onishment and delight, when I saw the
very thing I had been longing for and dreaming about so long--saw the
soft-looking brown barrels lying snugly against the green-baize lining
of the case, and felt the ring of the lock under my fingers as I drew
the hammers of my own gun back. (Those were the days of muzzle-loaders,
boys.) But when I had got that gun--the desire of my eyes, the pride of
my life--it was, oh, how long, before I could hit things flying with it.
On Saturday half-holidays (we had only one half a holiday a week when I
was at school), I used to practise steadily. All my savings went to
shot, powder, and wads. I almost lost the desire for candy with its
disuse. I even turned my back on the pond where we used to fish for
roach. I had seen my father kill birds flying, one with each barrel, and
there was neither rest nor satisfaction for me till I could do the same.
I think I took to shooting naturally; yet how long it was, and how hard
I had to work, before I learned to shoot steadily and well.

It was the same story over again when I had grown older and gone to
college. There I determined to row. If ever you are in old England in
May, go, if you can, to Oxford or Cambridge, if it is only to see the
college races. The river-banks then are green, so green, and the hedges
and trees are one waving nosegay. The big buttercups grow in yellow
bunches by the brink. Where the meadows slope down to the stream crowds
of gayly dressed people are standing, for the sisters and friends of
every college lad have come up to see the sight. This is on one side of
the river; on the other stretches the towing-path, and along it surge a
mighty throng of "men" clad in all the colors of the rainbow, wild with
excitement, shouting themselves hoarse. They are out to see their
college crew row. And what a sight those crews are! Round the bend, here
they come at last, the eight-oar crews, the men's bodies swinging like
pendulums, the eight pair of hands dropping at the end of each stroke as
one, and then shooting out altogether. With a sweep and a swish they
dash by, and the rushes of college color struggle to keep up with them.
Ah, the very memory of it makes me thrill still! When first I saw their
ease and splendid strength, how simple it looked. Surely, any fairly
strong man could make those broad-bladed oars come swishing through,
leaving behind them, well below the surface, a clear track of white
water. So it seemed to me, and I det