PADUTCH-LIFE-L Archives

From: "Vee L. Housman" <>
Subject: 24-Rabbit Hunting
Date: Wed, 19 Aug 1998 16:16:58 -0400

RABBIT HUNTING

Yesterday I and Billy Bixler went rabbit hunting on the
Mountain. We took Sam Petzmiller's big bulldog to chase out the
rabbits. Billy borrowed Mike Hawnayarrick's old flint loader which
is about nine feet long with a barrel the size of a meat grinder
[schtenner?]. It still had the old style flintlock which required a
handful of powder, a large cut of wad, some straw, and another wad
for loading.

After a bit of stalking, the old dog routed a rabbit out along the
mountainside. Billy handed me the flint loader, saying that I ought
to fire at the rabbit. "No," I said. "You're the best shot and can
level him real quick." I had suspicions that the old flint loader would
kick like a (wol-shtramicher) cow, and that's why I was so willing to
let Billy take the first shot. Presently the rabbit came hopping
through some hedges, and Billy, working in a panic, threw some
powder in the flash pan. His efforts frightened the rabbit which
took off on the run, and when the gun fired the rabbit was already a
quarter mile away. At first Billy and the rifle recoiled together, then
the flint loader flew off on its own, taking along some skin from
Billy's cheek.

I found Billy lying in some bushes about eleven steps from
where he'd been standing. At first I thought he might be dead, but
soon he opened his eyes and asked me if the November elections
had finished yet. I advised him that we were out rabbit hunting and
that he'd just finished firing his gun. Then he looked at me wildly
and said, "Well, Gottlieb, which came apart--me or the gun?"

Two swallows from the booze [keffer-bree] that I'd kept
buried in Sammy Sendapetzer's hay loft, and Billy was standing up
again on his feet. We looked for the flint lock and couldn't find it,
so we came to the conclusion that it didn't land until it reached the
other side of the mountain. Both of us found large walking sticks as
we continued on our rabbit hunt through tangled bushes that often
forced us astray. Soon the old hound found another spoor and led
us onto a rocky summit. We could hear the old dog howling as we
drew nearer to its quarry. Then Billy yelled, "Look out, Gottlieb!
By ginnerosity, it's a bear!"

Now, I never intended to find any bears--especially since I
never lost any. For a poor old man to leave his sick bed and run
into a bear while having only a stick with which to defend himself
was a damn sorry mess. I thought about Polly and who she'd marry
if she became a widow. Then it occurred to me that she said I was a
jinx [hartz-cower], and that I'd never die, because she'd never be
lucky enough to get rid of me that easily.

I yelled, "Come on Billy," as I went off in the direction of the
commotion. When I finally caught up with them, the bulldog had its
jaws around the neck of the small bear, and they'd already been
fighting for a few minutes. As I drew nearer I could see that the
black bear was on its back and lying on a rock. The huge dog had
been tearing at its throat, and had nearly killed it. Later on I heard
a
rattle in the foliage behind me. I turned to look and saw a skunk
with its hairs standing upright and challenging the bulldog to yet
another fight. The brave dog looked into my eyes as if to say as
plainly as a dog could say:

"Gottlieb, I'm not afraid of anything. I fought with your bear,
but don't ask me to take on this stinking, little skunk."

I approached the good old dog, stroking his head, and said to
him:

"Wasser, you are right. A dog so brave that it can kill a bear
does not deserve to have to fight a skunk."

We heroes took our bear home, and now we've returned to
living normal lives again, but I've learned these three things:

1. If you must fire off an old flintlock, let someone else hold it
for you.

2. If you are out to catch a bear, let your dog kill it first.

3. There are as many men who would do you harm as there
are skunks in this world, because everyone hesitates to stir up the
foul odor caused by fighting with the little devils.

* * *

Note: This collection of Boonastiel stories was written by H. A.
Harter in the original Penna-Dutch dialect and were published in the
Keystone Gazette, Bellefonte, PA, between 1894 and 1904. They
were translated and transcribed by Bob James of Alaska and they
are being posted to this PADUTCH-LIFE mailing list with his
permission.

This thread:

• 24-Rabbit Hunting by "Vee L. Housman" <>