EVENING REVERIES. 
JAMES J. 
While puffing my old briar pipe and gaz- 
ing at the ceiling I have been thinking of 
bygone days spent on the river and in the 
woods around my old home at Exeter, 
New 
In the corner of my room there now, 
stands my first gun, a 16 bore, single bar- 
rel, not over 5 pounds in weight. It was 
given to me when I was but 12 years old 
and has an interesting history. Some of 
my first exploits with it were laughable. I 
always carried a small screwdriver with 
me to remove and put back the lock. Many 
a time, when I have had a squirrel sighted 
along the little old black barrel, has the 
cap failed to explode. Then I would take 
off the lock, cock it, and screw it back into 
place; by that time the squirrel would be 
in the next township. 
My prospective brother-in-law made a 
new stock for the gun, fitted it with a new 
lock and the next day came near shooting 
me with the combination. We were walk- 
ing abreast through the woods, he with my 
gun and I with one borrowed for the occa- 
sion, when a chipmunk darted across in 
front of us. Jack, being left handed, shot 
from his left shoulder. The squirrel came 
my way; so did the charge from the 16 
bore, passing within a few inches of my 
breast. 
Two days later a party of us were having 
a swim up river. Some were in the water, 
others reclining and running about the 
bank. The gun lay on the ground, full 
cocked and loaded with bird shot. One of 
the boys hooked his big toe in the guard, 
pulled the trigger and filled Whacker’s leg 
full of lead. During a greater part of the 
next forenoon the venerable Dr. P. was 
_ digging shot from Whacker’s calf. 
’ My next gun was a single barrel, breech 
loader. My father bought it from a friend 
in the country, who the morning before had 
fished it from the bottom of a stream where 
it had laid some time. Yet it was a good 
gun. At 100 measured yards it would drive 
B.B. shot out of sight into a green pine 
board. 
Never shall I forget the Thanksgiving 
Day shoot held at Exeter, that year. It 
was at live pigeons, and noted shots from 
Boston, Worcester and other cities were 
on hand. I was rabbit hunting that day 
and happened across the ground where the 
match was being held. 
Colonel G., of Exeter, was present. As 
he had no gun I offered to loan him mine, 
WESLORE, 
much to the amusement of the boys. 
Nevertheless, the Colonel won the match, 
and the boys thereafter handled my old gun 
as if it were worth hundreds of dollars. 
One cold morning Ted and I started for 
the great meadows hoping to find some 
stray ducks there. Disappointed in this, 
we built a blind at the entrance of the mead- 
ow brook and awaited events. Perhaps 2 
hours had passed when I heard a whir of 
wings, and saw 3 black ducks drop into the 
stream. Then it was a question who could 
get the first shot. Neither of us daring to 
move for fear of putting the birds to flight. 
By twisting about I could just see the top 
of the head of a duck. I fired at it, slipped 
another cartridge in the gun and jumped 
up. The duck I had seen was floating feet 
up; another was going up stream before 
the wind, one wing trailing in the water; 
and the third was squaring away for Hamp- 
ton marshes. | 
Ted had a single barrel, muzzle loader, 
which he unloaded at the flying bird, but 
with no result. Then I killed the wing- 
tipped duck, and Ted said: ‘‘ You fool! if 
you had kept quiet we would have bagged 
the lot.’ All the time he was rapidly re- 
moving his clothes and in he went, break- 
ing the thin ice along the edge of the water, 
and retrieved both birds. 
“One belongs to me because I went in 
after them,” he said, his jaw chattering and 
his legs blue with cold. We started for 
home immediately, a duck dangling from 
the barrel of each gun and hung artfully by 
one leg so it would look the larger. We 
took a long way round to get home, going 
through several streets, all the time talking 
loudly. 
In the same stream and in almost the 
same spot I killed another black duck, 4 
years ago. I was sculling a small boat on 
the river and just before entering Meadow 
brook I heard a loud quacking some dis- 
tance up that stream. I sculled to within 
a few feet of a sharp bend in the brook and 
got on my knees just as the duck left the 
water. I had no difficulty in covering him 
and saw him fall; but find him I could not. 
The water at that point was 8 to Io inches 
deep, clear as crystal and perhaps 15 feet 
from bank to bank. The bird struck the 
center of the stream about 50 yards from 
me. I searched for a half hour and was 
about to give up when I noticed a small 
feather on a weed near the bank. Push- 
ing over there I found the duck stone dead, 

