Shooting 109 



heads. The bark is grating, long-drawn and 

 full of z-sounds. Between themselves, the 

 gray-coats chirrup faintly, but if they make a 

 noise over sighting an enemy, it is always a 

 bark. 



But when Joe had his gun, the gray-coats 

 whisked away, running up very high, or else 

 lying so flat upon top of a stout branch as to 

 be invisible. Joe had a good squirrel gun, 

 long before the epoch of the breech-loader. 

 It had been reckoned a fine weapon when his 

 father was a lad — a long, light double-barrel, 

 too long for bird-shooting, but carrying 

 almost as straight as a rifle up to thirty yards. 

 If the squirrel ran around the tree, it was 

 always Patsy's privilege to " turn " him. She 

 left Joe standing stock-still, finger on trigger, 

 and went noisily to the opposite side, shook 

 bushes there, or swung up and down upon the 

 tip of a low hung bough, or a loop of grape- 

 vine. Her aim was to be heard, not seen — 

 when the squirrel heard her, he popped cun- 

 ningly back — then Joe and the double-barrel 

 settled accounts with him. 



Patsy could shoot, but she did not care for 

 a gun. " You always have to watch out, if 

 you tote a guti," she said ; " I had a heap 

 rather see things." Nobody who walked 

 through the autumn woods could well blame 

 her. The whole world was enchanted then. 



