A feather dropped from the
bird as it took flight.
"Man, Hal, I think that hit him!" exclaimed Robbie, running up to
secure the feather.
"Ay," said I. "But I'm thinking we both want some practice, Robbie.
We'll have no birds today, I reckon. Let's put up some cock-shy on
yon rock and fire at it. There's no use shooting at the birds.
We'll hit them, maybe; but we'll not kill anything, I'm feared."
So we erected a tall stone on the top of a rock, and, standing some
paces from it, practised firing at the object until we could hit
it, perhaps, once out of half a dozen tries. But we soon got tired
of this play, and I proposed climbing up to the top of the cliffs,
for all the birds seemed to be flying high.
Walking along to a broken cleft of the headland, where a burn came
down from the hills through a long gorge, we turned up the ravine
and mounted the heights. No sooner were we up there, however, than
we found that the birds were all below us on the beach.
We were making our way up the ravine, Robbie carrying the climbing lines
and I the loaded gun, when a large sea bird with wide-sweeping wings
flew just over our heads. Without thinking of hitting him, but simply
wishing to empty the gun of its charge in case of accident, I took aim
and fired. The great bird faltered in its flight, one of its wings
seemed to lose all power, and then with a circling swoop he came down
with a thud upon a grassy knoll beside the stream.
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