There are days in spring when the white clouds go swiftly past, with occasional breaks of bright sunshine lighting up a spot in the landscape.  That is like the memory of one’s youth.  There is a long dull blank, and then a brilliant streak of recollection.  Doubtless it was a year or two afterwards when, seeing that the natural instinct could not be suppressed but had better be recognised, they produced a real gun (single-barrel) for me from the clock-case.

It stood on the landing just at the bottom of the dark flight that led to the garret.  An oaken case six feet high or more, and a vast dial, with a mysterious picture of a full moon and a ship in full sail that somehow indicated the quarters of the year, if you had been imitating Rip Van Winkle and after a sleep of six months wanted to know whether it was spring or autumn.  But only to think that all the while we were puzzling over the moon and the ship and the queer signs on the dial a gun was hidden inside!  The case was locked, it is true; but there are ways of opening locks, and we were always handy with tools.

This gun was almost, but not quite so long as the other.  That dated from the time between Stuart and Hanover; this might not have been more than seventy years old.  And a beautiful piece of workmanship it was:  my new double breechloader is a coarse common thing to compare with it.  Long and slender and light as a feather, it came to the shoulder with wonderful ease.  Then there was a groove on the barrel at the breech and for some inches up which caught the eye and guided the glance like a trough to the sight at the muzzle and thence to the bird.  The stock was shod with brass, and the trigger-guard was of brass, with a kind of flange stretching half-way down to the butt and inserted in the wood.  After a few minutes’ polishing it shone like gold, and to see the sunlight flash on it was a joy.

You might note the grain of the barrel, for it had not been browned; and it took a good deal of sand to get the rust off.  By aid of a little oil and careful wiping after a shower it was easy to keep it bright.  Those browned barrels only encourage idleness.  The lock was a trifle dull at first, simply from lack of use.  A small screwdriver soon had it to pieces, and it speedily clicked again sweet as a flute.  If the hammer came back rather far when at full-cock, that was because the lock had been converted from a flint, and you could not expect it to be absolutely perfect.  Besides which, as the fall was longer the blow was heavier, and the cap was sure to explode.

By old farmhouses, mostly in exposed places (for which there is a reason), one or more huge walnut trees may be found.  The provident folk of those days planted them with the purpose of having their own gunstocks cut out of the wood when the tree was thrown.  They could then be sure it was really walnut, and a choice piece of timber thoroughly well seasoned.  I like to think of those times, when men settled themselves down, and planted and planned and laid out their gardens and orchards and woods, as if they and their sons and sons’ sons, to the twentieth generation, were sure to enjoy the fruit of their labour.