But fortunately one's first instinctive love of song-birds is
never wholly obliterated, no matter what the influences upon our lives
may be. I have often been delighted to see a pure, spiritual glow come
into the countenances of hard business-men and old miners, when a
song-bird chanced to alight near them. Nevertheless, the little mouthful
of meat that swells out the breasts of some song-birds is too often the
cause of their death. Larks and robins in particular are brought to
market in hundreds. But fortunately the Ouzel has no enemy so eager to
eat his little body as to follow him into the mountain solitudes. I
never knew him to be chased even by hawks.
An acquaintance of mine, a sort of foot-hill mountaineer, had a pet cat,
a great, dozy, overgrown creature, about as broad-shouldered as a lynx.
During the winter, while the snow lay deep, the mountaineer sat in his
lonely cabin among the pines smoking his pipe and wearing the dull time
away. Tom was his sole companion, sharing his bed, and sitting beside
him on a stool with much the same drowsy expression of eye as his
master. The good-natured bachelor was content with his hard fare of
soda-bread and bacon, but Tom, the only creature in the world
acknowledging dependence on him, must needs be provided with fresh meat.
Pages:
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337