Camp and Trail - A Story of the Maine Woods by Isabel Hornibrook
page 55 of 263 (20%)
page 55 of 263 (20%)
![]() | ![]() |
|
intervals a soft, random rustle swept through them. It was nearly
midday. The camp-fire was almost dead, quenched by the dazzling sunlight which fell in patches on the camping-ground, and flooded the clearing beyond the shadow of the pines. Moreover, the camping-ground was deserted. Neither Uncle Eb nor Tiger could be seen, though Dol's eyes sought for them wistfully. But something caught his attention. It was a ray of light filtering through the pine boughs and glinting on the trigger of an old-fashioned muzzle-loading shot-gun, which leaned against a corner of the hut. An ancient, glistening powder-horn and a coon-skin ammunition pouch hung above it. Dol lifted the antiquated weapon, withdrew to a short distance, and examined it closely. He knew it belonged to the guide, but was rarely used by him since he had purchased the 44-calibre Winchester rifle, with which he could do uncommon feats in shooting. The shot-gun interested the boy mightily. There was a facsimile of it, swathed in green baize, stowed away somewhere in his father's house in Manchester. The first time he had ever used fire-arms was on a memorable day when his fingers pulled its trigger in his father's garden under Neal's direction, and a lean starling fell before his shot. After that he had often taken out a fowling-piece of a newer style, and had done pretty well with it too. As he handled the shot-gun, which the guide had bought away back in the year '55, musing about it under the pines, the thought suddenly tumbled out of a corner of his brain that at present there was a brilliant opportunity for him to use the gun and all the shooting skill he |
|