374 The Mourning Dove 



roof, and as no wise man shoots shot into his own 

 shingles, I let him run. Thence to the roof of a 

 big greenhouse (another poor place for a shot), 

 while I kept within easy range. Finally to the 

 top scantling of a picket fence, along which he 

 coursed like a puff of red smoke. I forget how 

 many pickets I held ahead of him. It matters 

 not, for the result went to show that I had led 

 him plenty, and leaded him more than plenty. 



