“Hain’t thought about it,” says Catty. “It must be fine,” says Dad, “to start off in the morning and not know where you are going, and not to care, and not to feel that you’ve ever got to come back. It must be splendid to go fishing when you want to, or to lie on your back in the sun when you want to, and to know that there’s no reason why you shouldn’t. Somehow it seems to me that if I could be shiftless I’d rather work at it in the country, in the woods or mountains, than around towns.” He nodded his head and so did Catty. “I’d rather be shiftless like a squirrel than like an alley cat,” Dad says. “The bear’s the feller,” says Catty. “He pokes around and does what he wants to all summer when it’s fine, and then he goes to sleep warm and comfortable all winter, with no bother about grub or fuel. I wisht I was a bear.” “Do you like corners?” says Dad, and I didn’t know what he meant, but Catty did. “Dad and me talk a lot about corners,” says he. “Seems like corners is the most int’restin’ things in the world. Country roads is full of ’em. Heaps of times Dad and me will set down when we’re comin’ to a corner and argue about it for half an hour—about what we’ll see when we come to turn it. It’s a funny thing, but there’s a different thing around every corner you turn. No two of ’em’s alike.” “And brooks,” said Dad, “especially mountain brooks.” “They’re jest like stories,” says Catty. “Like them intrestin’ stories that you can’t git to sleep till you finish. I’d rather foller down a brook than anything.” “Shoot?” says Dad. “Never shot a gun.” “Try it.” Catty aimed at my bottle and missed it as far as I did. He sort of wrinkled his nose and says something to himself and waggled his head. You could see he didn’t like missing. When I got to know him better I found out that he was always like that. He didn’t like not being able to do things, and if he found out he couldn’t do something, he wouldn’t rest till he _could_ do it. He went over and snooped around the ground till he had picked up six cartridges that had been shot, and sat them in a row on top of the fence. Then he walked off a ways and took a piece of rubber band out of his pocket. There was a leather pocket on it. “What’s that?” says I. “A beanie,” says he. I’d never seen one. In our part of the country we used a sling-shot made of two rubber bands and a crotch. Catty fingered in his pocket and piffled out a round pebble and fixed it in the leather. Then he drew back the rubber over the first finger of his left hand and shot quick. The pebble knocked off the first cartridge. And then, almost quicker than I can say it, he shot five more times, and every pebble knocked off a cartridge. I never saw such shooting. “There!” says he. “Fine shooting,” says Dad, and Dad’s eyes were shining like they always do when he’s pleased. “I’m glad I saw that.” Then Dad put in about half an hour showing Catty and me how to shoot a gun, and we got so we could do a little better.