"Never mind that, Jim," I said. "You should not fret over a thing for
which you are not to blame. I am sure you must be glad for one reason
that you have left your old life."

"What is that?" he said.

"On account of the birds. You know Miss Laura thinks it is wrong to kill
the pretty creatures that fly about the woods."

"So it is," he said, "unless one kills them at once. I have often felt
angry with men for only-half killing a bird. I hated to pick up the
little, warm body, and see the bright eye looking so reproachfully at
me, and feel the flutter of life. We animals, or rather the most of us,
kill mercifully. It is only human beings who butcher their prey, and
seem, some of them, to rejoice in their agony. I used to be eager to
kill birds and rabbits, but I did not want to keep them before me long
after they were dead. I often stop in the street and look up at fine
ladies' bonnets, and wonder how they can wear little dead birds in such
dreadful positions. Some of them have their heads twisted under their
wings and over their shoulders, and looking toward their tails, and
their eyes are so horrible that I wish I could take those ladies into
the woods and let them see how easy and pretty a live bird is, and how
unlike the stuffed creatures they wear. Have you ever had a good run in
the woods, Joe?"

"No, never," I said.

"Some day I will take you, and now it is late and I must go to bed. Are
you going to sleep in the kennel with me, or in the stable?"