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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.
"Barbee!" cried the old man. "Barbee! That yellow canary-bird? Meaning him?" "Yes," retorted Steve a trifle stiffly. "Anything wrong with him?" "I didn't roll them fifty miles to talk about jay-birds an' canary-birds an' such," growled his grandfather. "But here's one thing I've got to say: This ranch is goin' to be mine real soon; that's in the cards, face up. It's as good as mine now.
"When your pa gits well agin, an' here's hopin, Jim Fenton an' he will be together in their brains, ye know, and then they won't be talkin' like a couple of jay-birds, and I won't lie to him no more nor I would to you."
On the back stoop was stretched out, at full length, a husky Collie dog. He was evidently asleep, for he did not stir as the boys came down the trail toward the picturesque little cabin. "Great Caesar's ghost!" exclaimed Ham. "Take a peep at a few of those jay-birds. I never saw so many in my life. I'll bet the lady feeds them. Watch me knock that saucy fellow off that dead limb."
Allen went to the watering-trough and, filling his cup, called out: "Here, you fellows, do you want a drink of the greatest ale in the world? It's the purest of Mother Nature's brews." The old pine door squeaked on its rusty hinges as it slowly opened. "Well, sir, I'll be dummed. Howdy, young 'uns! Whar d' ye hail frum? Huntin' bar, er jist a roundin' up a bunch o' jay-birds? Haw, haw, haw!
It was very quiet and kam. There was squirrels over the roof, yellow-jackets and bees dronin' away, and kinder sleeping-like all around in the air, and jay-birds twitterin' in the shingles, and they never minded me. You were movin' up and down among them little gals and boys, liftin' up their heads and talkin' to 'em softly and quiet like, ez if you was one of them yourself.
"A game young bull," soliloquised I, and again I ran my eye around the skirting of the chapparal to watch how the hunters were getting forward with the "surround." I could perceive the flashing of brilliant wings over the bramble, and hear the shrill voices of the jay-birds. Judging by these, I concluded that the men were moving slowly enough.
We began in April when the winds sang as they did in March. There were blackbirds around then and that bird that sings "spring day." Mitch's father knew the names of all the birds; but outside of crows, robins, jay-birds and things like that we didn't know 'em neither Mitch nor I. We didn't care, for what's the use of knowing names of things?
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