Adventures of Bobby Orde Read online

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  THE SPORTSMAN'S ASSOCIATION

  The Maple County Sportsman's Association held its weekly shoots withregularity. It consumed a great deal of Bobby's time and attention. Yousee, each event was to be anticipated, and then remembered; the scorewas to be rejoiced over or regretted; and the great question of how todo better was to be considered prayerfully and long. Bobby found it tobe a more complicated problem than he would have believed possible. Heused to lie awake in bed thinking it over. Regularly before Thursdaycame around he hit on a complete solution of the difficulty; and asregularly he discovered by the actual test that something, whether oftheory or practice, still lacked.

  Mr. Kincaid always listened to his ideas non-commitally.

  "I've found out what it is!" cried Bobby as soon as Bucephalus hadapproached within hearing distance. "You got to practise until yourforefinger works all by itself--entirely separate from the rest of yourarm. Then the rifle won't jerk sideways so much."

  "All right," Mr. Kincaid responded, as Bobby climbed laboriously intothe cart. "Try it."

  Bobby tried it; found it difficult to accomplish, and not altogethereffective. The bullets still scattered more or less like a shotguncharge. Mr. Kincaid's score more than doubled his. Mr. Kincaid alwaysshot the best he could; and entered a grave negative to Bobby'stentative suggestion for a handicap.

  "No, Bobby," said he, "don't believe in 'em. It really doesn't matterwhether you defeat me or not; now does it? But it does matter whetheryou get to be a good enough shot to win."

  After each demolition of his ideas, Bobby returned a trifle dashed, butwith undaunted spirit. Again his busy brain attacked the puzzle. In aweek he had another hypothesis ready for the test.

  Thus he edged slowly but surely toward marksmanship. The sight must beheld on the mark for an instant after the discharge; the trigger mustbe squeezed steadily, not pulled; the independent command of theforefinger is helped by as inclusive a grasp of the stock as possible;holding the breath is an aid to steadiness--these, and a dozen otherfirst principles, Bobby acquired, one after another, by the slowinductive process. Each helped; and Mr. Kincaid appreciated that hispupil was learning intelligently, so that in the final result Bobbywould not only be a good shot, but he would know why.

  In the meantime various changes were taking place in the seasons, whichBobby noted in his own fashion. The little green apples of summer--justright for throwing and for casting from the end of a switch--were nowlarge and rosy. Under the big hickory tree in the Fuller's yard werealready to be found occasional nuts. The leaves were turning gorgeous;and enough were falling to make it necessary that the householdersearch out his broad rake. In the country the shocks of corn stood inrows like so many Indian chiefs wrapped each in his blanket, his plumeswaving above. The night was weird with the notes of birds migrating.

  To each of these things Bobby, like every other boy in town, gave hisattention. Apples and grapes there were everywhere in abundance. Theearly pioneer planted always his orchard and his arbours. The town,taking root on the old riverside farms, preserved, as far as it could,the fruit-trees. Every one who had a yard of any size about his house,possessed also an apple tree or so and a grape vine--sometimes a chancepeach or pear. Bobby could not go amiss for fresh fruit; but he likedbest of all the sweet little red "Delawares" that grew back of AuntieKate's kitchen garden. These he picked, warmed by the sun. The satiny"Concords" from the trellis, however, were better dipped in cool water,which, with some labour, he caused to gush sparkling from anold-fashioned wooden pump. Auntie Kate's apple trees, too, were ofselected varieties. Early in the season were the soft yellow sweetings;then the streaked red and green "Northern Spies"; and last of all thesnow-apples with their contrast of deep crimson outside and white fleshwithin. The windfalls covered the ground ready to the hand; and thebranches bent under their burden. It was the season of apple-sauce withcinnamon, and baked apples with a dab of jelly where the core ought tobe, and apple-tapioca and Brown Betty. And these tasted wondrous good,even to youngsters already gorged with raw fruit.

  In every front yard and along every street front the householders werebusy raking the crisp autumn leaves into great heaps and long piles.Bobby and his friends liked solemnly to "swish" their little legsthrough them; to roll in them; to hide beneath them by burrowing like somany squirrels. If this was the season of fruit, it was also the seasonof bonfires. Every one burned leaves in those days, blissfullyunconscious of future city ordinances. A thin sweet haze of smoke hungconstantly in the air mellowing the blue of the sky, softening theoutlines of the hills, aromatic as an incensed cathedral. In theevenings the fires winked bravely on both sides the streets. Figureswith rakes were silhouetted against them. Smaller figures careeredwildly in and out the dense smoke. It was a great "dare" to run and jumpdirectly through the fire! Now the sun was getting lazy; and sometimesBobby was allowed the indulgence of a half-hour of this delicious wildfun. He always came in smoky and overheated; and always Mrs. Orde vowedthat it should not happen again.... it did.

  Then there were the hickory nuts to be gathered in pails and sacks andspread out on the garret floor to cure. Unfortunately the hickory treewas very tall, so the boys had patiently to await the pleasure of thewind. Walnuts and butternuts, on the contrary, were to be knocked downwith well-aimed clubs; hazelnuts to be stripped from the bushes; andbeech-nuts to be shaken down by a bold and practised climber. And in thewoods the squirrels were busy laying away their winter stores.

  Mr. Kincaid and Bobby were often afield on the beech ridges. Mr. Kincaidcarried his gun, but he did not use it. They looked for squirrels. Thewoods were carpeted with dead leaves on which the sun lay golden. Theyhad to move very quietly and keep a very sharp lookout. When the gamewas sighted, the matter was by no means resolved. Squirrels are livelypeople, and expert at hiding. Bobby and Mr. Kincaid chased hard andbreathlessly to force their quarry up a tree. When that wasaccomplished, it was by no means easy to get a shot. The squirrel leapedfrom one tree to another as fast as his enemies below could run. Finallyhe climbed to the top of a tall beech whose trunk he immediately putbetween himself and the hunters. It became necessary first to see him,second to get a shot at him, third to hit him, and last to bring himdown. Bobby, shooting the heavy barrelled Flobert at unaccustomedranges, and at an elusive mark, discovered the appetite of atmospherefor lead. Nevertheless it was the most exciting, breathless, tinglinggame he had ever played. The air was biting cold, especially after thesun began to sink through the trees, but it had the effect merely ofnipping Bobby's nose and cheeks red--his little body was tingling andaglow. On his banner day he brought down two fox-squirrels, and one ofthe beautiful black squirrels, then not uncommon, but now practicallyextinct. In the process he used up his box of cartridges.