’Wal, we waited, and waited, till the old kaow was black as pitch with ’em.  Then Hornblower he nudges me.  We got both barrils all ready—­big loads in ’em.  ‘Fire!’ says he.  I braced my leg up agin my barril; he braced his leg up agin his barril—­’

‘W-w-what?’ said the Squire.

’We give the most all-firedest shove—­and over we went, barrels, stones, dirt, and gravil, head-fo’most, spang into them crows and dead kaow!  I tell you, for about five minutes I calc’late I never seed sitch fuss, feathers, dirt, and gravil, and kaow-beef flyin’ as I did then.  Things was mixed up most promiscussedly, you can bet yer life on it!  Bime by I sort o’ come to, and when I raised up I found I was sittin’ onto four dead, crushed crows, Brother Hornblower, and kaow-meat gin’rally.  So I dug out and lifted up the game—­Brother Hornblower first off.  When he cum round a little, says he: 

“T-T-Tyler, I con-ceive somethin’s give way ‘bout these parts!’

“You air about right in your suppostishuns,’ says I; ’the gravil bank’s busted, and it’s a marcy we an’t in kingdom kum!’

“Don’t talk that way,’ says he; ’let’s go up and fire a cupple barrels more into the blastid rebbils, fur vengenz.’

“No yer don’t, this mornin’, as I knows on,’ said I; ’I’ve got enough shootin craws your fashun.  Next time I go shootin’ crows ’long any boddy, I’m goin’ to do it Christian-fashun, with gun-barrils, and not blastid old flour-barrils filled with gravil.  That kind o’ shootin’ don’t suit my style o’ bones—­’speehally head-fo’most inter a dead kaow!”

‘On-ly four crows killt!’ said the Squire, with a groan.  ’To think what a feller might have done, if he had only have spread his-self judishuslously as he came tumblin’ onto ’em spang!  Wal!’ (looking cheeringly to young Tyler,) ’you couldn’t do more’n fire both barrils into ’em, ef they was flour-barrils, could you?’

* * * * *

    THE LEGEND OF JESUS AND THE MOSS.

    In the desert of Engedi
      Lies a valley deep and lone;
    Softly there the mild air slumbered,
      Lovely there the sunlight shone. 
    In the bosom of this valley,
      By the path that leads across,
    Lay a modest velvet carpet
      Of the finest, softest moss.

    But the careless traveler, passing,
      Heedless of it went his way;
    Thus this miracle of beauty
      Lone in hidden glory lay. 
    Bloom and sunshine, sweeter, brighter,
      Him from distant mountains greet;
    On to that the stranger hurries,
      Past the moss-bed at his feet.

    Then the moss-bed sighed, complaining
      To the evening dew that fell;
    And its tufted bosom heaving,
      Thus its ’plains began to tell: 
    ’Ah! men love you, bloom and sunshine,
      Long its rosy glow to see,
    Feed their eyes on luring flowers
      Whilst their feet tread rude on me!’