The Wounded Bird.
“FATHER,” said Henry Thompson, a boy just eleven years old, “won’t you buy me a gun?”
“A gun! Oh no; I can’t buy you a gun,” Mr. Thompson replied in a decided voice.
Henry turned away disappointed, and went out of his father’s warehouse, into which he had come specially to ask for a gun. He was not pleased at the refusal he had met with, and felt much inclined, as are too many children, to indulge hard thoughts against his kind father for not gratifying his wish. As he walked along, he met Alfred Lyon, a lad about his own age, whose father had given him a gun, and who then had it on his shoulder.
“Come, Henry,” said Alfred, “I’m going out a-shooting. Won’t you go with me?”
Henry at once said “Yes.” It was a holiday, and his mother had told him that he might go out and spend the morning as he liked, only that he must not go into danger, nor harm anything. So he did not hesitate to go with Alfred. He had seen the little boy the day before, and then learned that he had received from his father the present of a gun, and this was what had made him desire to have one also.
The two little boys then took their way to the woods. It was a bright day in early summer. The trees were all covered with tender foliage, the fields bright and green, and the singing birds made the air thrill with delicious melody. To mar this scene of innocence, beauty, and peace, came these two thoughtless boys. They saw the woods mantled in their dark, rich drapery, that moved gracefully in the light breeze; but all their majestic beauty was lost to their eyes. They thought only whether the thick, green masses of leaves contained a robin or harmless red-bird, as a victim to their murderous gun. The green fields, too, were pleasant to their eyes only so far as they might conceal, in their blossoming hedgerows, a victim wren or sparrow. And the sweet trilling of the lovely songsters, as it floated from wood and field, though it gladdened their ears, affected them not with a pure and innocent pleasure. I grieve to make such a record of these two lads, but it is, alas! too true. Both together, were they to labour over their task from this hour of their boyhood until threescore and ten years had been numbered to them, could not make even a little yellow bird,—nay, not so much as a feather like one shed from its downy wing; and yet they were eager to destroy the lovely creature made by God’s own hand, and all from an idle love of sport.
Well, Alfred and Henry soon arrived at the woods.