[1] A barbarous way of killing pigeons caught in a net.
IV.
A FEAST AND A STORY.
Morning returned; the day rolled away; and the appointed evening found the hunting party at Mr. Waldron's, and the sweet metheglin went round in flowing bowls; and all were jovial and ready with talk, and wit, and glee. The table was spread with luxuries. The savory viands smoked from multiplied motherly platters; and there were Indian bread, potato and turnip sauce, cranberry and wild plum sauce, a stack of wild honey in the snow-white comb, and cakes and pumpkin pies.
The bear's meat was discussed with fairness and spirit, and pronounced right fat and fine; and the supper, washed down before and after with metheglin of Aunt Polly's happiest mix, was taken with good relish.
"You get nothing better'n this on the Hudson, I reckon," said Uncle Walter to Fabens. "Give me a new country after all for elbow-room, a sharp appetite and a good pick o' game. I guess the Major wouldn't loathe such a bite as this."
"Aunt Polly for a supper of bear's meat, I say," added Colwell.
"Aunt Polly for the fixins too," added Wilson.
"Such fixins don't come afore every gang o' hungry hunters," added Flaxman. "Is't sage, or savory sprinkled on this meat? This plum sauce don't cly my appetite a bit; nor these fried scutlets; and I love to gnash my shovel-teeth on a clean comb o' honey; and honey, they say, is healin'."
"If you eat any more honey, Flaxman," said Wilson, "Uncle Mose 'll have to take you up. He'll make more'n he would to take up a bee-hive. But did ever anybody else get up a lusciouser pumpkin-pie? Aunt Polly always makes 'em deep enough to swim in; and she don't spare the maple sugar at all, nor the ginger, nor the shortnin' in the crust. And she crimps the edges so curious."