Uncle Walter.

"Any one will answer to wean Fabens of his fright," said Teezle.

"Well, I'll tell the first that comes up in my mind," said Uncle
Walter, "and may be another one still will come. Another bowl of
metheglin, and then for the story." He took the metheglin and began.
"It was the second year after we come here, and a day in November: the
day after I finished husking. Huldah reckoned a wild turkey wouldn't
go with a bad relish, and so I shouldered the old gun in the morning,
and letting Bose follow slyly along behind, I put away out into the
woods. I killed three or four pigeons, and a squirrel, and snipe; but
on and on, and round, I ranged, afore I could get a single crack at a
turkey. But a flock flew up at last, and one proud old Tom taking a
tall maple in sight, and swinging his red gorget as if to dare a shot,
I fired, and plump he come to the ground, while the rest flew away.

"Well, after all, this aint bad doings, thought I, and shouldered my
game on my gun, and set my sails for home. I got a little puzzled
about the pint o' compass; still I thought I was right, and putting
ahead pretty good shin; when all at once Bose howled out, and the
leaves rattled, and the ground rumbled, and up a shagbark walnut leapt
a yellow painter like a cat, making the bark all fly again, and dashing
her way to the tiptop limb o' the tree. Thinks I, my fellow, you
wouldn't be very small game, and your yellow jacket wouldn't be bad for
a winter wescot; so I took a close, quick aim and fired. Down tumbled
the painter, with a hole through her liver 'n lights, and no time to
breathe her last. It was a she painter, and I stripped off her hide in
a hurry, slung it on my shoulder, and budged on again, as I reckoned,
towards home.

"It was getting well on to night, and as it grew darkish in the woods,
and the pint o' compass still pestered me, and I didn't know but my old
head had got backside to, I confess I begun to feel a little skittish,
and throwed away all my game but the turkey and painter skin, to
lighten my load, and took a spryer step through the staddles. It
wasn't the best o' walking, for logs were thick, and the grape-vines
tript me some; and I had to nod and squirl for the staddles and limbs.
I went, I should reckon, about three miles from where I shot and
skinned the painter, and the last half-mile was clearer of logs and
underwood; and let in a flash of sunshine now and then, and I thought I
was comin