"There is Frank Weston shooting birds," he said, stopping his horse.
"What are you shooting, Frank?"
"English sparrows, Mr. Spencer," said the boy, coming forward. "My father said I might shoot all I could find. There's one, now."
"You are mistaken," said Mr. Spencer quietly. "That is a song sparrow and a native of our fields."
"Oh, yes, so it is!" said the boy carelessly. "But there are plenty of
English sparrows. I shot five yesterday. They do ever so much harm, Mr.
Spencer."
"They certainly do some good, also," said the farmer. "They eat cankerworms and other harmful insects. They are said to devour that troublesome pest, the tree caterpillar, which no other bird will touch."
Frank looked thoughtful for a minute. Then he said: "A boy wants to have some fun with his gun."
"It seems to me," said the farmer, "that it would be more fun to shoot at a mark than to give pain to some living creature. But a gun is a poor toy, at the best, Frank. Ask your father for a good pair of opera- glasses, and study the birds instead of killing them. We know very little yet about any of them. See if you can't bring me a bit of news about some of our feathered neighbors before the summer is over. I'm a real bird-gossip, you know, and I'm always anxious to hear of what is going on in their homes."
"All right, sir," said Frank, smiling into his friend's kindly eyes. "I'm afraid it will be hard work to find out anything that you don't know already, but I'll try."
Mr. Spencer drove on for a few minutes in silence.
"I never could understand why boys are always trying to hit something," he said at last. "When they haven't an air-gun, they throw stones and snowballs. I could tell you of some serious accidents from stone- throwing. A little friend of mine was killed by falling from a horse which had been frightened by a snowball. It is disgraceful that there should be no strict laws to forbid that kind of play."