University of Virginia Library

THE SHOOTING MATCH.

Shooting matches are probably nearly coeval with
the colonization of Georgia. They are still common
throughout the Southern States; though they are not as
common as they were twenty-five or thirty years ago.
Chance led me to one about a year ago. I was travelling
in one of the north-eastern counties, when I overtook
a swarthy, bright-eyed, smerky little fellow, riding a
small poney, and bearing on his shoulder a long heavy
rifle, which, judging from its looks, I should say had
done service in Morgan's corps.

“Good morning, sir!” said I, reining up my horse as
I came beside him.

“How goes it stranger?” said he, with a tone of independence
and self-confidence, that awaked my curiosity
to know a little of his character.

“Going driving?” inquired I.

“Not exactly,” replied he, surveying my horse with
a quizical smile, “I have n't been a driving by myself
for a year or two, and my nose has got so bad lately I
can't carry a cold trail without hounds to help me.”

Alone, and without hounds, as he was, the question
was rather a silly one; but it answered the purpose for
which it was put, which was only to draw him into conversation,
and I proceeded to make as decent a retreat
as I could.

“I did n't know,” said I, “but that you were going
to meet the huntsmen, or going to your stand.”

“Ah, sure enough,” rejoined he, “that mout be a bee,
as the old woman said when she killed a wasp. It seems
to me I ought to know you.”

“Well, if you ought, why don't you?

“What mout your name be?”

“It might be any thing,” said I, with borrowed wit;
for I knew my man, and knew what kind of conversation
would please him most.

“Well, what is it then?”

“It is, Hall,” said I; “but you know it might as well
have been any thing else.”

“Pretty digging!” said he. “I find you're not the
fool I took you to be; so here's to a better acquaintance
with you.”

“With all my heart,” returned I; “but you must be
as clever as I've been, and give me your name.”

“To be sure I will, my old coon—take it—take it,
and welcome. Any thing else about me you'd like to
have?”

“No,” said I, “there's nothing else about you worth
having.”

“Oh, yes there is, stranger! Do you see this?” holding
up his ponderous rifle with an ease that astonished

me. “If you will go with me to the shooting match, and
see me knock out the bull's eye with her a few times,
you'll agree the old Soap-stick's worth something when
Billy Curlew puts his shoulder to her.”

This short sentence was replete with information to
me. It taught me that my companion was Billy Curlew;
that he was going to a Shooting match; that he
called his rifle the Soap-stick, and that he was very confident
of winning beef with her; or, which is nearly, but
not quite the same thing, driving the cross with her.

“Well,” said I, “if the shooting match is not too far
out of my way, I'll go to it with pleasure.”

“Unless your way lies through the woods from here,”
said Billy, “it 'll not be much out of your way; for it's
only a mile ahead of us, and there is no other road for
you to take, till you get there; and as that thing you're
riding in, an't well suited to fast travelling, among
brushy knobs, I reckon you won't lose much by going
by. I reckon you hardly ever was at a shooting
match, stranger, from the cut of your coat?”

“Oh yes,” returned I, “many a time. I won beef at
one, when I was hardly old enough to hold a shot-gun
off-hand.”

“Children don't go to shooting matches about here,”
said he, with a smile of incredulity. “I never heard of
but one that did, and he was a little swinge-cat.—He
was born a shooting, and killed squirrels before he was
weaned.”

“Nor did I ever hear of but one,” replied I, “and
that one was myself.”

“And where did you win beef so young, stranger?”

“At Berry Adams'.”

“Why stop, stranger, let me look at you good! Is
your name Lyman Hall?”

“The very same,” said I.

“Well, dang my buttons, if you an't the very boy my
daddy used to tell me about. I was too young to recollect
you myself; but I've heard daddy talk about you
many a time. I believe mammy's got a neck-handkerchief
now, that daddy won on your shooting at Collen
Reid's store, when you were hardly knee high. Come
along Lyman, and I'll go my death upon you at the
shooting match, with the old Soap stick at your shoulder.”

“Ah, Billy,” said I, “the old Soap-stick will do much
better at your own shoulder. It was my mother's notion,
that sent me to the shooting match at Berry Adams';
and to tell you the honest truth, it was altogether a
chance shot that made me win beef; but that was n't
generally known; and most every body believed that I
was carried there on account of my skill in shooting;
and my fame was spread far and wide, I well remember.
I remember too, perfectly well, your father's bet on me,
at the store. He was at the shooting match, and nothing
could make him believe, but that I was a great shot with
a rifle, as well as a shot-gun. Bet he would, on me, in
spite of all I could say; though I assured him, that I
had never shot a rifle in my life. It so happened too,
that there were but two bullets, or rather, a bullet and a
half; and so confident was your father in my skill, that
he made me shoot the half bullet; and, strange to tell,
by another chance shot I like to have drove the cross,
and won his bet.”

“Now I know you're the very chap; for I heard
daddy tell that very thing about the half bullet. Don't
say any thing about it, Lyman, and durn my old shoes if
I don't tare the lint off the boys with you at the shooting
match. They'll never 'spect such a looking man as you
are of knowing any thing about a rifle. I'll risk your
chance shots.”

I soon discovered that the father had eaten sour
grapes, and the son's teeth were on edge; for Billy was
just as incorrigibly obstinate, in his belief of my dexterity
with a rifle as his father had been before him.

We soon reached the place appointed for the shooting
match. It went by the name of Sims' Cross Roads;
because, here two roads intersected each other; and
because, from the time that the first had been laid out,
Archibald Sims had resided there. Archibald had been
a Justice of the Peace in his day; (and where is the man
of his age in Georgia who has not?) consequently he
was called 'Squire Sims. It is the custom in this State,
when a man has once acquired a title, civil or military,
to force it upon him as long as he lives; hence the countless
number of titled personages, who are introduced in
these sketches.

We stopt at the 'Squire's door. Billy hastily dismounted,
gave me the shake of the hand which he had been
reluctantly reserving for a mile back; and, leading me
up to the 'Squire, thus introduced me: “Uncle Archy,
this is Lyman Hall; and for all you see him in these
fine clothes, he's a swinge-cat—a darn sight cleverer
fellow than he looks to be. Wait till you see him lift
the old Soap-stick, and draw a bead upon the bull's-eye.
You gwine to see fun here to-day—Don't say nothing
about it.”

“Well, Mr. Swinge-cat,” said the 'Squire, “here's to
a better acquaintance with you,” offering me his hand.

“How goes it, uncle Archy?” said I, taking his hand
warmly; (for I am always free and easy with those who
are so with me; and in this course I rarely fail to
please)—“How's the old woman?”

“Egad,” said the 'Squire, chuckling, “there you're
too hard for me; for she died two and twenty years ago,
and I have n't heard a word from her since.”

“What! and you never married again!”

“Never, as God's my Judge!” (a solemn asseveration
truly, upon so light a subject.)

“Well, that's not my fault.”

“No, nor it's not mine nither,” said the 'Squire.

Here we were interrupted by the cry of another Rancey
Sniffle—“Hello here! All you as wish to put in for
the shoot'n match, come on here! for the putt'n in's
riddy to begin.”

About sixty persons, including mere spectators, had
collected; the most of whom were more or less obedient
to the call of Mealy Whitecotton—for that was the
name of the self-constituted commander-in-chief. Some
hastened, and some loitered, as they desired to be first
or last on the list; for they shoot in the order in which
their names are entered.

The beef was not present, nor is it ever upon such
occasions; but several of the company had seen it, who
all concurred in the opinion that it was a good beef, and
well worth the price that was set upon it—eleven dollars.
A general enquiry ran round, in order to form some
opinion as to the number of shots that would be taken;
for, of course, the price of a shot is cheapened in proportion
to the increase of that number. It was soon ascertained
that not more than twenty persons would take
chances; but these twenty agreed to take the number
of shots, at twenty-five cents each.

The competitors now began to give in their names;
some for one, some for two, three, and a few for as many
as four shots.

Billy Curlew hung back to the last; and when
the list was offered to him, five shots remained undisposed
of.

“How many shots left?” inquired Billy.

“Five:” was the reply.

“Well, I take 'em all. Put down four shots to me,
and one to Lyman Hall, paid for by William Curlew.”

I was thunder struck—not at his proposition to pay
for my shot, because I knew that Billy meant it as a
token of friendship, and he would have been hurt if I
had refused to let him do me this favor; but at the unexpected
announcement of my name as a competitor for
beef, at least one hundred miles from the place of my
residence. I was prepared for a challenge from Billy
to some of his neighbors for a private match upon me;
but not for this.

I therefore protested against his putting in for me, and
urged every reason to dissuade him from it, that I could,
without wounding his feelings.

“Put it down!” said Billy, with the authority of an
Emperor, and with a look that spoke volumes intelligible
to every by-stander—“Reckon I don't know what I'm
about?” Then wheeling off, and muttering in an under,
self-confident tone—“Dang old Roper,” continued he,
“if he don't knock that cross to the north corner of creation
and back again before a cat can lick her foot.”

Had I been the king of the cat tribe, they could not
have regarded me with more curious attention than did
the whole company from this moment. Every inch of
me was examined with the nicest scrutiny; and some
plainly expressed by their looks, that they never would
have taken me for such a bite. I saw no alternative
but to throw myself upon a third chance shot; for though
by the rules of the sport I would have been allowed to
shoot by proxy, by all the rules of good breeding I was
bound to shoot in person. It would have been unpardonable,
to disappoint the expectations, which had been
raised on me. Unfortunately too, for me, the match
differed in one respect from those which I had been in
the habit of attending in my younger days. In olden

time the contest was carried on chiefly with shot-guns,
a generic term which, in those days, embraced three
descriptions of fire-arms—Indian-traders, (a long, cheap,
but sometimes excellent kind of gun, that mother Britain
used to send hither for traffic with the Indians,) the large
Musket, and the Shot-gun, properly so called. Rifles
were, however, always permitted to compete with them,
under equitable restrictions. These were, that they
should be fired off-hand, while the shot-guns were allowed
a rest, the distance being equal; or that the
distance should be one hundred yards for the rifle,
to sixty, for the shot-gun, the mode of firing being
equal.

But this was a match of rifles exclusively; and these
are by far the most common at this time.

Most of the competitors fire at the same target; which
is usually a board from nine inches to a foot wide,
charred on one side as black as it can be made by fire
without impairing materially the uniformity of its surface;
on the darkened side of which is pegged, a square piece
of white paper, which is larger or smaller, according to
the distance at which it is to be placed from the marksmen.
This is almost invariably sixty yards, and for it,
the paper is reduced to about two and a half inches
square. Out of the centre of it is cut a rhombus of about
the width of an inch, measured diagonally—this is the
bull's-eye, or diamond, as the marksmen choose to call
it: in the centre of this is the cross. But every man
is permitted to fix his target to his own taste; and accordingly,
some remove one fourth of the paper, cutting
from the centre of the square to the two lower corners;
so as to leave a large angle opening from the centre
downwards; while others reduce the angle more or less:
but it is rarely the case that all are not satisfied with one
of these figures.

The beef is divided into five prizes, or, as they are
commonly termed, five quarters—the hide and tallow
counting as one. For several years after the revolutionary
war, a sixth was added; the lead which was shot
in the match. This was the prize of the sixth best shot;
and it used to be carefully extracted from the board, or
tree, in which it was lodged, and afterwards remoulded.
But this grew out of the exigency of the times, and has,
I believe, been long since abandoned every where.

The three master shots, and rivals, were Moses Firmby,
Larkin Spivey and Billy Curlew—to whom was
added, upon this occasion, by common consent, and with
awful forebodings—your humble servant.

The target was fixed, at an elevation of about three
feet from the ground; and the judges (Captain Turner
and Squire Porter) took their stands by it, joined by
about half the spectators.

The first name on the catalogue was Mealy Whitecotton.
Mealy stept out, rifle in hand, and toed the mark.
His rifle was about three inches longer than himself, and
near enough his own thickness to make the remark of
Darby Chislom, as he stept out, tolerably appropriate—
“Here comes the corn-stock and the sucker!” said Darby.

“Kiss my foot!” said Mealy. “The way I'll creep
into that bull-eye's a fact.”

“You'd better creep into your hind-sight,” said Darby.

Mealy raised, and fired.

“A pretty good shot! Meal” said one. “Yes, a
blamed good shot!” said a second. “Well done Meal!”
said a third.

I was rejoiced when one of the company enquired,
“Where is it?” for I could hardly believe they were
founding these remarks upon the evidence of their senses.
“Just on the right hand side of the bull's-eye,” was
the reply.

I looked with all the power of my eyes; but was unable
to discover the least change in the surface of the
paper. Their report, however, was true—so much
keener is the vision of a practiced than unpracticed eye.

The next in order was Hiram Baugh. Hiram was
like some race-horses which I have seen—he was too
good, not to contend for every prize, and too good for
nothing ever to win one.

“Gentlemen,” said he, as he came to the mark, “I
don't say that I'll win beef; but if my piece don't blow,
I'll eat the paper; or be mighty apt to do it, if you'll
b'lieve my racket. My powder are not good powder,
gentlemen—I bought it thum (from) Zeb. Daggett, and
gin him three quarters of a dollar a pound for it; but it
are not what I call good powder, gentlemen; but if old
Buck-killer burns it clear, the boy you call Hiram
Baugh eat's paper, or comes mighty near it.”

“Well, blaze away,” said Mealy, “and be — to
you, and Zeb. Daggett and your powder and Buck-killer,
and your powder-horn and shot-pouch to boot! How
long you gwine stand thar talking 'fore you shoot?”

“Never mind,” said Hiram, “I can talk a little and
shoot a little too; but that's nothin'—Here goes!”

Hiram assumed the figure of a note of interrogation—
took a long sight, and fired.

“I've eat paper,” said he, at the crack of the gun,
without looking, or seeming to look towards the target.
“Buck-killer made a clear racket. Where am I, gentlemen?”

“You're just between Mealy and the diamond,” was
the reply.

“I said I'd eat paper, and I've done it; have'nt I,
gentlemen?”

“And 'spose you have!” said Mealy, “what do that
'mount to? You'll not win beef, and never did.”

“Be that as it mout be, I've beat Meal. 'Cotton mighty
easy; and the boy you call Hiram Baugh are able to
do it.”

“And what do that 'mount to? Who the devil an't
able to beat Meal. 'Cotton! I don't makes no pretense
of bein' nothin' great, no how: but you always makes
out as if you were gwine to keep 'em makin' crosses for
you constant; and then do nothin' but `eat paper' at
last; and that's a long way from eatin' beef, 'cordin' to
Meal. 'Cotton's notions, as you call him.”

Simon Stow was now called on.

“Oh Lord!” exclaimed two or three: “Now we
have it. It 'll take him as long to shoot as it would
take Squire Dobbins to run round a track o' land.”

“Good-by, boys,” said Bob Martin.

“Where you going Bob?”

“Going to gather in my crop—I'll be back agin though
by the time Sime. Stow shoots.”

Simon was used to all this, and therefore it did not disconcert
him in the least. He went off and brought his
own target, and set it up with his own hand.

He then wiped out his rifle—rubbed the pan with his
hat—drew a piece of tow through the touch-hole with
his wiper—filled his charger with great care—poured
the powder into the rifle with equal caution—shoved in
with his finger the two or three vagrant grains that
lodged round the mouth of his piece—took out a handful
of bullets—looked them all over carefully—selected one
without flaw or wrinkle—drew out his patching—found
the most even part of it—sprung open the grease-box in
the breech of his rifle—took up just so much grease—
distributed it with great equality over the chosen part of
his patching—laid it over the muzzle of his rifle, grease
side down—placed his ball upon it—pressed it a little—
then took it up and turned the neck a little more perpendicularly

downward—placed his knife-handle on it—
just buried it in the mouth of the rifle—cut off the redundant
patching just above the bullet—looked at it, and
shook his head, in token that he had cut off too much or
too little, no one knew which—sent down the ball—
measured the contents of his gun with his first and second
fingers, on the protruding part of the ramrod—shook his
head again, to signify there was too much or too little
powder—primed carefully—placed an arched piece of
tin over the hind sight to shade it—took his place—got a
friend to hold his hat over the fore-sight to shade it—took
a very long sight—fired—and did'nt even eat the paper.

“My piece was badly loadned,” said Simon, when he
learned the place of his ball.

“Oh, you did'nt take time,” said Mealy. “No man
can shoot that's in such a hurry as you is. I'd hardly
got to sleep 'fore I heard the crack o' the gun.”

The next was Moses Firmby. He was a tall, slim
man, of rather sallow complexion; and it is a singular
fact, that though probably no part of the world is more
healthy than the mountainous region of Georgia, the
mountaineers have not generally robust frames or fine
complexions: they are, however, almost inexhaustible
by toil.

Moses kept us not long in suspense. His rifle was
already charged, and he fixed it upon the target, with
a steadiness of nerve and aim that was astonishing to
me and alarming to all the rest. A few seconds, and
the report of his rifle broke the deathlike silence which
prevailed.

“No great harm done yet,” said Spivey, manifestly
relieved from anxiety by an event which seemed to me
better calculated to produce despair. Firmby's ball had
cut out the lower angle of the diamond, directly on a
right line with the cross.

Three or four followed him without bettering his shot;
all of whom, however, with one exception, “eat the
paper.”

It now came to Spivey's turn. There was nothing
remarkable in his person or manner. He took his place,
lowered his rifle slowly from a perpendicular, until it
came on a line with the mark—held it there like a vise
for a moment, and fired.

“Pretty sevigrous, but nothing killing yet,” said Billy
Curlew, as he learned the place of Spivey's ball.

Spivey's ball had just broken the upper angle of the
diamond; beating Firmby about half its width.

A few more shots, in which there was nothing remarkable,
brought us to Billy Curlew. Billy stept out with
much confidence; and brought the Soap-stick to an
order, while he deliberately rolled up his shirt sleeves.
Had I judged of Billy's chance of success from the looks
of his gun, I should have said it was hopeless. The
stock of Soap-stick seemed to have been made with a
case knife; and had it been, the tool would have been
but a poor apology for its clumsy appearance. An
augur hole in the breech, served for a grease-box—a
cotton string assisted a single screw in holding on the
lock; and the thimbles were made, one of brass, one of
iron, and one of tin.

“Where's Lark. Spivey's bullet?” called out Billy to
the judges, as he finished rolling up his sleeves.

“About three quarters of an inch from the cross,”
was the reply.

“Well, clear the way! the Soap-stick's coming, and
she'll be along in there among 'em presently.”

Billy now planted himself astraddle, like an inverted
V—shot forward his left hip—drew his body back to an
angle of about forty-five degrees with the plane of the
horizon—brought his cheek down close to the breech of

old Soap-stick, and fixed her upon the mark with untrembling
hand. His sight was long, and the swelling
muscles of his left arm led me to believe that he was
lessening his chance of success, with every half second
that he kept it burdened with his ponderous rifle; but it
neither flagged nor wavered until Soap-stick made her
report.

“Where am I?” said Billy, as the smoke rose from
before his eye.

“You've jist touched the cross on the lower side,”
was the reply of one of the judges.

“I was afraid I was drawing my bead a leetle too
fine,” said Billy. “Now, Lyman, you see what the
Soap-stick can do.—Take her, and show the boys how
you used to do when you was a baby.”

I begged to reserve my shot to the last; pleading,
rather sophistically, that it was in point of fact, one of
Billy's shots. My plea was rather indulged than sustained,
and the marksmen who had taken more than one
shot, commenced the second round. This round was a
manifest improvement upon the first. The cross was
driven three times: once by Spivey, once by Firmby,
and once by no less a personage than Mealy Whitecotton,
whom chance seemed to favor for this time, merely
that he might retaliate upon Hiram Baugh; and the
bull's-eye was disfigured out of all shape.

The third and fourth rounds were shot. Billy discharged
his last shot, which left the rights of parties
thus: Billy Curlew first and fourth choice, Spivey second,
Firmby third, and Whitecotton fifth. Some of
my readers may perhaps be curious to learn, how a distinction
comes to be made between several, all of whom
drive the cross. The distinction is perfectly natural and
equitable. Threads are stretched from the uneffaced
parts of the once intersecting lines, by means of which

the original position of the cross is precisely ascertained.
Each bullet-hole being nicely pegged up as it is made, it
is easy to ascertain its circumference. To this, I believe
they usually, if not invariably, measure, where none of
the balls touch the cross; but if the cross be driven, they
measure from it to the centre of the bullet-hole. To
make a draw shot, therefore, between two, who drive
the cross, it is necessary that the centre of both balls
should pass directly through the cross—a thing that
very rarely happens.

The Bite alone remained to shoot. Billy wiped out
his rifle carefully, loaded her to the top of his skill, and
handed her to me. “Now,” said he, “Lyman draw a
fine bead, but not too fine; for Soap-stick bears up her
ball well. Take care and don't touch the trigger, until
you've got your bead; for she's spring-trigger'd and
goes mighty easy: but you hold her to the place you
want her, and if she don't go there dang old Roper.”

I took hold of Soap-stick, and lapsed immediately into
the most hopeless despair. I am sure I never handled
as heavy a gun in all my life. “Why Billy,” said I,
“you little mortal you! what do you use such a gun as
this for?”

“Look at the bull's-eye yonder!” said he.

“True,” said I, “but I can't shoot her—it is impossible.”

“Go long, you old coon!” said Billy, “I see what
you're at”—intimating that all this was merely to make
the coming shot the more remarkable—“Daddy's little
boy don't shoot any thing but the old Soap-stick here
to-day, I know.”

The judges, I knew, were becoming impatient, and
withal, my situation was growing more embarrassing
every second; so I e'en resolved to try the Soap-stick
without further parley.

I stept out, and the most intense interest was excited
all around me, and it flashed like electricity around the
target, as I judged from the anxious gaze of all in that
direction.

Policy dictated that I should fire with a falling rifle,
and I adopted this mode; determining to fire as soon as
the sights came on a line with the diamond, bead or no
bead. Accordingly I commenced lowering old Soap-stick;
but, in spite of all my muscular powers, she was
strictly obedient to the laws of gravitation, and came
down with a uniformly accelerated velocity. Before I
could arrest her downward flight, she had not only passed
the target, but was making rapid encroachments on
my own toes.

“Why, he's the weakest man in the arms I ever
seed,” said one in a half whisper.

“It's only his fun,” said Billy: “I know him.”

“It may be fun,” said the other; “but it looks mightily
like yearnest to a man up a tree.”

I now, of course, determined to reverse the mode of
firing, and put forth all my physical energies to raise
Soap-stick to the mark. The effort silenced Billy, and
gave tongue to all his companions. I had just strength
enough to master Soap-stick's obstinate proclivity, and
consequently my nerves began to exhibit palpable signs
of distress with her first imperceptible movement upward.
A trembling commenced in my arms—increased,
and extended rapidly to my body and lower extremities;
so that by the time that I brought Soap-stick up to the
mark, I was shaking from head to foot, exactly like a
man under the continued action of a strong galvanic
battery. In the mean time my friends gave vent to their
feelings freely.

“I swear poin' blank,” said one, “that man can't
shoot.”

“He used to shoot well,” said another; “but can't
now nor never could.”

“You better git away from 'bout that mark!” bawled
a third, “for I'll be dod durned if Broadeloth don't give
some of you the dry gripes if you stand too close thare.”

“The stranger's got the peedoddles,”[1] said a fourth,
with humorous gravity.

“If he had bullets enough in his gun, he'd shoot a ring
round the bull's-eye big as a spinning-wheel,” said a fifth.

As soon as I found that Soap-stick was high enough,
(for I made no further use of the sights than to ascertain
this fact,) I pulled trigger, and off she went. I have always
found that the most creditable way of relieving
myself of derision, was to heighten it myself as much as
possible. It is a good plan in all circles, but by far the
best which can be adopted among the plain rough farmers
of the country. Accordingly I brought old Soap-stick
to an order, with an air of triumph—tipt Billy a
wink, and observed, “Now Billy 's your time to make
your fortune—Bet 'em two to one that I've knocked out
the cross.”

“No, I'll be dod blamed if I do,” said Billy;” but I'll
bet you two to one you han't hit the plank.”

“Ah, Billy,” said I, “I was joking about betting, for
I never bet; nor would I have you to bet: indeed I do
not feel exactly right in shooting for beef; for it is a
species of gaming at last: but I'll say this much—if that
cross is'nt kncked out, I'll never shoot for beef again as
long as I live.”

“By dod,” said Mealy Whitecotton, “you'll lose no
great things at that.”

“Well,” said I, “I reckon I know a little about wabbling.
Is it possible, Billy, a man who shoots as well
as you do, never practiced shooting with the double
wabble? It's the greatest take in, in the world, when
you learn to drive the cross with it. Another sort for
getting bets upon, to the drop-sight, with a single wabble!
And the Soap-stick's the very yarn for it.”

“Tell you what, stranger,” said one, “you're too hard
for us all here. We never hearn o' that sort o' shoot'n
in these parts.”

“Well,” returned I, “you've seen it now, and I'm the
boy that can do it.”

The judges were now approaching with the target,
and a singular combination of circumstances had kept all
my party in utter ignorance of the result of my shot.
Those about the target had been prepared by Billy
Curlew for a great shot from me; their expectations
had received assurance from the courtesy which had
been extended to me; and nothing had happened to disappoint
them, but the single caution to them against the
“dry gripes,” which was as likely to have been given in
irony as in earnest; for my agonies under the weight of
the Soap-stick, were either imperceptible to them at the
distance of sixty yards, or, being visible, were taken as
the flourishes of an expert who wished to “astonish the
natives.” The other party did not think the direction
of my ball worth the trouble of a question; or, if they
did, my airs and harangue had put the thought to flight
before it was delivered. Consequently they were all
transfixed with astonishment when the judges presented
the target to them, and gravely observed—“It's only
second best after all the fuss.” “Second best!” exclaimed
I, with uncontrollable transports. The whole of
my party rushed to the target to have the evidence of
their senses before they would believe the report: but

most marvellous fortune decreed that it should be true.
Their incredulity and astonishment were most fortunate
for me; for they blinded my hearers to the real feelings
with which the exclamation was uttered, and allowed
me sufficient time to prepare myself for making the best
use of what I had said before, with a very different object.

“Second best!” reiterated I, with an air of despondency,
as the company turned from the target to me.—
“Second best only!” Here Billy, my son, take the old
Soap-stick; she's a good piece, but I'm getting too old
and dim sighted to shoot a rifle; especially with the
drop-sight and double wabbles.

“Why good Lord a'mighty!” said Billy, with a look
that baffles all description, “an't you driv the cross!”

“Oh, driv the cross!” rejoined I, carelessly. “What's
that! Just look where my ball is! I do believe in my
soul its centre is a full quarter of inch from the cross.
I wanted to lay the centre of the bullet upon the cross,
just as if you'd put it there with your fingers.”

Several received this palaver with a contemptuous
but very appropriate curl of the nose; and Mealy Whitecotton
offered to bet a half pint, “that I could'nt do the
like agin with no sort o' wabbles, he did'nt care what.”
But I had already fortified myself on this quarter, by
my morality. A decided majority, however, were
clearly of opinion that I was serious; and they regarded
me as one of the wonders of the world. Billy increased
the majority by now coming out fully with my history,
as he had received it from his father; to which I listened
with quite as much astonishment as any other one of his
hearers. He begged me to go home with him for the
night, or as he expressed it, “to go home with him and
swap lies that night, and it should'nt cost me a cent:”

the true reading of which, is, that if I would go home
with him, and give him the pleasure of an evening's chat
about old times, his house should be as free to me as my
own. But I could not accept his hospitality without retracing
five or six miles of the road which I had already
passed; and therefore I declined it.

“Well, if you won't go, what must I tell the old woman
for you? for she'll be mighty glad to hear from the
boy that won the silk handkerchief for her, and I expect
she'll lick me for not bringing you home with me.”

“Tell her,” said I, “that I send her a quarter of beef,
which I won, as I did the handkerchief, by nothing in
the world but mere good luck.”

“Hold your jaw, Lyman!” said Billy, “I an't a gwine
to tell the old woman any such lies; for she's a rael
reg'lar built Meth'dist.”

As I turned to depart, “Stop a minute, stranger!” said
one: then lowering his voice to a confidential but distinctly
audible tone, “what you offering for?” continued
he. I assured him I was not a candidate for any thing—
that I had accidentally fallen in with Billy Curlew, who
begged me to come with him to the shooting match, and
as it lay right on my road, I had stopped. “Oh,” said
he, with a conciliatory nod, “if you're up for any thing
you need'nt be mealy-mouthed about it, 'fore us boys;
for we'll all go in for you here up to the handle.”
“Yes,” said Billy, “dang old Roper if we don't go our
death for you, no matter who offers. If ever you come
out for any thing, Lyman, jist let the boys of Upper
Hogthief know it, and they'll go for you, to the hilt,
against creation, tit or no tit, that's the tatur.” I thanked
them kindly, but repeated my assurances. The reader

will not suppose that the district took its name from the
character of the inhabitants. In almost every county in
the State, there is some spot, or district, which bears a
contemptuous appellation, usually derived from local
rivalships, or from a single accidental circumstance.

HALL.