By three o'clock the party reached Cather Springs, which was nothing but the home of an old mountaineer—a quaint little log cabin, a barn, and a corral, in which stood two very patient, tired-looking donkeys and a large, raw-boned mountain horse. A little to one side of the cabin stood the spring house—a low, rustic affair, built of young trees. A slab-door stood slightly ajar, and through the opening there came the voice of a woman, softly singing to herself. A thin column of gray smoke was curling gently from the rough stone chimney. At one side of the house, in the shade of a great pine tree, was nestled a little flower garden that gave every sign of having had careful attention each day. On the back stoop was stretched out, at full length, a husky Collie dog. He was evidently asleep, for he did not stir as the boys came down the trail toward the picturesque little cabin.
"Great Caesar's ghost!" exclaimed Ham. "Take a peep at a few of those jay-birds. I never saw so many in my life. I'll bet the lady feeds them. Watch me knock that saucy fellow off that dead limb."
He raised his gun and shot. There was an awful scolding, jabbering, and flapping of wings, but no deaths—fortunately for Ham. The dog came to life in less than a second, and expressed himself freely on the imprudence of such an interruption to his mid-day nap. Likewise, the spring-house door suddenly opened and out popped a funny, little old lady.
"Boys, boys!" she called in a high, quavering voice, "don't shoot the blue jays. It does beat all how right-down destructive all boys are, anyway—shooting poor, harmless little birds for sport." The jays, on hearing the familiar voice of their benefactress, began to alight in twos and threes close by, and approved her every word with as much vigor as their tiny throats could command. The little old lady came straight toward Ham.
"Young man," she cried, as she shook her long, bony finger in his face, "young man, who ever gave you the right to come into this beautiful wilderness to maraud and murder and kill such beauties as them jays that God has put in these woods to be companions and friends to us lonely mountain folks? Who do you s'pose built this here canyon and that green meadow and this little spring and these hills, and all the little wild folks as lives in 'em? I should think you would hang your head and look like a whipped puppy if ye're little enough to shoot jay-birds, just to see the blue feathers a flutterin' in the air. 'Pon my soul, you hunters is beyon' my understandin'. S'pose that bird you shot has a nest, which, like as not, she has, an' it's full o' little fuzzy balls o' bird flesh this minute, all mouths an' stomachs, a waitin' for their mother to bring supper, an' they just keep a waitin' an' a waitin' till they starve, cause you was mean enough to kill the mother bird just for fun." Ham's hat had long since come off, and he stood with downcast eyes, not knowing what to say. The old lady looked him up and down with a look of abject pity and scorn as she went on:
"Didn't you ever stop to consider how many things the Almighty has put into these hills to love, young man, if you ain't too selfish an' proud an' mean to see 'em? I wonder what He thinks of a boy like you, anyway? You're like a demon sneakin' through a wonderful picture gallery a cuttin' holes in the pictures just for fun. I know every jay in this valley, young man, every single one—and they know me. When food gets scarce, an' cold nights come, an' snow begins to fall, I feed 'em. They understand all I say to 'em, an' they bring their young ones for me to see as quick as they're big enough. They tell me when it's goin' to storm, an' when a hawk is flyin' over my chicken pen, an' when berries is ripe, an' when strangers is comin'. They're my little family; I care for 'em every day an'—" The flood gates were opened. The little old lady cried as if her heart would break, while the jays gossiped and chattered at the unusual uproar.
Suddenly she turned and went into the house, and the boys, without a word, quietly passed up the trail and into the flat, green meadow ahead. Ham whistled softly to himself as he strode along.
"Beats the Dutch," he said to Mr. Allen, as the two dropped back together, "how a fellow will forget himself now and then. I'd have done just what she did, only I would have gotten mad instead of just feeling bad. I'm mighty thankful I didn't kill that bird."
"What a great joy these simple out-of-doors people get out of nature," replied Mr. Allen. "I'd give half my college education to be able to see and hear and understand the things that little old lady does in these old hills. Every time a bird chirps or a squirrel barks she knows what it says. I think the Master must have been thinking of some such a pure-hearted body as she when He told the people that the poor in spirit would inherit the earth. She doesn't go out in society much, nor she hasn't any party dresses, nor probably never saw a grand opera in her life; but see what she has that most people never get."
In a few moments more they had crossed the little meadow, climbed up through a zigzag trail through the trees, and came out onto the railroad track, just where it crossed the stage road. Directly in front of them rose the crag-tipped cap of St. Peter's Dome. On one hand was the old wagon road, that first pathway of mountain civilization, winding down the canyon in long, graceful curves until it was lost in the distant haze, while on the other hand ran the steel rails of more modern civilization.