236 RACOON HUNT IN KENTUCKY. 



the woods and rivers produce his chief dainties, and his toils are his plea- 

 sures. 



Now mark him ! the bold Kentuckian is on his feet ; his sons and 

 the stranger prepare for the march. Horns and rifles are in requisition. 

 The goodman opens the wooden-hinged door, and sends forth a blast 

 loud enough to scare a wolf. The racoons scamper away from the corn- 

 fields, break through the fences, and hie to the woods. The hunter has 

 taken an axe from the wood-pile, and returning, assures us that the night 

 is clear, and that we shall have rare sport. He blows through his rifle, 

 to ascertain that it is clear, examines his flint, and thrusts a feather into 

 the touch-hole. To a leathern bag swung at his side is attached a powder- 

 horn ; his sheathed knife is there also ; below hangs a narrow strip of 

 home-spun linen. He takes from his bag a bullet, pulls with his teeth 

 the wooden stopper from his powder-horn, lays the ball on one hand, and 

 with the other pours the powder upon it until it is just overtopped. 

 Raising the horn to his mouth, he again closes it with the stopper, and 

 restores it to its place. He introduces the powder into the tube ; springs 

 the box of his gun, greases the " patch" over with some melted tallow, or 

 damps it ; then places it on the honeycombed muzzle of his piece. The 

 bullet is placed on the patch over the bore, and pressed with the handle of 

 the knife, which now trims the edges of the linen. The elastic hickory 

 rod, held with both hands, smoothly pushes the ball to its bed : once, 

 twice, thrice has it rebounded. The rifle leaps as it were into the hun- 

 ter's arms, the feather is drawn from the touch-hole, the powder fills the 

 pan, which is closed. "• Now I'm ready," cries the woodsman. His com- 

 panions say the same. Hardly more than a minute has elapsed. I wish. 

 Reader, you had seen this fine fellow — but hark ! the dogs are bark- 

 ing. 



All is now bustle within and without : a servant lights a torch, and 

 ofi' we march to the woods. '• Don't mind the boys, my dear sir," says 

 the woodsman, " follow me close, for the ground is covered with logs, and 

 the grape vines hang everywhere across." " Toby, hold up the light, 

 man, or we'll never see the gullies." " Trail your gun, sir, as General 

 Clark used to say, — not so, but this way — that's it ; now then, no dan- 

 ger you see ; no fear of snakes, poor things ! They are stiff" enough, I'll 

 be bound. The dogs have treed one. Toby, you old fool, why don't 

 you turn to the right — not so much there — go a-head, and give us light 

 —What's that ? — Who's there ? — Ah, you young rascals ! you've played 



