SNIPE-SHOOTING. 107 
The scene was Short’s Landing, in the State of Dela- 
ware, and on the noble river of the same name. The 
place “ Robinson’s tavern”’—the time daybreak, on as 
wild an April morning as ever woke in mingled hail- 
squalls and sunshine. 
Spring Snipxe-SnooTing. 
‘“<Tf you please, sir, it’s taime to get oop,” said a cheer- 
ful voice, with a most marvelous north-country burr, at 
the best bed-room door of a small way-side tavern, in 
the little State of Delaware, not many miles distant 
from the noble river whence it derives its name. 
“The deuce it is!” replied the lodger, in fine manly 
ringing tones, although the speaker was but just awak- 
ened. “I did not think that I had been in bed ten min- 
utes. What time is it, Timothy, and how does the day 
look ?” 
“'T’ clock’s run doon; and it beant day,” replied 
Harry Archer’s famous body servant, who was in one of 
his literal moods, that morning, busying himself, as he 
spoke, in stropping his master’s razors by the apology 
for a light afforded by the home-made dip. 
“Confound you, man, when will it be day then, and 
how does the morning frame ?”* answered his master, 
*To “frame,” in Yorkshire, signifies “ to promise,” “to give token 
of becoming,” as “the puppy frames to be a good one.” “The day 
Jrames to be fine.” 
