The birds made tempting
marks; but song-birds were sacred things, and temptation had to be
resisted.
One day while he played in the yard with his little sister,
resentment having turned to devotion, a wren flew down to the wood
pile and began its song. It happened at that very moment he had a
stone in his hand. He didn't quite have time to think before the
stone was gone and the bird dropped dead. Dumb with horror the two
gazed at each other. Beyond doubt all he could now expect was to
go straight to torment. After one long look they turned and walked
silently away in opposite directions. Never afterwards did they
mention the incident to each other.
A new life began for him with his trapping. He learned to fish as
well, for besides being a hunter, his father was an angler of
State-wide reputation. The days on which his father accompanied
him along the banks of the St. Joe, or to some more distant stream,
were very specially happy ones. His cup was quite filled full
when, on the day he was twelve years old, a rifle all his own was
placed in his hands. Father and son then hunted together.
While thus growing intimate with the living things of the woods and
streams, his question was not so much "What?" as "Why?" As reading
came to take a larger part in life and interest to reach out to
human beings, again his question was "Why?" So when other heroes
took their places beside his father for their share of homage, they
were loved and honoured for that which prompted their achievements
more than for the deeds themselves.
