s matter whether
you get to be a good enough shot to win."

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

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

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

To each of these things Bobby, like every other boy in town, gave his
attention. Apples and grapes there were everywhere in abundance. The
early 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 chance
peach or pear. Bobby could not go amiss for fresh fruit; but he liked
best of all the sweet little red "Delawares" that grew back of Auntie
Kate'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 an
old-fashioned wooden pump. Auntie Kate's apple trees, too, were of
selected varieties. Early in the season were the soft yellow sweetings;
then the streaked red and green "Northern Spies"; and last of all th