From earliest recollection he had listened with wide eyes through
winter evenings, while over a pan of baldwin apples his father
talked with some neighbour who had dropped in, of the early days
when they had hunted deer and wolves and wild turkeys over this
country where were now the thrifty Michigan farms. There were,
too, his father's stories of his own adventures as hunter and miner
in the mountains of the West.

It seemed to him the time would never come when he would be big
enough to hunt and trap and travel through the forests as his
father had done. He grew so slowly; but the years did pass, and at
last one day the boy almost died of gladness when his father told
him he was big enough now to learn to trap, and that he should have
a lesson tomorrow. It was the first great overwhelming joy.

There was also a first great crime.

While waiting for this happy time to come he had learned to do
other things, among them to throw stones. It was necessary,
however, to be careful what was aimed at. The birds made tempting
marks; but song-birds were sacred things, and temptation had to be
resisted.

One day while he played in the yard with his little sister,
resentment having turned to devotion, a wren flew down to the wood
pile and began its song. It happened at that very moment he had a
stone in his hand. He didn't quite have time to think before the
stone was gone and the bird dropped dead. Dumb with horror the two
gazed at each other. Beyond doubt all he could now expect was to