was a boy. Last Summer he gave me a nest full of young sparrows, and he saw me pulling off their legs and wings, and heads, and never said anything, except that they were nasty things, and I must not let them soil my trousers; and uncle Robson was there too, and he laughed, and said I was a fine boy."
"But what would your mama say?"
"Oh! she doesn't care—she says it's a pity to kill the pretty singing birds, but the naughty sparrows, and mice and rats I may do what I like with. So now, Miss Grey, you see it is not wicked."
"I still think it is, Tom; and perhaps your papa and mama would think so too, if they thought much about it. However," I internally added, "they may say what they please, but I am determined you shall do nothing of the kind, as long as I have power to prevent it."
He next took me across the lawn to see his mole-traps, and then into the stack-yard to see his weasel-traps, one of which, to his great joy, contained a dead weasel; and then into the stable to see, not the fine carriage horses, but a little rough colt, which he informed me
