Corny made one shot, but did no execution. The other gunners on board had been firing away, for some time, at two little birds that kept ahead of us, skimming along over the water, just out of reach of the shot that was sent scattering after them.
"I think it's a shame," said Corny, "to shoot such little birds as that. They can't eat 'em."
"No," said I; "and they can't hit 'em, either, which is a great deal better."
But very soon after this, the shorter yellow-legged man did hit a bird. It was a water-turkey, that had been sitting on a tree, just as we turned a corner. The big bird spread out its wings, made a doleful flutter, and fell into the underbrush by the shore.
"Wont they stop to get him?" asked Corny, with her eyes open as wide as they would go.
One of the hands was standing by, and he laughed.
"Stop the boat when a man shoots a bird? I reckon not. And there isn't anybody that would go into all that underbrush and water only for a bird like that, anyway."
"Well, I think it's murder!" cried Corny. "I thought they ate 'em. Here! Take your gun. I'm much obliged; but I don't want to kill things just to see them fall down and die."
I took the gun very willingly,—although I did not think that Corny would injure any birds with it,—but I asked her what she thought about alligators. She certainly had not supposed that they were killed for food.
"Alligators are wild beasts," she said. "Give me my pistol. I am going to take it back to father."