When I was a boy my uncle and his big boys hunted with the rifle, the youngest boy Fred and I with a shotgun--a small single-barrelled shotgun which was properly suited to our size and strength; it was not much heavier than a broom.We carried it turn about, half an hour at a time.
I was not able to hit anything with it, but I liked to try.Fred and Ihunted feathered small game, the others hunted deer, squirrels, wild turkeys, and such things.My uncle and the big boys were good shots.
They killed hawks and wild geese and such like on the wing; and they didn't wound or kill squirrels, they stunned them.When the dogs treed a squirrel, the squirrel would scamper aloft and run out on a limb and flatten himself along it, hoping to make himself invisible in that way--and not quite succeeding.You could see his wee little ears sticking up.
You couldn't see his nose, but you knew where it was.Then the hunter, despising a "rest" for his rifle, stood up and took offhand aim at the limb and sent a bullet into it immediately under the squirrel's nose, and down tumbled the animal, unwounded, but unconscious; the dogs gave him a shake and he was dead.Sometimes when the distance was great and the wind not accurately allowed for, the bullet would hit the squirrel's head; the dogs could do as they pleased with that one--the hunter's pride was hurt, and he wouldn't allow it to go into the gamebag.
In the first faint gray of the dawn the stately wild turkeys would be stalking around in great flocks, and ready to be sociable and answer invitations to come and converse with other excursionists of their kind.
The hunter concealed himself and imitated the turkey-call by sucking the air through the leg-bone of a turkey which had previously answered a call like that and lived only just long enough to regret it.There is nothing that furnishes a perfect turkey-call except that bone.Another of Nature's treacheries, you see.She is full of them; half the time she doesn't know which she likes best--to betray her chid or protect it.