“I’ve chawed sage-hare—raw at that,” said a second, “an’ I don’t want to eat anything that’s bitterer.”
“Owl’s no great eatin’,” added a third.
“I’ve ate skunk,” continued a fourth; “an’ I’ve ate sweeter meat in my time.”
“Carrajo!” exclaimed a Mexican, “what do you think of monkey? I have dined upon that down south many’s the time.”
“Wal, I guess monkey’s but tough chawin’s; but I’ve sharpened my teeth on dry buffler hide, and it wa’n’t as tender as it mout ’a been.”
“This child,” said Rube, after the rest had given in their experience, “leavin’ monkey to the beside, have ate all them critturs as has been named yet. Monkey he hain’t, bein’ as thur’s none o’ ’em in these parts. It may be tough, or it mayn’t; it may be bitter, an’ it mayn’t, for what I knows to the contrairywise; but, oncest on a time, this niggur chawed a varmint that wa’n’t much sweeter, if it wur as sweet.”
“What was it, Rube?”
“What was it?” asked several in a breath, curious to know what the old trapper could have eaten more unpalatable than the viands already named.
“’Twur turkey-buzzart, then; that’s what it wur.”
“Turkey-buzzard!” echoed everyone.