pped a funny, little old
lady.

"Boys, boys!" she called in a high, quavering voice, "don't shoot the
blue jays. It does beat all how right-down destructive all boys are,
anyway--shooting poor, harmless little birds for sport." The jays, on
hearing the familiar voice of their benefactress, began to alight in twos
and threes close by, and approved her every word with as much vigor as
their tiny throats could command. The little old lady came straight
toward Ham.

"Young man," she cried, as she shook her long, bony finger in his face,
"young man, who ever gave you the right to come into this beautiful
wilderness to maraud and murder and kill such beauties as them jays that
God has put in these woods to be companions and friends to us lonely
mountain folks? Who do you s'pose built this here canyon and that green
meadow and this little spring and these hills, and all the little wild
folks as lives in 'em? I should think you would hang your head and look
like a whipped puppy if ye're little enough to shoot jay-birds, just to
see the blue feathers a flutterin' in the air. 'Pon my soul, you hunters
is beyon' my understandin'. S'pose that bird you shot has a nest, which,
like as not, she has, an' it's full o' little fuzzy balls o' bird flesh
this minute, all mouths an' stomachs, a waitin' for their mother to bring
supper, an' they just keep a waitin' an' a waitin' till they starve,
cause you was mean enough to kill the mother bird just for fun." Ham's
hat had long since come off, and he stood with downcast eyes, not knowing
what to say. The old lady looked him up and down with a look of abject
pity and scorn as she went on:

"Didn't you ever stop to consider how many things the Almighty has put
into these hills to love, young man, if you ain't too selfish an' proud
an' mean to see 'em? I wonder what He thinks of a boy like you, anyway?
You're like a demon sneakin' through a wonderful picture gallery a
cuttin' holes in the pictures just for fun. I know every jay in this
valley, young man, every single one--and they know me. When food gets
scarce, an' cold nights come, an' snow begins to fall, I feed 'em.
They understand all I say to 'em, an' they bring their young ones for me
to see as quick as they're big enough. They tell me when it's goin' to
storm, an' when a hawk is flyin' over my chicken pen, an' when berries is
ripe, an' when strangers is comin'. They're my little family; I care for
'em every day an'--" The flood gates