I began to wander with the gun when I was but a little over eight years
old. The gun was a long, double-barrel, muzzle-loading derelict. Wads
were not a commercial commodity in those days. I would put in some
powder, guessing at the amount, then a wad of newspaper, and thoroughly
ram it home, upon top of this the shot, quantity also guessed at, and
more paper. But it was barely shoved to the shot, never rammed. Sad
experience taught me that ramming the shot added to the kicking
qualities of the firearm. How that old gun could kick! Many times it
bowled me over. St. George Littledale, a noted English sportsman, in
describing a peculiarly heavy express rifle, said, "It was absolutely
without recoil. Every time I discharged it, it simply pushed me over."
That described my gun exactly, except that it had "the recoil." I deemed
myself especially fortunate if I could get up against a fence post or an
oak tree when I shot at something. By this means I retained an upright
position. Armed with this gun, an antiquated powder flask, a shot pouch
whose measurer was missing, and a dilapidated game bag, I spent hours in
the woods and fields, shooting such game as I needed, learning to love
life in the open, the trees, the flowers, the birds and the wild animals
I met. I was as proud of my outfit as the modern hunter is of his $500
gun and expensive accompaniments. When I went after the cows, I carried
my gun, and often got a dozen or more quail at a pot shot out of some
friendly covey. If I went to plow corn, or work in the vegetable garden,
the gun accompanied me, and it was sure to do deadly execution every
day.

When it was too wet to plow, no matter how hard it was raining, it was
just right to hunt. Clad in a gum coat, I would take my gun and brave
the elements, when a seat by the fireside would have been much more
comfortable. I loved to be out in a storm, to watch the rain, to hear