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Updated: May 10, 2025
Even Uncle Limpy-Jack came bobbing along for a while, shouting, "Dyah she go!" at the top of his voice; but being soon distanced he called his dog, Rock, and went back to beat the ditch bank again.
Then Uncle Limpy-Jack pitched into him: "What you doin' gittin' in my way!" he complained angrily. "Ain' you got no better sense 'n to git in my way like dat! Did n' you see how nigh I come to blowin' yo' brains out! Did n' you see I had de hyah when you come pokin' yer wooly black head in my way! Ef I had n' flung my gun off, whar 'd you 'a' been now! Don' you come pokin' in my way ag'in!"
Uncle Limpy-Jack was on that side of the ditch and Milker-Tim was near him armed only with a stout well-balanced stick about two feet long. As the hare came down the hill, Uncle Jack brought up his gun, took a long aim and fired.
But he finally consented. However, when Met, in a wild endeavor to get a shot at a stray partridge which got up before us, missed the bird and let Uncle Limpy-Jack, at fifty yards, have number-six pellets in the neck and shoulder, Peter's delinquency was forgotten. The old man dropped his gun and yelled, "Oh! Oh!" at the top of his voice. "Oh! I 'm dead, I 'm dead, I 'm dead."
Don was carried to the nearest ditch, and the entire crowd devoted itself to doctoring his ear. It was decided that he should be taken to the quarters and kept out of sight during the Christmas, in the hope that his ear would heal. We all agreed not to say anything about it if not questioned. Uncle Limpy-Jack had to be bribed into silence by a liberal present of shot and powder from us.
Uncle Limpy-Jack was in this respect also the only exception; he was grave as became a "man" who was a hunter by business, and "warn't arter no foolishness." He allowed no one to touch his gun, which thus possessed a special value. He carried his powder in a gourd and his shot in an old rag.
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