Near the limits of Hollywood the forest made a sudden curve to the right, and the river, turned from its course, rushed, laughing and eager, over a ridge of rocks which tossed it in the air in sheets of silver spray.

Standing there, leaning upon a gun, a boy of about seventeen looked long at a squirrel whose mangled body was staining the emerald beauty of the moss with crimson.  His face was earnest and troubled, while the expression of sorrowful contempt which swept over it, made him seem older than he was.  It was a strong face, with deep-set, thoughtful eyes which lit up wondrously when he was interested or pleased.  His mouth was sensitive but his chin was firm and his brown hair fell in soft waves over a broad, full brow.  People always took it for granted that John Randolph would be as good as his word.  They never reasoned about it.  They simply expected it of him.

He began to speak, and his voice fell clear and distinct through the silence.

“And you call this sport?” There was no answer save the soft gurgle of the river as it splashed merrily over the stones.

“You are a brute, John Randolph!” And the wind sighed a plaintive echo among the trees.

He was silent while the words which he had read six weeks before and which had been ringing a ceaseless refrain in his heart ever since, obtruded themselves upon his memory.

“It is the privilege of everyone to become an exact copy of Jesus Christ.”

“Well, John Randolph, can you picture to yourself Jesus Christ shooting a squirrel for sport?” He tossed aside the weapon he had been leaning upon with a gesture of disgust, and, folding his arms, looked up at the cloud-flecked sky.

“Are you there, Jesus Christ?” he asked wistfully.  “Are you looking down on this poor old world, and what do you think of it all?  Men made in God’s image finding their highest enjoyment in slaughtering his creatures.  Game Preserves where they can do it in luxurious leisure; fox hunts with their pack of hunters and hounds in full cry after one poor defenceless fox, and battle-fields where they tear each other limb from limb with Gatling gun and shells; and yet we call ourselves honorable gentlemen, and talk of the delights of the chase and the glories of war!  Pshaw! what a mockery it is.”

Stooping suddenly he laid the squirrel upon his open palm and gently stroked the long, silky fur.  He lifted the tiny paws with their perfect equipment for service and looked remorsefully at the eyes whose light was dimmed, and the mouth which had forever ceased its merry chatter.  A great tenderness sprang up in his heart toward all living things and, lifting his right hand to heaven, he exclaimed, “Poor little squirrel, I cannot give you back your happy life, but, I will never take another!”

Then he knelt, and scooping out a grave, laid the little creature to rest at the foot of a tree in whose trunk the remnant of its winter store of nuts was carefully garnered.  When at length he turned to leave the spot the tiny grave was marked by a pine slab, on which was pencilled,