````You cannot always surely tell
````If things be ill or things be well.=
|WHEN the poor suffering, wounded little Bob White crawled under the
fence he didn't know it, but he had crawled on to the land of Farmer
Brown, where a sign warned all hunters to keep off--that no shooting
would be allowed there. And when he looked up and saw right in front
of him one of those two-legged creatures like the one with the terrible
fire-stick, and at once had given up all hope, he had been too sick at
heart and suffering too much to recognize Farmer Brown's boy.
But that is just who it was. You see, Farmer Brown's boy had been so
anxious for fear that some hunter would come over on his father's land
in spite of the signs, that he had gone down on the Green Meadows just
as soon as he had eaten his breakfast. He had seen the hunter on the
land of Farmer Jones and had heard him shoot. With all his heart Farmer
Brown's boy had hoped that the hunter had missed. Now as he looked down
and saw the poor little suffering bird he knew that the hunter had not
missed, and fierce anger swelled his heart. He quite forgot that he
himself used to hunt with a terrible gun before he had learned to know
and to love the little people of the Green Meadows, the Green Forest and
the Old Pasture.
He stooped and very tenderly lifted the little Bob White, who closed his
eyes and was sure that now all would soon be over.
“You poor little thing! You poor, poor little thing!” said Farmer
Brown's boy as he looked at the torn and broken wing. Then he looked
across at the hunter and scowled savagely. Just then the hunter saw
him and at once started towards him. You see, the hunter thought that
perhaps if he offered Farmer Brown's boy money he would allow him to
hunt on Farmer Brown's land. He knew that was where Bob White and all
his family had flown to. When he reached the fence, he saw the little
Bob White in the hands of Farmer Brown's boy.
“Hello!” exclaimed the hunter in surprise, “I guess that's my bird!”
“I guess it's nothing of the sort!” retorted Farmer Brown's boy.
“Oh, yes, it is,” replied the hunter. “I shot it a little while ago, but
it got away from me. I'll thank you to hand it over to me, young man.”
“You'll do nothing of the sort,” retorted Farmer Brown's boy. “It may be
the bird you shot, more shame to you, but it isn't yours; it's mine. I
found it on our land, and it belongs to me if it belongs to any one.”
Now the hunter was tempted to reply sharply, but remembering that he
wanted to get this boy's permission to hunt on Farmer Brown's land, he
bit the angry reply off short and said instead, “Why don't you wring its
neck? If you'll get your father to let me shoot on your land, I'll kill
another for you, and then you will have a fine dinner.”
Farmer Brown's boy grew red in the face. “Don't you dare put your foot
on this side of the fence!” he cried. “I'd have you to know that these
Bob Whites are my very best friends. They've worked for me all summer
long, and do you suppose I'm going to let any harm come to them now if I
can help it? Not much! Look how this poor little thing is suffering. And
you call it sport. Bah! The law lets you hunt them, but it's a bad law.
It's a horrid law. If they did any harm it would be different. But
instead of doing harm they work for us all summer long, and then when
the crops which they have helped us save are harvested, we turn around
and allow them to be shot! But they can't be shot on this land, and the
sooner you get away the better I'll like it.”
Instead of getting angry the hunter laughed good-naturedly. “All right,
I'll keep off your land, sonny,” said he. “But you needn't get so
excited. They're only birds, and were made to be shot.”
“No more than you were!” retorted Farmer Brown's boy. “And they've got
feelings just as you have. This poor little thing is trembling like a
leaf in my hand. I'm not going to wring its neck. I'm going to try to
cure it.” With this Fanner Brown's boy turned his back on the hunter and
started for home. And the poor little Bob White, not understanding, had
no more hope than before.