A LULLABY. 



MACK. 



Tom and Joe, I and the guide, John 

 Egan, were sprawled beside the camp fire 

 in altitudes of Delsartian grace. We had 



not shot a thing all day, and were solacing 

 ourselves by reviling the guide. He had 

 the faculty of seeing game in every clump 

 of brush; and would have been a treasure. 

 could he have materialized his visions for 

 our benefit. We had long called him " Old 

 Secondsight," but when Joe proposed to 

 name him " I John," because he " saw 

 these things," the old man changed the sub- 

 ject. 



" I set a trap for bear once," he began, 

 " and while a settin' it, I dropped a bottle 

 of lockjaw liniment I'd bought for my 

 woman — thinkin' it might be double actin' 

 — and I come away and left it." Here John 

 paused and slowly reloaded his pipe. 



" Did you catch the bear? " queried Joe. 



" No; the trap did, but he got away." 



" How? " we all cried. 



" Well, I dunno. I found the trap sprung, 

 but the jaws was open and a wavin' languid 

 like; and the liniment bottle was empty. 

 I expect when the bear seen he was fast, 

 he put the med'eine on the trap." 



Tom was the first to rally. ' You know 

 the barrels of double guns are so adjusted 

 that the charges, if fired simultaneously, 

 will meet and cross at about 40 yards from 

 the muzzle," he remarked. 



We admitted having heard something of 

 the kind. 



" I was duck shooting on Long lake," he 

 continued. " The flight was good, and I 

 had expended all my ammunition with the 

 exception of 2 ball cartridges I happened to 

 have. I slipped them in the gun, hoping 

 to get another bird. Just then appeared, 

 flying toward me, in usual wedge forma- 

 tion and not 3 feet above the water, a flock 

 of teal. An old drake led the van; 4 birds 

 formed one line, and 5, the other; the lines 

 making an angle of 25 degrees. The leader 

 was within 45 yards of me, when I fired both 

 barrels. Imagine my amazement as 9 ducks 

 fell, raked stem and stern. The 10th bird 

 was a trifle out of line, and escaped unin- 

 jured." 



I drew a long breath. " I can readily un- 

 derstand your missing one duck: " I said, 

 " but what killed the 9? " 



" Why, don't you see? The balls met, 

 just before reaching the drake, and rico- 

 chetting at the exact angle of the lines of 

 birds, swept everything before them." 



" I say, Tom," exclaimed Joe, admiringly. 

 *•' why don't you write stories for a sports- 

 man's paper? " 



" I am not a good enough liar," replied 

 Tom, with becoming modesty. 



" Still," I remarked, " by sedulously cul- 

 tivating your natural bent, you might " 



" Besides," interrupted Tom, "nothing 

 new can be written on sporting subject-' 

 You might puff new guns and deride 

 old ones," suggested Joe. 



" Pooh! " said Tom. " In these days of 

 encyclopedic catalogues, everyone is a gun 

 sharp." 



" Well," said I, " there are 2 departments 

 that, like Hell, are never full; the lauda- 

 tory corner, and the fool question box." 



"They are usually combined," said Joe; 

 "for instance: 'I have read your valued 

 paper for steen years. It is a mine of in- 

 formation. How many pink edge wads 

 should be used over shot? ' But you might 

 devise a variation of the double puff; the 

 me and you kind." 



" Let me try," said Tom, " I have hunted 

 big game from Cape Horn to the Arctic cir- 

 cle; and in both places saw your journal 

 prominently displayed on the news stands. 

 Yesterday I shot a rabbit on the Hacken- 

 sack meadows. (Please print.) 



" Sounds a little stereotyped," I said. 

 " How is this? — Forty-four years ago I 

 was hunting buffalo where the city of Boze- 

 man now stands. I had made a fair bag, 

 and was returning to camp when I met an 

 Indian, whose white scalp lock and bowed 

 figure indicated extreme age. ' Ho Pale- 

 face! ' he cried, ' Is Recreation out yet? ' 

 ' No, Sachem,' I answered. ' It won't be out 

 for 40 years.' ' Alas! ' he moaned, ' I can- 

 not live without it.' And with a convulsive 

 sob, he passed away." 



" Indians don't talk that way," objected 

 Tom. " Why not bring in a little Shoshone 

 dialect? " 



" I do not know how," I confessed. 



" Knowledge is not necessary." answered 

 Tom. " Dialect writers are inspired." 



" I think most are possessed," I replied. 

 " But, Tom, why not strike a new lead in 

 the humane line: and demand that game 

 be anesthetized before being photographed. 

 It is cruel to let an animal know it is being 

 taken by an amateur." 



" But I am so young," pleaded Tom. 

 " Excessive softening of the heart is a dis- 

 ease of those who have grown gray in 

 slaughter." 



" If you cannot write yourself." I ob- 

 served, " you might jolly those who can." 



" Yes," chimed in Joe, " any fool can do 

 that." 



In the silence which followed, old John 

 awoke. He tucked some more of the blan- 

 ket under his head and murmured, drowsily. 

 " Gents, your jokes beat poppies to make a 

 fellow sleep. Work off some more." 



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