each bush and thicket for game. At last I saw it! We 

 were in a road between two rail fences, and the game was 

 in plain sight a few feet beyond a fence. Slowly I crept 

 up after John had cocked the gun until the fence offered 

 a rest, and the game appeared unconscious a tribute to 

 my cautious approach. Surely I was destined to be a 

 mighty hunter! Be still, my heart, your beating may 

 destroy my aim! The game was fully ten feet from the 

 muzzle and deliberation was necessary. A long sighting 

 of the gun, and the trigger was pulled. "Hurrah ! I killed 

 him! I killed him!" and jumping the fence I picked up 

 what had been a beautiful little summer yellowbird which 

 had been picking the seed from a thistle-top, wholly un- 

 conscious of danger, but now a stringy mass of flesh, bone 

 and feathers. Reviewing this feat in more mature life, it 

 looks this way: "If some kind-hearted man had then ap- 

 peared and taken that gun and broken it on the fence, 

 and then whaled me with the ramrod, he might have 

 taught me that the life of that little bird was as valuable 

 to him, and perhaps to the world, as my own, and it had 

 been killed to serve no useful purpose. Oh! ye unthink- 

 ing fathers who use guns for what we call legitimate 

 sport, do not give your boy a gun. A boy is a savage. 



