A BOY, A MUSKET, A PRAIRIE CHICKEN. 



C. L. HART. 



When a boy, the height of my ambition 

 was to own a gun, but as my parents were 

 poor, I had to put up with a bow and ar- 

 rows of my own make, which were not 

 very effective, as the only thing I ever 

 killed in 3 years' shooting was a torn tur- 

 key and a snowbird. When I was 13 

 I determined to have a real gun, and with 

 this object in view I secured a position on 

 a farm at a salary of 25 cents a day. 

 When I had earned $3 I bought what was 

 to me a fine arm. 



It was taller than I, had an iron ram 

 rod, and used a cap that looked like a plug 

 hat. Yet it was, in my estimation, a world 

 beater. Prairie chickens were plentiful in 

 those days, and I determined to bag some 

 at once. One bright winter morning, 

 with my pockets filled with bottles of pow- 

 der and shot and a game sack made from 

 the leg of an overall, I made tracks in the 

 direction of a neighbor's corn pens, around 

 which a large flock was in the habit of 

 feeding. There was snow on the ground, 

 and the chickens were a little shy, all fly- 

 ing away before I got within range ; so I 

 concluded to hide by the old rail fence and 

 wait for some to come back. Scarcely had 

 I squatted in the fence corner, when I 

 spied an old cock about Y^ mile away, 

 coming for me as straight as an arrow. 

 It is needless to say I grew anxious. 

 All kinds of ideas passed through my mmd, 

 but he was coming fast and I must act at 

 once, so up went the old musket and I 

 gazed along the barrel. The old man- 



killer had a 7 or 8 pound pull, and I was 

 slow in getting her unhitched. About the 

 time she exploded, the chicken sailed over 

 my head, alighting on the top of a large 

 pen of corn not more than 10 feet from 

 where I sat. At that moment I realized 

 what a sad mistake I had made in not re- 

 serving my fire, but it was no time for rev- 

 erie. I gazed up through the crack of the 

 fence at the fine old fellow, standing there 

 as though posing before an artist. With 

 trembling hand I fumbled for my bottle of 

 powder, poured out a handful and man- 

 aged to get some of it in the gun. I then 

 fished out a wad of paper and hastily ram- 

 med it down. Out came the bio bottle or 

 shot with a nervous jerk. I did not stop 

 to measure them. I fished for more paper. 

 Horrors ! it was all gone. I peeped 

 through the fence. My game was still there 

 Oh, if I only had a cap on ! I yanked out 

 my new full box and in my haste dumped 

 them all in the snow. As I pulled back 

 the hammer the cock pricked up his 

 ears. I shoved the old gun through the 

 bottom crack of the fence to turn it around. 

 Gee whiz ! the shot rolled out in the snow. 

 Oh, what will I do ? The bird is uneasy 

 and may fly at any moment. At a 10-foot 

 range I ought to kill him with a paper wad, 

 so here goes ! I take a quick aim at his 

 breast and pull. What next? He turns 

 as fine a flip-flop as a professional tumbler, 

 utters a defiant cackle and pulls his freight. 

 While I? Well, all you old sports were 

 boys once. 



AMATEUR PHOTO 8Y H. E. PUMPHREY. 



A NATURALIST IN HIS STUDIO. 



Highly commended in Recreation's 5th An- 

 nual Photo Competition. 



270 



