THE WILD TURKEY. 33 
’em, dough, by callin’ till I was nearly hoarse, and I jest 
histed ’em when I got de chance.” 
‘* Didn’t you shoot them from a baited blind?” asked 
my companion. 
“Loh, no, massa! I sweah I didn’t; d’ye tink I’d kill 
a turkey like dat? No, massa; I knows better’n dat. 
Tse a sport, massa; I ain’t no old cullud roost-robbeh.” 
““T doubt it,” was the response; ‘‘as I never yet sawa 
nigger who would kill a turkey by fair means, if he could 
do it by foul, nor leave one on a roost, if he could get 
at it.” 
“ But I sweah, massa—” 
“‘Never mind your swearing. Did you see any more 
turkeys in the bottoms?” 
“‘ Whole lots, massa! Dat big gobbleh—” 
“«Did you hear him?” 
“Yes.” 
“All right; let’s be off,” said he, turning to me, and 
without any more ceremony we resumed the march, 
while the unbleached American started for his cabin. 
After travelling for about fifteen minutes we came upon 
a blind with a trench in front of it, and, from the 
quantity of fresh grain and feathers scattered about, my 
companion surmised that it had been used that morning 
by the ebony-hued reprobate who had so strongly dis- 
avowed the crime of killing the birds with such a de- 
vice. He gazed at this spot for some moments, then ex- 
pressed his opinion, and that in the strongest terms, of 
the character of his unbleached fellow-countryman, and 
from this I inferred that he did not consider him the para- 
gon of truth and honesty, or the ideal of a sportsman. 
Leaving this place, we walked onward for a few hun- 
dred yards, and found ourselves in the ‘‘ bottoms,” 
which were nothing more than the thickets bordering a 
savanna, through which flowed a dull and narrow stream. 
The woods were quite open, however, so that we could 
