Instinctively his hand clasped the bird tighter. He couldn’t bear to look at this beautiful creature he intended to destroy. But something made him look again and he succumbed to the desire to glance at it once more before its life would be extinct.
As he glanced down the bird looked up at him, implicit trust in its expression. Westy tried to drown the tenderness welling up within him and forced a stern look upon his countenance, and as he faced it for the last time the bird chirped and hopped upon his arm and he grasped it quickly with his free hand.
But the mute appeal in those eyes was too much for Westy. He turned his head away and then back again, smiling:
“All right, old man,” he said. “You want to live just the same as I do, isn’t that so?”
It almost seemed to understand.
“Well,” Westy continued aloud, “you’re going to go right on living now, as far as I’m concerned. If I can’t find anything else to eat to-day I’ll start digging for worms the same as you do.”
With that he released the bird and it flew over his head. He couldn’t see where it went, but he heard it warbling again—the sweet, deep-throated trill.
It kept up so insistently that Westy pushed through the damp brush a little way to see where it had gone. As he parted the tall weeds he beheld the little golden throat perched on the limb of a walnut tree, abounding with its ripened fruit.
He rushed forward with eagerness and as he climbed up on the lower limb the bird looked at him almost significantly and took to one of the top branches.
Westy jammed and crammed his pockets full meaning to crack them on the bowlder. After he had filled every available space in his trousers, he clambered down. Then he looked up at his benefactor and smiled.