"How do you like a batin' like this, Fabens?" asked Colwell. "What makes you so mum? aint home-sick, be you?"
"I like it well, I assure you. I didn't think bear's meat was so fine," answered Fabens. "I am not homesick; I was just thinking how she chased me, and how narrowly I escaped."
"It was much as ever," said Teezle, "much as ever that the critter didn't mutton you. She skipped like a painter, and whet up her teeth for a whalin' bite. But don't think on it now. Here, who'll tell a good story, and cheer up Fabens a little? Uncle Walt, tell one of your painter stories. That 'll wean him of his fright."
"O, yes, tell a painter story," said Colwell.
"Yes, that's the thing," added Wilson.
"Fabens's run was only a jolly game o' gool, compared with your pull and squeeze with a painter," added Mr. Waldron.
"The one on the tree, that watched me half a day, cat-fashion? or the one that dogged me through the Owasco woods? or the one that chased me home to the chips?" asked 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.