Now an' then I hears some little old
gobbler, 'cross a canyon, a-makin' of sland'rous remarks about other
gobblers to some hen he's deloodin', but I never manages a shot. As
I'm comin' back to camp--I'm strollin' down a draw at the time where
thar's no trees nor nothin'--thar emanates a black-tail buck from
over among the bushes on the hill, an' starts to headin' my way a
whole lot. His horns is jest gettin' over bein' velvet, an' he's
feelin' plenty good an' sassy. I sees that buck--his horns eetches
is what makes him--jump eighteen feet into the air an' comb them
antlers of his'n through the hangin' pine limbs. Does it to stop the
eetchin' an' rub the velvet off. Of course I cuts down on him with
the Sharp's. It's a new gun that a-way, an' the sights is too
coarse--you drags a dog through the hind sights easy--an' I holds
high. The bullet goes plumb through the base of his horn, close into
the ha'r, an' all nacheral fetches him sprawlin'. I ain't waitin' to
load my gun none, which not waitin' to load, I'm yere to mention, is
erroneous. I'm yere to say thar oughter be an act of Congress ag'in
not loadin' your gun. They oughter teach it to the yearlin's in the
schools, an' likewise in the class on the Sabbath.
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