FATHER,” said Henry Thompson, a boy just eleven years old, “won’t you buy me a gun?”
“A gun! Oh no; I can’t buy you a gun,” Mr. Thompson replied in a decided voice.
Henry turned away disappointed, and went out of his father’s warehouse, into which he had come specially to ask for a gun. He was not pleased at the refusal he had met with, and felt much inclined, as are too many children, to indulge hard thoughts against his kind father for not gratifying his wish. As he walked along, he met Alfred Lyon, a lad about his own age, whose father had given him a gun, and who then had it on his shoulder.
“Come, Henry,” said Alfred, “I’m going out a-shooting. Won’t you go with me?”
Henry at once said “Yes.” It was a holiday, and his mother had told him that he might go out and spend the morning as he liked, only that he must not go into danger, nor harm anything. So he did not hesitate to go with Alfred. He had seen the little boy the day before, and then learned that he had received from his father the present of a gun, and this was what had made him desire to have one also.
The two little boys then took their way to the woods. It was a bright day in early summer. The trees were all covered with tender foliage, the fields bright and green, and the singing birds made the air thrill with delicious melody. To mar this scene of innocence, beauty, and peace, came these two thoughtless boys. They saw the woods mantled in their dark, rich drapery, that moved gracefully in the light breeze; but all their majestic beauty was lost to their eyes. They thought only whether the thick, green masses of leaves contained a robin or harmless red-bird, as a victim to their murderous gun. The green fields, too, were pleasant to their eyes only so far as they might conceal, in their blossoming hedgerows, a victim wren or sparrow. And the sweet trilling of the lovely songsters, as it floated from wood and field, though it gladdened their ears, affected them not with a pure and innocent pleasure. I grieve to make such a record of these two lads, but it is, alas! too true. Both together, were they to labour over their task from this hour of their boyhood until threescore and ten years had been numbered to them, could not make even a little yellow bird,—nay, not so much as a feather like one shed from its downy wing; and yet they were eager to destroy the lovely creature made by God’s own hand, and all from an idle love of sport.
Well, Alfred and Henry soon arrived at the woods.
“Hark!” said Alfred, “there is a robin singing in that maple! Be still, and I will shoot him.”
Henry stood very still, while Alfred moved stealthily along, with his gun in his hand, until he stood nearly under the maple-tree. The robin, all unconscious of danger, was singing his song of gladness—a tribute of praise to Him who had fashioned him curiously, and with inconceivable wisdom and skill—when the boy raised his gun, took a deadly aim, and fired. The breast of the robin was still heaving, and his throat trembling with the song, when the swift-winged shot entered his side, and pierced his little heart. He fell at the feet of his murderer. One would have thought, that when Alfred and Henry saw the bleeding bird, lying dead on the ground, their hearts would have been filled with sorrow. But not so. A shout of joy followed this cruel exploit. The bird was picked up, and a string tied about its neck, and borne along with them, as the triumphant evidence of Alfred’s skill with his weapon.
Next an oriole was discovered, flying from a bush near them, and alighting upon the branch of a tree, high up in the air.
“Now, let me shoot,” said Henry; and Alfred suffered his companion to take the gun. He proved to be not quite so good a marksman as Alfred. But he struck the oriole, and wounded him. The bird fluttered to another tree, upon a limb of which he alighted. Here he clung, with his tiny feet, until these cruel boys had again loaded their gun. Then Henry took a truer aim, and brought him to the ground. But he was not dead. Henry seized the trembling creature, that tried in vain to escape, and held him fast in his hands.
“Wring off his neck,” said Alfred; “that’s the way.”
“No, no,” returned Henry; “I’ll take him home just as he is: perhaps he’ll get well, and then I’ll put him in a cage, and keep him.”
And so Henry kept the bird, that must have been suffering great pain, carefully in his hand, while Alfred loaded his gun once more. But we will not follow these boys further in their cruel employment, which was continued for several hours, when they grew tired, and returned home. It was past the dinner hour when Henry got back, with four birds for his share of the morning’s sport. One of these was the oriole, still alive. Another was a sparrow, another a robin, and the fourth a blue-bird. These last three were all dead.
“Just see, mother, what I’ve got; and I killed them all myself,” cried Henry, as he came in and displayed his birds. “Won’t you ask father to buy me a gun? Alfred Lyon has got one, and I think I ought to have one too. I asked father to-day to buy me one, but he said No. Won’t you ask him to buy me a gun, mother? for I can shoot; I shot all these with Alfred’s gun, myself.”
Henry’s mother listened to her son with surprise and pain. “Poor bird!” said she, taking from Henry the wounded oriole, and handling it with great tenderness. “Can it be possible that my son has done this?—that his hand has committed so cruel a deed?” and the tears dimmed her eyes.
The words, tone, and manner of his mother touched the heart of Henry in an instant. New thoughts were awakened, and with these thoughts came new feelings. His mind had a glimpse of the truth, that it was wrong to sport with the life of any creature.
“Can you make a pretty bird like this?” his mother asked, pointing to the drooping bird in her hand. Her son was silent.
“Then why seek, wantonly, to take its life?” she continued. “Were you envious of its happiness? Like an evil spirit, did a sight of innocent delights inflame you with a desire to destroy it? Can you restore health to its wounded body? No! Can you ever assuage its present agonies? No—you cannot. Cruel boy! what could you have been dreaming about? Think, how terrible it would be, if there were a race of beings stronger than we are, who, with the power, had the will to destroy us for mere sport. Some day I might be walking out, and become the victim of one of these, and then my children would have no mother. Perhaps Henry might leave me, and while on his way to school might be shot at, as he shot at the birds, and be killed like this pretty blue-bird, or fatally wounded like this oriole. Would you think such sport innocent? I think not. Poor bird! See how it trembles! See how it flutters its wings in pain! See how it gasps! Now it has fallen over upon its side—and now it is dead! Alas, that my son should have done this cruel deed—that my son should have caused all this pain!”
The words of Henry’s mother touched him deeply. They caused him to see how cruel he had indeed been. They made him conscious that it was most wicked to hurt or kill any one of God’s creatures in mere sport. So moved was he, that he could not refrain from bursting into tears and sobbing bitterly.
“O mother!” he said, after he had gained some little command over his feelings, “I never thought how wicked and cruel it was to take pleasure in hunting the pretty birds. I don’t want a gun. I wouldn’t have a gun now, if father would buy me the handsomest one in town.”
Henry’s mother was glad to hear him say this, for it showed that he felt all she wished him to feel—sorrow at having indulged in a cruel sport. It showed, also, that he had determined in his own mind, from seeing how wicked it was, never to do so again. From this determination Henry never swerved. He was never known afterwards to hurt any animal in sport. And more than this, by talking to his little friend Alfred, he caused him to see how wrong it was to shoot the birds; and Alfred gave his gun back to his father, who sold it for him, and with the money bought him a number of good and useful books.
