[Illustration: 9129]
“Clug!” The wad went home in the last shell, and as I removed it from
the loader and finished the fill of my belt I heaved a sigh of profound
relief at the completion of a troublesome job.
I hate making cartridges. Perhaps I am a novice, and have not a good
kit, and am lazy, and clumsy, and impatient, and---- But go on and
account for it yourself at greater length, if you will, my friends;
only accept my solemn statement that I detest the operation, which, I
am convinced, ought to be confined to able-bodied colored men with
perseverance and pachydermatous knuckles.
An ordinary man is always in fluster and fever before he completes
loading up for a day's gunning. His patent plugger becomes inexplicably
and painfully fractious; his percussions are misfits; his No. 10 wads
prove to be No. 12s; his shot sack is sure to spill; his canister is
certain to sustain a dump into the water pail, and, when he begins to
reflect on all the unmentionable _lapsi linguæ_ of which his numerous
vexations are the immediately exciting, though possibly not the
responsible, cause, he is apt to conclude that, say what you may in
favor of the breechloader, there are a certain few points which commend
the old-time muzzle-loader, especially when it comes around to charging
a shell.
[Illustration: 0130]
At all events, that is the kind of man I now am; and if the reader
is not prepared to absolutely indorse me all through these crotchety
cogitations, may I not hope he will at least bear with me patiently and
give me time to outgrow it, if possible? But, as I was saying, I have
charged up and am ready to sally forth and join the hunting party of the
Blankville Gun Club, who had organized a match for Christmas Eve, a
bright, nippy day of “an open winter”--as experienced in Northeastern
Ontario, at any rate. I don my game bag, strap on my belt, pick up my
newly-bought hammerless and prepare to leave the house. My cocker
Charlie, long since cognizant of what my preparations meant, is at heel.
There is a wild light in his eyes, but, self-contained animal that he
is, not a yelp, whine or even tail wag is manifested to detract from his
native dignity and self possession. “Native” dignity? Aye! My dog boasts
it naturally; and yet, at the same time, I fancy the switch and I have
had something to do in developing it and teaching the pup its apparently
unconscious display.
[Illustration: 0136]
“You're no fool dog, are you, Charlie? You're no funny, festive,
frolicsome dog, who cannot hold himself in when a run is on the
programme--eh, boy?”
The silky-coated canine knows as well as I do that he is in for an
afternoon a-wood. He has the inclination to leap and roll and essay to
jump out of his hide. Yet the only answer he dare give to the inquiry
is an appealing glance from his hazel orbs up at his master's immovable
face. Yes, my dog Charlie is sober and sensible, and I am proud of these
characteristics and their usefulness to me before the gun.
[Illustration: 0134]
“Good-bye, little woman!” I sing out cheerily to my wife as I pass down
the hall. She comes to the door to see me off. Sometimes, perhaps, a
man will find his adieu on an occasion of this kind responded to
uncordially, not to say frigidly, or perhaps not at all. But he must
not grieve deeply over it or let it act as an excitative of his mean
moroseness or angry passion. Think the thing all over. You are to be far
away from home. Why should not the thought of the vacant chair--next to
that of the demonstrative and exacting baby at meal time--rise up and
sadden your wife? Can you wonder at her distant bearing as she foresees
how she will sigh “for the touch of a vanished hand”--on the coal
scuttle and water pail? Of course, she will “miss your welcome
footsteps”--carrying in kindlings, and the “dear, familiar
voice”--calling up the chickens. And so you cannot in reason expect her
invariably to answer your kindly _adios_ in a gladsome, gleesome, wholly
satisfied sort of way. But never you go away without the goodbye on your
part--the honest, manly, loving-toned good-bye that will ring in her
ears in your absence and cause her to fancy that perhaps you are not
such a selfish old bear after all.
With some of us men--only a limited few, of course, and we are not
inclined to think over and enumerate them--it is unhappily the case
that
We have cheerful words for the stranger,
And smiles for the sometime guest;
But oft for our own the bitter tone,
Though we love our own the best.
“will miss your welcome footsteps.”
[Illustration: 0134]