him shoot a jack-rabbit, and a hawk, and a squirrel, and when in the 

 presence of these vicious capers have heard him laugh and say, "A good 

 shot!" Will a man laugh at a funeral? This man will. He does. 

 Hunting and kodaking demoralize the moral nature of man. The 

 villain is old and bold. His conscience (allowing, as a matter of pure 

 courtesy to him, that originally he had one) is atrophied. There is not 

 even a vermiform appendage left. I have known him to shoot quails 

 out of season. He thinks nothing of breaking the law. Once he in- 

 veigled me into carrying the game he had slain unlawfully as well as 

 murderously. This I did as a matter of courtesy (for I am a Chester- 

 field in etiquette), for I was his guest (he driving me out after his red 

 horses, two beasties about as big as two-year-old jack- rabbits), and I 

 could not, with my code of manners, refuse mine host's request to 

 skirmish around and pick up his game ; but afterward it leaked out that 

 he did this because the law holds that man guilty who has the ill-gotten 

 game. Such perfidy I had read of, but scarcely believed. I thought 

 lago was an imaginary creation; now I know he is a photograph, and 

 I could find Shakespeare a subject for a sitting. 



Beyond this, the villain professes to like me, writes me postal 

 cards, takes me riding, invites me to his home, drives me out when the 

 purple aster is in bloom, comes to my hospitable board, drives me to my 

 farm and says he enjoys it, praises my. view, says it is "bully," caresses 

 my trees (he is an lago) loans me his red horses and red dog, glows 

 over my ravine, says nice things about my hackberry and shell-bark 

 hickory-trees, speaks in hopeful terms of my apple orchard, is sympathetic 

 in my fondest aspirations of getting ten or fifteen dollars rent in the 

 remote future, and even suggests I may some time get enough to pay a 

 year's taxes ; and I being of a confiding turn (interpreting others by 

 myself) think him well-meaning and virtuous. But this man "who 

 hath broken bread with me hath lifted up his heel against me" (quoted 

 from the Psalter). When with Mrs. Mugwump, who holds my farm in 

 slight esteem, he joins her hilarity at my expense; echoes her wickedest 

 snigger; constructs poor jests about my farm and its achievements; 

 joins in crude and unusual remarks about "chiggers;" laughs loudly at 

 jests at my expense, refuses to look at me, being so engrossed with Mrs. 

 Mugwump's humor and hospitality; thanks her for his dinner, whereas I 

 paid for it and the black girl cooked it, well he is a villain. That is all 

 I can say now. Had I my way in my house (do I need to say I do 

 not?) he would jest no more at me over my fried chicken. 



210 



