SMALL SHOT 213 



tramp has been a weary one, and all one's muscles 

 and bones cry out for rest. One's richer neighbor 

 may have a costlier gun, hence a pang of unchris- 

 tian envy, and the breaking of a holy command- 

 ment, all for a stock and a bit of iron. 



Not these frets and worries and ungodly heart- 

 burnings are felt by him whose only weaponly 

 possession is an ancient muzzle-loader, the barrels 

 whereof halfway from breech to muzzle are worn 

 bare of their first and only browning, with stock 

 battered, scratched, and bruised, locks rickety and 

 inviting irrigation. The rains may fall upon it 

 and brambles scratch it, and it be none the worse 

 for looks or use. Its owner may hang it on its hooks 

 at night, with barrels foul and dully blushing 

 with a film of rust; and sup with slow comfort, 

 and then betake himself to dreamless sleep, un- 

 troubled by thought of duty unperformed. 



What happy memories are awakened by the sight 

 and touch of the old gun, with which one's first 

 woodcock and snipe, wild duck and grouse were 

 brought down. The very alder brake, and bog, 

 river bend, and russet and green bit of beech and 

 hemlock woodland rises before him, each the 

 scene of a first glorious triumph in autumns long 

 ago, and each in apparition almost as real as then, 

 though all are changed or passed away. This bruise 

 of the stock and dent in the barrel were got in a 

 tumble over a ledge when you were rushing for a 



