At length a waggish fellow of the town, who had got a scent of the affair, meeting Giles one day, informed him that he knew of a scheme that would do the job for him. Giles begged earnestly to know it, and promised as a recompense to give him the first dollar the hen should lay, in case the plan succeeded, “for you know,” said he, “it is a fair bargain, no cure, no pay.”
“You’ll find that next fall,” replied the fellow.
He then communicated the scheme, by which Giles was instructed to go to the top of Blueberry Hill the next morning at six o’clock, mark out a circle on the ground, set up a tall pole in the centre with the hen at the top: he was then to walk three times round it, heels foremost, say the A B C backwards, sing a stave of Old hundred, cry cock-a-doodle-doo, and sneeze three times—all which he was assured would break the spell.
Giles took all this for gospel, and the next morning he was on the spot ready prepared at the hour. He set his fowl up in the air and went to work with the incantation; all was going on prosperously and according to rule: he had got through the psalm tune, crowed as exactly like an old rooster as one could wish, and was just taking a thumping pinch of Scotch yellow to enable him to sneeze with more effect, when casting his eyes aloft he descried a monstrous hen-hawk upon the wing in the act of making a stoop at his enchanted fowl. Giles blurted out a tremendous sternutation, but the hawk was not to be sneezed out of his prey, for before he could rub away the tears which this explosion shook into his eyes, souse came the hawk upon the hen, and both were out of sight among the woods!
Giles scratched his head and stared with wonder, but they never came back to give any account of themselves: he is certain although, that had he got through the incantation half a minute sooner, the hen would have been as safe as a thief in a mill. I have heard people say that he has still some expectation of their return, but I believe he has given up speculating in poultry. However, the memory of the story remains in those parts, and when a person does anything that shows uncommon wisdom, such as discovering that the Dutch have taken Holland, or that asses have ears, he is said to be akin to the witches, like Bob Lee’s hen.
XVI.
THE SHOOTING-MATCH.
Shooting-matches are probably nearly coeval with the colonization of Georgia. They are still common throughout the Southern States; though they are not as common as they were twenty-five or thirty years ago. I was travelling in one of the north-eastern counties, when I overtook a swarthy, bright-eyed, smirky little fellow, riding a small pony, and bearing on his shoulder a long, heavy rifle, which, judging from its looks, I should say had done service in Morgan’s corps.
“Good morning, Sir,” said I, reining up my horse, as I came beside him.
“How goes it, stranger?” said he, with a tone of independence and self-confidence that awakened my curiosity to know a little of his character.
“Going driving?” inquired I.