Mr. Fletcher was a trader, who kept a store at the Cross-Roads,—a place where two of the main highways of the county cross each other at right angles, thus ✛.[2] Quite a thrifty little village had sprung up at this point, boasting, among other things, a school-house, a church, a post-office, and a “variety store.” It was, in fact, the centre of life and business for the surrounding dozen miles. Though about five miles from Mr. Davenport’s house, there was no other store or church within twice the distance. His family, consequently, had almost come to regard the Cross-Roads settlement as a part of their own village, though it was actually situated in another township.
Clinton had not driven half way to his destination, when he discovered two lads in advance of him, walking the same way he was going. On coming up with them, he found that they were Oscar and Jerry, who were out on a gunning excursion,—Oscar having borrowed a fowling-piece of a young man who lived near Mr. Preston’s.
“Halloo, Clin, give us a ride,” exclaimed Oscar, as the wagon drew up to them; and without further ceremony, both boys jumped into the vehicle.
“Where are you going?” inquired Clinton, as he started the horse.
“O, wherever you please,—we are not at all particular,” replied Oscar. “Jerry and I have been trying to pop off some birds, this afternoon, but the little fools won’t stop long enough to let us shoot them.”
“I’m glad of it,” replied Clinton, dryly.
“Why are you glad?” asked Jerry.
“Because it’s too bad to shoot them,” replied Clinton. “I like to see and hear them too well, to harm them. If I could have my way, there shouldn’t be a bird shot, unless they were crows or hawks, or something of that kind.”
“Pooh,” said Oscar; “I should like to know what birds were made for, if it wasn’t to be shot. You don’t know what fine sport it is to shoot them, or you would be as fond of gunning as I am.”
Oscar had probably shot half a dozen poor little birds in the course of his life, and severely frightened as many more. But he had got the idea that gunning was a fine, manly amusement, and he already fancied himself to be quite an accomplished sportsman. And if the disposition could have made him a successful hunter, he would have been one; for he wanted to take the life of every bird and squirrel that he saw. He soon found, however, that it was easier to fire than to hit; and in most of his excursions, his powder-flask was emptied much faster than his game-bag was filled.