It Is Cheerfully Told by a Georgia Munchausen.
"I hardly feel like telling a modest tale," said another, "after the wonderful things we have heard; but I will give you a true story which was told me by a North Georgia cracker."
"Tell it, tell it!" they said.
"Well, then, once upon a time a man who lived by a creek in North Georgia discovered that the corn was disappearing from his crib. He watched and at length found the secret of the theft.
"A squirrel came down to the edge of the creek on the opposite side, dragged a shingle to the water's edge, launched it, and jumping on himself hoisted his tail for a sail. He soon sailed across and anchored his shingle at the bank. Stealing up to the crib, he got out an ear of corn and carried it to the creek, put it on the shingle and ferried it across."
"How strange!" said some one.
"That's only the beginning," said the narrator.
"When the man saw his ear of corn disappear in a hollow tree he determined to recover his lost property, and started, ax in hand, to wade the creek. It was a little over waist deep, and he had on a heavy overcoat fastened by one big button at the top. As he came up out of the water the coat seemed exceedingly heavy, and looking down he saw that both the big side pockets were full of shad."
Here a chorus of laughter interrupted, but with a solemn face the story teller went on:
"That was a small matter to those that follow. When the man came up out of the water the weight of the wet overcoat, further weighed with the fish, broke off the button, and it flew off to one side where a rabbit crouched in the bush. The button hit him in a tender spot behind the ear, and he keeled over, and with a few pitiful kicks expired."
Here the laughter was so boisterous as to interrupt the narrator for nearly a minute, and then he proceeded:
"Picking up the rabbit, the man concluded it was not the kind of game he wanted, and he flung it aside. It was late in the evening, and just at this moment it so happened that a covey of partridges had huddled together for the night, with their heads bunched together in the center, according to their habit."
Here a suppressed titter ran round the company.
"Oh," said the narrator, with some indignation, "it is well known that partridges huddle together in just that way."
"Go on," they said.
"When the rabbit fell its head struck the bunch of heads and killed all the partridges." (Laughter.)
"When the man had picked up the partridges he went to the hollow tree and cut it down. He got back fifty bushels of corn, and it proved to be a bee tree, so that he got ten barrels of honey. Not only this, but the top of the tree fell in the stream, and the creek ran sweet for twenty years."
This took the cake, which will be served next Sunday.
P. S.—There is no space here to tell about the Georgia hen that turned gray after the snakes got her chickens, or the young partridges that afterward hatched under her sitting and became the solace of her declining years. All this and much more I would tell if I had time.
—W. G. C. in Atlanta Constitution.