CP THE SACEAMENTO. 243 



animals sit at the very edge of their holes, and unless 

 they are killed instantaneously, dart in and are lost. 

 They are exceedingly good eating when stewed in port 

 wine, but they always were too rich for me, the fat 

 from them positively floating on the gravy they are 

 stewed in. Near San Jose I used to take a heavy 

 Yankee rifle, with a bullet the size of a pea, and 

 sighted to a hair, and then they afford pretty target 

 shooting in the evening. 



By this time we had got more than thirty brace of 

 quail between us, though I am bound to say we shot 

 some running, and, worse than all, I completely 

 spoilt a new pair of Bedford cords with that horrible 

 thing, the gum-plant. On our way homewards we could 

 hear the quail piping all around us, going out for their 

 evening meal, and as Jake was in the middle of another 

 true and diverting story he suddenly seized my arm, and 

 crouched down like a panther. '^ Hish ! " he whispered, 

 and commenced crawling on his belly like one of Mayne 

 Eeid's red men. I thought at least it was deer ; visions 

 of a possible " bar ''• flitted across my mind as Jake 

 gradually pushed forward his young cannon. After a 

 good deal of screwing up of one eye, wiping the cap, 

 fingering the trigger, &c., he fired, and immediately 

 jumped up, like the " elastic potboy ^^ at a sparring 

 match, and, horushing about, held up by the tail an 

 enormous coon ! " What on earth did you shoot that 

 thing for?^^ "For? why, I guess, coon^s the best 

 hash out." Very likely, but I must say I don't care 

 about an animal that looks like something between a 

 tabby tom-cat and an armadillo. Jake skinned him 

 then and there, and afterwards we trudged back to camp, 

 as tired as we well could be. Our noble steeds were all 



R 2 



