She raised the rifle and flashed a
dagger-like flame into the darkness.
A smothered cry, the shadow leaped the fence and the beat of swift feet
could be heard in the distance.
The Boy clung close to her side and his voice was husky as he spoke:
"Ain't you afraid, Ma?"
The calm answer rang forever through his memory:
"I don't know what fear means, my Boy. It's not the first time I've
caught these prowling scoundrels."
Next morning he saw the dark blood marks on the trail over which the
thief had fled, and looked into his mother's wistful grey eyes with a
new reverence and awe.
IV
The Boy was quick to know and love the birds of hedge and field and
woods. The martins that built in his gourds on the tall pole had opened
his eyes. The red and bluebirds, the thrush, the wren, the robin, the
catbird, and song sparrows were his daily companions.
A mocking-bird came at last to build her nest in a bush beside the
garden, and her mate began to make the sky ring with his song. The
puzzle of the feathered tribe whose habits he couldn't fathom was the
whip-poor-will. His mother seemed to dislike his ominous sound. But the
soft mournful notes appealed to the Boy's fancy. Often at night he sat
in the doorway of the cabin watching the gathering shadows and the
flicker of the fire when supper was cooking, listening to the tireless
song within a few feet of the house.
Pages:
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29