SHOTGUN SAGA 
Quoted by permission from ‘‘The Gilman Lock-Up,’’ Cleveland, Ohio. 
Early one frosty November morning 
three Cleveland huntsmen began 
what eventually seemed an unending 
search for a suitable woodland where 
they might demonstrate their skill. 
From the highroads to the byroads 
went our three, seeking but never 
finding. By and large the rural 
gentry were just too busy getting 
ready for market to give encourage- 
ment. 
Now, as they saw Ben turn from the 
weathered farmhouse door, shake his 
head and start back to the road, they 
sensed that the enthusiasm of the hunt 
was on the wane. 
“Eighteen farms, eighteen stops... 
next thing you know it'll be lunch- 
time.” 
“Yeah, don't look like much hunt- 
ing today. But what say we try once 
more ... just once more.” 
So again they bumbled down the 
rutty little road. About three miles 
along Jim pulled the emergency, 
turned the switch. 
“Well here we be . . 
never.’ 
The three toasted their luck and 
Jim with one last backward glance 
that bordered between hope and de- 
spair, clomped on toward destiny. 
Those of the car waited patiently. 
They saw Jim step to a shambling 
porch, approach the door and knock. 
As the master of the domain appeared 
there came to Jim’s eyes a wild ex- 
pression of anticipation, a mounting 
tide of color. He was talking, gestur- 
ing, making one last valiant stand 
before admitting defeat. And finally, 
when he started back they knew he 
had won, that victory was theirs. 
Now it was shotguns, cartridges, 
red caps and they were off. . . off for 
the hunt . . . down past the farm 
house, past the haystack and Jim ex- 
citedly exclaiming that he’d shoot the 
first critter to cross their path. So 
through the barnyard and around the 
_ it's now or 
edge of the barn. And the gray 
swayback at pasture. 
Jim! Jim! Stop! What the... 
But Jim’s eyes were shining, his 
shotgun shouldered taking measure 
of the old gray mare. Ben and 
Charlie had seen enough. They fled 
toward the car, toward safety. As 
they ran they heard first the one 
barrel, then the other . . . and could 
picture in their mind's eye the old 
swayback as she acquitted her earthly 
obligations. 
Down the road a piece, Ben and 
Charlie stopped. What to do? Should 
they return to the scene of the crime, 
placate Jim and reimburse the farmer? 
Or should they return to Cleveland 
and let Jim handle his own troubles. 
Pro and con, they finally decided on 
the latter course of action. 
Three hours later, lodged in com- 
fort before a roaring fire they re- 
surveyed the situation . . . and mis- 
giving grew upon misgiving for after 
all, Jim had been their friend, a right 
true friend . .. and they had not 
stood by in his hour of need. 
Suddenly, to interrupt their mus- 
ings, came the telephone. At the 
other end of the line . . . Jim, in 
Medina. “Yes, you coupla so and 
sos... that was the agreement I made 
with the farmer . . . that we could 
have a day’s hunting if we’d do away 
with his old gray mare. He just 
didn't have the heart to do the job 
himself.’ 

Pretty Smooth 
Friend: ‘Say, your car does run 
smoothly.”’ 
Driver: ‘Thanks, but just a minute. 
I haven't started the engine yet.” 

Flowers are love's truest language. 
—Park Benjamin. 
11 
