The Maple County Sportsman's Association held its weekly shoots with regularity. It consumed a great deal of Bobby's time and attention. You see, each event was to be anticipated, and then remembered; the score was to be rejoiced over or regretted; and the great question of how to do better was to be considered prayerfully and long. Bobby found it to be a more complicated problem than he would have believed possible. He used to lie awake in bed thinking it over. Regularly before Thursday came around he hit on a complete solution of the difficulty; and as regularly he discovered by the actual test that something, whether of theory or practice, still lacked.

Mr. Kincaid always listened to his ideas non-commitally.

"I've found out what it is!" cried Bobby as soon as Bucephalus had approached within hearing distance. "You got to practise until your forefinger works all by itself--entirely separate from the rest of your arm. Then the rifle won't jerk sideways so much."

"All right," Mr. Kincaid responded, as Bobby climbed laboriously into the cart. "Try it."

Bobby tried it; found it difficult to accomplish, and not altogether effective. The bullets still scattered more or less like a shotgun charge. Mr. Kincaid's score more than doubled his. Mr. Kincaid always shot the best he could; and entered a grave negative to Bobby's tentative suggestion for a handicap.

"No, Bobby," said he, "don't believe in 'em. It really doesn't matter whether you defeat me or not; now does it? But it does matter whether you get to be a good enough shot to win."

After each demolition of his ideas, Bobby returned a trifle dashed, but with undaunted spirit. Again his busy brain attacked the puzzle. In a week he had another hypothesis ready for the test.

Thus he edged slowly but surely toward marksmanship. The sight must be held on the mark for an instant after the discharge; the trigger must be squeezed steadily, not pulled; the independent command of the forefinger is helped by as inclusive a grasp of the stock as possible; holding the breath is an aid to steadiness--these, and a dozen other first principles, Bobby acquired, one after another, by the slow inductive process. Each helped; and Mr. Kincaid appreciated that his pupil was learning intelligently, so that in the final result Bobby would not only be a good shot, but he would know why.

In the meantime various changes were taking place in the seasons, which Bobby noted in his own fashion. The little green apples of summer--just right for throwing and for casting from the end of a switch--were now large and rosy. Under the big hickory tree in the Fuller's yard were already to be found occasional nuts. The leaves were turning gorgeous; and enough were falling to make it necessary that the householder search out his broad rake. In the country the shocks of corn stood in rows like so many Indian chiefs wrapped each in his blanket, his plumes waving above. The night was weird with the notes of birds migrating.

To each of these things Bobby, like every other boy in town, gave his attention. Apples and grapes there were everywhere in abundance. The early pioneer planted always his orchard and his arbours. The town, taking root on the old riverside farms, preserved, as far as it could, the fruit-trees. Every one who had a yard of any size about his house, possessed also an apple tree or so and a grape vine--sometimes a chance peach or pear. Bobby could not go amiss for fresh fruit; but he liked best of all the sweet little red "Delawares" that grew back of Auntie Kate's kitchen garden. These he picked, warmed by the sun. The satiny "Concords" from the trellis, however............