The Amateur Poacher 



a thick pith running down the centre : by removing 

 that the gouge and chisel had not much work to do 

 to make a groove for the old bell-mouthed barrel to 

 lie in. The matchlock, for as such it was intended, 

 was nearly finished when our hopes were dashed to 

 the ground by a piece of unnatural cunning. One 

 morning the breechpiece that screwed in was missing. 

 This was fatal. A barrel without a breechpiece is 

 like a cup without a bottom. It was all over. 



There are days in spring when the white clouds 

 go swiftly past, with occasional breaks of bright sun- 

 shine lighting up a spot in the landscape. That is 

 like the memory of one's youth. There is a long 

 dull blank, and then a brilliant streak of recollection. 

 Doubtless it was a year or two afterwards when, 

 seeing that the natural instinct could not be sup- 

 pressed but had better be recognised, they produced 

 a real gun (single-barrel) for me from the clock-case. 



It stood on the landing just at the bottom of the 

 dark flight that led to the garret. An oaken case six 

 feet high or more, and a vast dial, with a mysterious 

 picture of a full moon and a ship in full sail that 

 somehow indicated the quarters of the year, if you 

 had been imitating Rip Van Winkle and after a 

 sleep of six months wanted to know whether it was 

 spring or autumn. But only to think that all the 



