fternoon but to shoot at the robins and
woodpeckers.

So, as soon as the wagon was out of sight, and the gate shut, he ran
into the orchard, and began the fun. He kept near enough to the house to
see if anybody came to the door, and near enough to the garden to see if
the pigs got into it; and whenever he saw a bird, he sent an arrow
after it. But the robins soon found out what he wanted, and flew away
when they saw him coming. Their beautiful red breasts would have been
capital marks, if they had only waited for him to get a good shot. The
wrens were not afraid, but they were so small he could not hit them. And
the swallows kept flying about so, twittering and darting here and
there, that he knew he would have to practise a long time before he
could take them on the wing. The yellow-birds and blue-birds were so
shy, that he could hardly see one in sight of the house. So there was no
game left but the woodpeckers.

But woodpeckers are cunning fellows. They run up the trees, and stick in
their bills, and hop about, and fly from one tree to another so fast,
that it takes a pretty smart boy to hit one. They were tame enough, and
would sometimes let Andy come quite near; they would stop pecking a
moment, and hold up their red heads to take a good look at him; then
they would begin to drum again in the merriest way, making little holes
in the old peach-trees, which began to look like wooden soldiers that
had gone through the wars and been shot in hundreds of places. But the
instant Andy drew the bowstring and took aim, they knew well enough what
it meant; and it was provoking to see them dodge around on the bark and
get out of sight just in time to let the arrow whiz by them. Then they
would go to pecking and drumming again so near, that he wished a dozen
times that he had some kind of an arrow that would shoot around a tree
and hit on the other side.

At length Andy grew tired of this fun; and he had lost his arrow so many
times in the grass, and had to hunt for it, that he got vexed, and
thought it would be much better sport to go and shoot a chicken.

Now he did not mean to kill a chicken, and he did not really think he
would be able to hit one. But often we do things more easily when we are
not trying very hard, than when we are too anxious. So it happened with
Andy. He tried his luck on the speckled top-knot, which everybody
considered the handsomest chick that had been hatched that summer. He
drew his bow, let go t