Fiddlestick, parson Burroughs! what a queer fish you be, to be sure, added another. You are skeered when there’s nothin’ at all to be skeered at—
So he is Billy Pray, and yet he aint afeard o’ the old One himself, when other folks air.
Skeered one day at a noise, and another day at no noise at all—haw, haw, haw!
Do you see how the birds fly?
What birds?
The birds that come up from the shore—they fly as if they were frightened—
Well, what if they do?
An’ so I say, Mark Smith—what if they do? rolling over in the grass and preparing for another nap—Who cares how they fly? if they’re frightened, haw, haw, haw, that’s their look out, I spose—haw, haw, haw.
I beseech you to be serious, men—we have heard no shot fired for several days in that quarter, and yet you see the birds fly as if they were hunted. Now, it is my opinion that they are struck with arrows, and arrows you know are made use of by people who are afraid to make a noise when they kill their food—
Ha, ha, ha;—haw, haw, haw! gi’ me you yit, parson—haw, haw, haw!—what if they’re under the shore—can’t they kill fish without makin’ a noise? haw, haw, haw!