in which all the public buildings were situated, he found, to his no small astonishment, on the very spot where the court-house stood on the map, a flock of wild turkeys gobbling like so many lawyers, and two or three white-headed owls sitting on the high trees listening with most commendable gravity....  Zeno set himself down, began to print his paper in a great hollow sycamore, and to live on anticipation, as many great speculators had done before him.

* * * * *

=_James Fenimore Cooper, 1789-1851._= (Manual, pp. 478, 495, 506.)

From “The Pioneers.”

=_282._= THE SHOOTING MATCH.

In the mean while, as Billy Kirby was preparing himself for another shot, Natty left the goal, with an extremely dissatisfied manner, muttering to himself, and speaking aloud.—­

“There hasn’t been such a thing as a good flint sold at the foot of the lake, since the time when the Indian traders used to come into the country;—­and if a body should go into the flats along the streams in the hills, to hunt, for such a thing, it’s ten to one but they will be all covered up with the plough.  Heigho! its seems to me, that just as the game grows scarce, and a body wants the best of ammunition, to get a livelihood, everything that’s bad falls on him, like a judgment.  But I’ll change the stone, for Billy Kirby hasn’t the eye for such a mark, I know.”

The wood-chopper seemed now entirely sensible that his reputation in a great measure depended on his care; nor did he neglect any means to ensure his success.  He drew up his rifle, and renewed his aim, again and again, still appearing reluctant to fire.  No sound was heard from even Brom, during these portentous movements, until Kirby discharged his piece, with the same want of success as before.  Then, indeed, the shouts of the negro rung through the bushes, and sounded among the trees of the neighboring forest, like the outcries of a tribe of Indians.  He laughed, rolling his head, first on one side, then on the other, until nature seemed exhausted with mirth.  He danced, until his legs were wearied with motion, in the snow; and in short, he exhibited all that violence of joy that characterizes the mirth of a thoughtless negro.

The wood-chopper had exerted his art, and felt a proportionate degree of disappointment at his failure.  He first examined the bird with the utmost attention, and more than once suggested that he had touched its feathers, but the voice of the multitude was against him, for it felt disposed to listen to the often-repeated cries of the black, to “gib a nigger fair play.”

Finding it impossible to make out a title to the bird, Kirby turned fiercely to the black, and said—­

“Shut your oven, you crow!  Where is the man that can hit a turkey’s head at a hundred yards?  I was a fool for trying.  You needn’t make an uproar like a falling pine-tree about it.  Show me the man who can do it.”