Talking of shooting, I don't think I ever told you of the time I went
shooting with Teddy.
Teddy is a great shot, but he can't compare with me. I'm going to sing
you a song about it, entitled:
"Snap Shot, Half Shot, All Shot; or, It Costs Money To Get Loaded."
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On the farms there's consternation,
And there's wide-spread agitation,
For the hunting season's opened up again.
In the paths and in the by-ways,
In the woods and in the highways,
There are packs of dogs and scores of shooting men.
Now and then a pig is squealing,
Or a hen or rooster keeling
Over suddenly in some sequestered spot.
Upon a close examination,
You may glean the information,
That by some lobster of a gunner it was shot.
Now and then a cow is snorting,
And around a field cavorting,
All because a load of shot has come its way.
Now and then a horse is rearing,
And in greatest pain appearing,
For it stopped another charge that went astray.
'Tis no wonder that the granger
Growls each time he sees a stranger,
Prowling through the woods and fooling with a gun;
For the shooting is alarming,
To the man who does the farming,
And he won't rest easy till the season's done.
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That's a very fine song, I'll admit. Percy is just dead in love with it.
He makes me sing it about ten times a day.
He says he can sympathize with the horses and cows, for he has "stopped
many a charge that went astray" and knows how it feels.
We left the farmer with the gun, and Percy began to get woefully dry.
"Great Scott," says he, "I'd give almost anything for a drink of
whiskey."
He spied an old gent with a kind face, tottering along the road.
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"Just wait a minute," says Percy, "I'll see if that old gent carries a
pocket flask."
So he went over and says:
"Kind sir, can you give a poor man who has heart trouble a drop of
whiskey?"
"You should not drink that stuff," says the old man, "why do you do it?"
"Because I'm thirsty," says Percy.
"Then why don't you drink milk?" says he. "Milk, you know, makes blood."
"But," says Percy, "I'm not blood-thirsty."
"The doctors," continued the old man, "say that whiskey ruins the coat
of the stomach. What would you do if that happened in your case?"
"I'd mighty soon make the darn thing work in its shirt-sleeves," says
Percy.
We walked on and saw a farmhouse through the trees.
Percy went up to ask for some cold victuals and actually got the cold
shoulder.
Then we struck the town of Freysburg. There's where poor Percy got fried
to a rich, golden brown.
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It happened this way.
We saw a large tent in which a revival meeting was going on.
"I'm going to take part," says Percy.