"
"Air they getting scarce?" questioned the boy. The man ejected a
mouthful of dark, offensive juice from between his grizzled whiskers
before replying.
"Yes, purty tol'ble scarce. So much demand for 'em is bound to clean
the birds out. There used to be heaps of orioles an' robins an' larks
an' blackbirds an' waxwings through the country, but they're getting
played out too, since the wimmen tuk to wearin' 'em on their bunnets."
"Well, no woman sha'n't have my bird for her bunnet," and the boy gave
me another friendly pinch that nearly broke my bones. "I'm a going to
put it in that old cage that's out in the shed and give it to Betty, if
she wants it."
"Humph! she won't keer for it. You'd better kill it. Betty won't be
bothered with it."
"She may give it away, or let it loose, or do what she pleases with it,
then," was the boy's reply.
I learned from their further conversation that the hunter sold his game
to another man who cured the skins for shipment to the city. To this
dealer the bag which held my dead companions was taken and I saw them
no more. Arriving at the hunter's home I was put under a bucket that I
might not escape, while my captor prepared my prison for me. It was an
almost needless precaution for I had been so cramped between his
fingers that I feared I could never again use my legs or wings.
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