manly aspect of a person with a tin pail if he also
carries a gun. It was possible I might start up a partridge; though how
I was to hit him, if he started up instead of standing still, puzzled
me. Many people use a shotgun for partridges. I prefer the rifle: it
makes a clean job of death, and does not prematurely stuff the bird with
globules of lead. The rifle was a Sharps, carrying a ball cartridge (ten
to the pound),--an excellent weapon belonging to a friend of mine, who
had intended, for a good many years back, to kill a deer with it. He
could hit a tree with it--if the wind did not blow, and the atmosphere
was just right, and the tree was not too far off--nearly every time. Of
course, the tree must have some size. Needless to say that I was at that
time no sportsman. Years ago I killed a robin under the most humiliating
circumstances. The bird was in a low cherry-tree. I loaded a big shotgun
pretty full, crept up under the tree, rested the gun on the fence, with
the muzzle more than ten feet from the bird, shut both eyes, and pulled
the trigger. When I got up to see what had happened, the robin was
scattered about under the tree in more than a thousand pieces, no one
of which was big enough to enable a naturalist to decide from it to what
species it belonged. This disgusted me with the life of a sportsman. I
mention the incident to show that, although I went blackberrying armed,
there was not much inequality between me and the bear.

In this blackberry-patch bears had been seen. The summer before, our
colored cook, accompanied by a little girl of the vicinage, was picking
berries there one day, when a bear came out of the woods, and walked
towards them. The girl took to her heels, and escaped. Aunt Chloe was
paralyzed with terror. Instead of attempting to run, she sat down on
the ground where she was standing, and began to weep and scream,
giving herself up for lost. The bear was bewildered by this conduct.
He approached and looked at her; he walked around and surveyed her.
Probably he had never seen a colored person before, and did not know
whether she would agree with him: at any rate, after watching her a few
moments, he turned about, and went into the forest. This is an authentic
instance of the delicate consideration of a bear, and is much more
remarkable than the forbearance towards the African slave of the
well-known lion, because the bear had no thorn in his foot.

When I had climbed the hill,--I set up my