TRAINING A KENTUCKY RIFLEMAN.
I really think that if Jack Gedney had not known of the present his father meant to make him he would have been too delighted to act like a sensible boy. As it was, he could hardly keep from hugging the handsome little gun when his father placed it in his hands, and told him that it was his so long as he proved that he knew how to use it, and that he had enough sense to be trusted alone in the woods.
Unwilling to accept Jack's promises, his father took down his own weapon from the deer's antlers over the broad fireplace, and went a short distance with him to test the new piece. On the edge of the clearing he paused until the lad loaded the weapon with powder and ball (for, of course, the cow's horn and bullet pouch went with the present), and then, looking among the branches overhead, where several grey squirrels were whisking along the limbs, he told Jack he might take his choice. During the few seconds that the boy was darting his quick glances at the lively creatures his father quietly cut a piece of hickory as thick as his thumb, and three or four feet long. Jack looked askance at him; he knew well what it meant.
Since the youth had not yet fired his new gun, he decided to make his task as light as he could. He raised his piece and sighted at a squirrel less than a hundred feet away, but before he could make his aim sure his father spoke sharply--
"Take the black one on the tree beyond."
It was a long and difficult shot, but Jack's nerves were steady, and a few seconds after he raised his rifle he pressed the trigger. The gun "hung fire" scarcely a moment, when a jet of flame shot from the muzzle, and Mr. Gedney, who had his eyes fixed on the squirrel, saw it vanish over the limb, and then come tumbling and overturning through the branches to the ground.
"Fetch it here," commanded his father.
Without moving a step, Jack deliberately began re-loading his piece, never pausing until the powder was poured in the pan and the hammer let down in place. The father half smiled, for he had expected his boy to forget in his natural excitement the rule about re-charging his gun.
Having finished, Jack walked forward to the foot of the tree, picked up the small furry body where it lay among the leaves, and brought it to his parent. The latter took it from his hand, glanced down, and then flung it aside, tossing the hickory after it.
Shall I tell you why he cut that stick just before his boy fired at the squirrel? When he looked at the little animal he saw that its head had been shot off. Had the bullet missed the head and struck any other part of the body he would have plied that stick about the legs and back of his boy until he yelled for mercy. He had done it more than once, and he, like many another Kentuckian, considered that that was the right way to train his child how to shoot.