Don shied a stick at it and
kept on to the trap. It was down, and there was something in it which
fluttered its wings against the bars and made the most frantic
efforts to escape. Don knew it was not a quail, so he did not stop to
see what it was. He threw back the slide, thrust his hand into the
opening and when he clutched the bird received a severe bite from it.
"I have half a mind to wring your little neck for you," thought Don,
as he brought the fluttering captive, a beautiful red-bird, into
view. "Not because you have bitten me, but because you will make it
your business to come here and spring this trap every day. Red-birds
and blue-jays are perfect nuisances when a fellow is trapping, and I
wouldn't blame Dave for shooting every one he sees."
But Don did not injure the bird. He was a sportsman, and never made
war on game of this sort. He tossed the captive into the air and it
flew away out of sight.
Having set the trap again and scattered a little more corn about to
replace that which had been picked up by the birds, Don went back to
the wagon and Bert drove on down the field. They found the second
trap thrown, and the marks of little teeth on the ear of corn that
was tied to the trigger showed that a ground squirrel had been at
work.
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