Here a six-foot Stoic, the Nestor
of the glen, is very formally going through the ceremony of loading.
Another is slowly, and with the precision of an astronomer, adjusting
the tin slides which protect his barrel from the glitter of the sun.
The chatter of a bevy of country maidens ripples from over the way.
The horses whinny under their square-skirted saddles, or stand "hard
by their chariots champing golden corn," like the horses of Nestor,
Agamemnon, Homer and Gladstone before Dr. Schliemann's Troy; the
yearlings in the meadow alternately gaze and graze; the guinea-fowl
now and then honors the shout over a good shot with its harsh but
well-meant rattle; the rifle speaks at measured intervals; the
prizes thin off to the remainder gobbler; and so, with the quiet
characteristic of rifle-matches, the evening draws toward the dew. The
smoke-whitened guns are carefully swabbed with tow and prepared for
their rest as tenderly as infants. Dobbin is rescued from the (fence)
stake to hie hill-ward with his master, cantering exultant or jogging
grumly according to the result of the "event;" and the metropolis of
Petticoat Gap--for such, in the vernacular and on the maps, is its
unfortunate designation--relapses into virtuous repose.
The implement employed at these rural reunions is rarely the
breech-loader, or even the short gun. It promises to hold its ground
for years yet, gradually yielding to the little modern tool.
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