The Shot that Backfired

I was eleven when my father gave me an air-gun. The first thing I shot was a robin. I remember how sorry I was when it fell.

Later, I found my father in the garden. He was taking flies from a spider’s web. He put the flies into a matchbox.

"What are you doing, Dad?" I asked. He took me to another part of the garden. There, in a bush, he showed me a nest with four young birds in it. Slowly my father opened the matchbox. He dropped the flies into the wide-open mouths. I knew at once why he was feeding them. All I said was, "May I help you?"

"Of course, Harry. But it’s hard work."

All that afternoon I dug worms and hunted for bugs. That night Father put some wool around the birds to keep them warm.

Next morning he came into my room early with one of the birds in his hand. "It died during the night," he said. "We must work hard to keep the others alive."

After supper that evening, we found another bird dead. A few days later, my father brought in the third baby robin. It was dead, too.

"The last one is a strong little fellow," Father said later.

"He may try out his wings soon. But he will have a hard job." "There is no one to teach him to fly, and perhaps he is weak from too little food.”

One day we found the little robin on a branch. It had come out of the nest. I so much wanted this bird to fly. I watched him as he fell off the branch. For a second his wings beat the air. Then he fell to the ground — dead.

“Poor little fellow,” Father said. “He didn’t have much of a chance, did he?”

Sadly I cried out, “Oh, Dad, it’s all my fault? I killed his mother.”

“I know, Son. I saw you do it. It was a thing many boys have done. But I just wanted you to see that if you hurt anything or anybody, you'll also hurt some others. Perhaps you may hurt even the ones who love you. And so often you yourself are the one who is hurt most.”