“Hark!” said Alfred, “there is a robin singing in that maple! Be still, and I will shoot him.”
Henry stood very still, while Alfred moved stealthily along, with his gun in his hand, until he stood nearly under the maple-tree. The robin, all unconscious of danger, was singing his song of gladness—a tribute of praise to Him who had fashioned him curiously, and with inconceivable wisdom and skill—when the boy raised his gun, took a deadly aim, and fired. The breast of the robin was still heaving, and his throat trembling with the song, when the swift-winged shot entered his side, and pierced his little heart. He fell at the feet of his murderer. One would have thought, that when Alfred and Henry saw the bleeding bird, lying dead on the ground, their hearts would have been filled with sorrow. But not so. A shout of joy followed this cruel exploit. The bird was picked up, and a string tied about its neck, and borne along with them, as the triumphant evidence of Alfred’s skill with his weapon.
Next an oriole was discovered, flying from a bush near them, and alighting upon the branch of a tree, high up in the air.
“Now, let me shoot,” said Henry; and Alfred suffered his companion to take the gun. He proved to be not quite so good a marksman as Alfred. But he struck the oriole, and wounded him. The bird fluttered to another tree, upon a limb of which he alighted. Here he clung, with his tiny feet, until these cruel boys had again loaded their gun. Then Henry took a truer aim, and brought him to the ground. But he was not dead. Henry seized the trembling creature, that tried in vain to escape, and held him fast in his hands.
“Wring off his neck,” said Alfred; “that’s the way.”
“No, no,” returned Henry; “I’ll take him home just as he is: perhaps he’ll get well, and then I’ll put him in a cage, and keep him.”
And so Henry kept the bird, that must have been suffering great pain, carefully in his hand, while Alfred loaded his gun once more. But we will not follow these boys further in their cruel employment, which was continued for several hours, when they grew tired, and returned home. It was past the dinner hour when Henry got back, with four birds for his share of the morning’s sport. One of these was the oriole, still alive. Another was a sparrow, another a robin, and the fourth a blue-bird. These last three were all dead.
“Just see, mother, what I’ve got; and I killed them all myself,” cried Henry, as he came in and displayed his birds. “Won’t you ask father to buy me a gun? Alfred Lyon has got one, and I think I ought to have one too. I asked father to-day to buy me one, but he said No. Won’t you ask him to buy me a gun, mother? for I can shoot; I shot all these with Alfred’s gun, myself.”
Henry’s mother listened to her son with surprise and pain. “Poor bird!” said she, taking from Henry the wounded oriole, and handling it with great tenderness. “Can it be possible that my son has done this?—that his hand has committed so cruel a deed?” and the tears dimmed her eyes.
The words, tone, and manner of his mother touched the heart of Henry in an instant. New thoughts were awakened, and with these thoughts came new feelings. His mind had a glimpse of the truth, that it was wrong to sport with the life of any creature.