The Long Hillside | Page 4

chil-lern." The words were scarcely spoken when a little darkey called out, "Dyah she come!" and sure enough she came, "lipping" down a furrow straight toward us. 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. The weeds and dust flew up off to one side of her, and she turned at right angles out of the furrow; but as she got to the top of the bed, Milker-Tim, flinging back his arm, with the precision of a bushman, sent his stick whirling like a boomerang skimming along the ground after her.
Tim with a yell rushed at her and picked her up, shouting, "I got her! I got her!"
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!"
Tim was too much elated to be long affected by even this severity, and when he had got out of Uncle Jack's way he sang out:
"Ole Molly Hyah, You' ears mighty thin. Yes, yes, yes, I come a-t'ippin' thoo de win'!"
So far the honors were all Uncle Jack's and Milker-Tim's, and it was necessary for the rest of us to do something. Accordingly, the bottom having been well hunted, the crowd struck out for an old field over the hill, known as "the long hillside." It was thick in hen-grass and broom-straw, and sloped down from a piece of pine with a southern exposure on which the sun shone warm. We had not reached it before a hare jumped out of a bush near Charlie. In a few moments, another bounced out before one of the dogs and went dashing across the field. Two shots followed her; but she kept on till at last one of the boys secured her.
We were going down the slope when Peter called in great excitement,
"Heah a ole hyah settin' in her haid. Come heah, Dan, quick! Gi' me your gun; le' me git him!"
This was more than Dan bargained for, as he had not got one himself yet. He ran up quickly enough, but held on tightly to his gun.
"Where is he? Show him to me: I 'll knock him over."
As he would not give up the gun, Peter pointed out the game.
"See him?"
"No."
"Right under dat bush--right dyah" (pointing). "See him? Teck keer dyah, Don, teck keer," he called, as Don came to a point just beyond. "See him?" He pointed a black finger with tremulous eagerness.
No, Dan did not see, so he reluctantly yielded up the gun.
Peter took aim long and laboriously, shut both eyes, pulled the trigger, and blazed away.
There was a dash of white and brown, a yell, and Don wheeled around with his head between his forepaws stung by the shot as "molly" fled streaking it over the hill followed only by the dogs.
Peter's face was a study. If he had killed one of us he could not have looked more like a criminal, nor have heard more abuse.
Uncle Limpy-Jack poured out on him such a volume of vituperation and contempt that he was almost white, he was so ashy.
Don was not permanently hurt; but one ear was pierced by several shot, which was a serious affair, as his beauty was one of his good points, and his presence on a hare-hunt was wholly against the rules. Uncle Limpy-Jack painted the terrors of the return home for Peter with a vividness so realistic that its painfulness pierced more breasts than Peter's.
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. 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