One of
these is to kill an eagle--or some large bird--with a shaft from
my good bow. I would then have it stuffed and mounted, with the
very arrow that killed it still sticking in its breast. This
trophy of my skill I would have fastened against the wall of my
room or my hall, and I would feel proud to think that my
grandchildren could point to that bird--which I would carefully
bequeath to my descendants--and say, `My grand'ther shot that
bird, and with that very arrow.' Would it not stir your pulses
if you could do a thing like that?"
"I should have to stir them up a good deal before I could do
it," I replied. "It would be a hard thing to shoot an eagle with
an arrow. If you want a stuffed bird to bequeath, you'd better
use a rifle."
"A rifle!" exclaimed Pepton. "There would be no glory in
that. There are lots of birds shot with rifles--eagles, hawks,
wild geese, tomtits--"
"Oh, no!" I interrupted, "not tomtits."
"Well, perhaps they are too little for a rifle," said he. "But
what I mean to say is that I wouldn't care at all for an eagle I
had shot with a rifle. You couldn't show the ball that killed
him. If it were put in properly, it would be inside, where it
couldn't be seen. No, sir. It is ever so much more honorable,
and far more difficult, too, to hit an eagle than to hit a
target."
"That is very true," I answered, "especially in these days, when
there are so few eagles and so many targets. But what is your
other diadem?"
"That," said Pepton, "is to see Miss Rosa wear the badge.
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