Now that the worst was over he began to be rather glad he had come, and stared about him with eager interest. Certainly it was a room to excite any boy’s enthusiasm. Long and rather narrow, there were two windows on one side through which the winter sun poured cheerfully. Against the opposite wall, and filling almost the entire space, was a large glass-fronted case, containing the most amazingly realistic reproduction of woodland life the boy had ever seen.
Fastened in one corner was the gnarled crotch of a tree with a great, roughly built nest of twigs and leaves from which two baby hawks, their down just giving place to feathers, thrust up inquiring heads. At the other end of the case stood a section of a silvery white oak, with one long branch extending along the back. An owl perched here, teased by a blackbird with outstretched wings and open beak, and there were several birds’-nests among the branches. The lower part of the case was filled with small bushes, clumps of grass, and reeds, among which Frank noted quantities of other nests, some with eggs and some without, more mounted birds of various sorts, and several animals, such as a mink, two squirrels, and a skunk, all in the most lifelike attitudes. Turning from an eager inspection of the case, he stared at Trexler in amazement.
“It’s the greatest thing I ever saw!” he exclaimed. “Do you mean to say you did it all yourself?”
Paul nodded, his pale face tinged with color, his eyes sparkling. “It isn’t hard when you know how to stuff things,” he said. “I took lessons in the city before we came out here last year. It’s been lots of fun fixing them up.”
“But how the deuce did you get ’em all?” Frank turned quickly back to the case again. “You must be a dandy shot.”
“But I’m not! I hate to kill things–especially birds. You see, I go off for long tramps a lot, and in the winter especially you often find birds that have been frozen, or killed by flying into things. Some of them people gave me. A farmer that I know out near Alton shot that skunk and the mink in his chicken-yard. The quail and that woodcock came from down South. A cousin of mine sent them up, and I got Mother to let me take the skins off before she cooked them.”
“How about the hawks–those are hawks, aren’t they?”
“Sure. Red-shouldered hawks. I s’pose I oughtn’t to have taken them, but I wanted to try taming some. I knew where there was a nest, and last spring I got up the tree with climbers and took two. They were awful funny the way they’d sit up and cry whenever they saw me coming. I guess I must have fed ’em too much, or something, for they died in about a week. I won’t try it again, you bet!”
Paul looked rather sheepish as he made this confession, and hurried on to another subject. “It’s the same way about the eggs. I used to take only one out of a nest, but Mr. Curtis said even that was pretty hard on the birds, so I stopped. I haven’t taken any since I’ve been a scout. It’s more fun, really, taking pictures.”
“Pictures of birds’ eggs?”