THE PRACTICE.
After supper on that same day, Owen left the house, and with a quick
step followed a path which led over the hills through a large cedar
grove. Here he mounted an old stump and gave a shrill whistle. No answer
came but the distant echo. So he sat down upon the stump and began to
mend a wide-mouthed sack, which he carried under his arm and which the
mice had evidently been using for their habitation, having gnawed
spacious doors and miniature windows in many places.
Every few seconds the prevailing stillness was broken by the whiz of
myriads of wings, as flock after flock of robins settled in the deep
glade for the night. It has been asserted by some naturalists that the
robin is not a migratory bird. It is true that a few can be found in the
thicket and barnyard during the winter months, but by far the greater
number follow the swallow and blue-bird to warmer climes. Toward the
latter part of autumn they pass through the Middle States, not by
thousands only, but by millions. The thick cedar glades in central
Kentucky were a favorite resort for them in their passage, and at night
countless numbers roosted in the dark evergreen branches.
It was to secure a number of robins that Owen had ventured out. After
repairing the sack with strips of elm bark, he again mounted the stump
and gave another whistle. Soon Martin Cooper issued from among the
cedars, at the same time waving a lantern above his head. He, too,
carried a sack.
When it was quite dark, and the robins had settled down for the night,
the boys crept stealthily along into the thickest part of the glade,
carrying the lighted lantern. Now the fun began. Climbing a few feet up
the trees and opening their sacks, Owen and Martin commenced to capture
the affrighted robins. Many of the birds were so dazed by the light that
they sat perfectly quiet, and were thrust into the sacks as easily as if
they were apples hanging from a bough. Many, too, startled by the
swaying branches, flew madly into the thicket, and by their cries spread
the alarm throughout the evergreen domain.
Soon the whole glade was alive with the flutter and cries of the robins.
Darting from tree to tree, they frightened those yet undisturbed. Robins
screamed piteously. Robins yelled like street boys at the sound of the
fire alarm. Old robins were demanding silence, and young robins were
asking advice. Captured robins were fluttering in their prisons, and
affrighted robins, dropping suddenly among the branches around the
lantern, shared the fate of their doomed companions. Robins, robins,
robins; singing, screaming, crying, laughing, up and down, back and
forth they flew, until the sacks were filled and the boys departed.
An hour later all was quiet again among the evergreen. Old robins dozed
quietly on the branches, while young robins on their first trip to the
South dreamed of the rice-fields and orange-groves of the tropic zone.
And still an hour later not less than four hundred captured robins,
though imprisoned in a coop, dreamed that they were roosting among the
cedars; while Owen and Martin in their snug beds dreamed of the
shooting-match, and their future victory over Coon-Hollow Jim.
* * * * *
"Helloo, Mart! What made you so late?" said Owen as Martin entered the
field chosen as the place of practice.
"Late! It isn't late yet. You can kill many a robin before dark,"
answered Martin, at the same time putting down a box which he carried on
his shoulder. "Here is the trap which I promised to make for you," he
continued. "It works well, too. I had hard work in getting a good piece
of wood for the trigger. That's what made me so late."
"Works nicely," said Owen, as Martin touched the trigger and the door
flew open.
"How many robins did you bring along?" inquired Martin.
"About fifty."
"That's as many as we can use. Now let us start to work."
Owen marked off the proper distance, while Martin put a robin in the
trap for the first trial.
"Now I'm ready," said Owen, stepping up to the mark and raising his
rifle.
As soon as the trigger was sprung the robin rose about six feet into the
air, and then darted off directly in front of the boy. Almost at the
same instant Owen fired.
"That'll never do," said Martin; "you didn't touch a feather."
"It is just as I told you," answered Owen; "I often miss them when they
fly directly away. But let them go off one side, or in a half-circle,
and they'll not escape so easily."
"Now for another trial," and Martin put the second robin into the box.
"What did I tell you!" exclaimed Owen, as his rifle cracked and the bird
fluttered to the ground.
He then continued to shoot with varied success until it was so dark that
his aim was no longer true.
Each afternoon he and Martin met at the same place for practice. During
the first few days Owen failed in many shots, but toward the end of the
third week, scarcely a robin flew from the trap that did not fall to the
ground.
Besides Martin Cooper's practical assistance, Owen received no little
aid, in the way of interest and encouragement from his sister, Bertha.
At evening, when he returned home after practicing, she almost
overwhelmed him with a multiplicity of questions. "Are you improving?
How many robins did you kill? How many did you miss? Do you think you
will win? Oh, I hope you will! Don't you?" Thus she continued to ply
question after question, and to interlard them with exclamations and
surmises until she was forced to stop for want of breath. But Bertha did
not content herself with words. In the woods she collected several kinds
of bark used in dyeing, and made Owen a shooting jacket, resembling in
some respects the many colored coat of Joseph. His old hunting cap was
replaced by a new one made of the skin of a red-fox, with the bushy tail
hanging at one side.
The weather remained clear for the next three weeks. The robins still
tarried in the woods and thickets, rifling the elderbushes of their red
berries, stealing the newly sown grain from the wheat fields, and at
evening from bush and fence and swaying tree-tops caroling to the
glories of the setting sun. They still sought their favorite haunts
among the evergreen at night, where old robins again dozed quietly, and
young robins dreamed of the sunny South; while in his snug bed Owen
again dreamed of the coming contest with Coon-Hollow Jim.