"Ye needn't think ye're agoin to git off, jest because I made a
leetle mistake like that!" muttered Mrs. Gammit, shutting her teeth
with a snap, and cocking the gun as she raised it once more to her
shoulder.

Now, as it chanced, Joe Barren had neglected to tell her which eye to
shut, so, not unnaturally, Mrs. Gammit shut the one nearest to the
gun--nearest to the cap which was about to go off. She also neglected
to consider the hind-sight. It was enough for her that the muzzle of
the gun seemed to cover the bear. Under these conditions she got a
very good line on her target, but her elevation was somewhat at fault.
She pulled the trigger.

This time it was all right. There was a terrific, roaring explosion,
and she staggered backwards under the savage kick of the recoil.
Recovering herself instantly, and proud of the great noise she had
made, she peered through the smoke, expecting to see the bear topple
over upon his nose, extinguished. Instead of that, however, she
observed a convulsive flopping of wings in the birch-tree above the
bear's head. Then, with one reproachful "gobble" which rang loud in
Mrs. Gammit's ears, the old turkey-cock fell heavily to the ground. He
would have fallen straight upon the bear, but that the latter, his
nerves completely upset by so much disturbance, was making off at fine
speed through the bushes.

The elation on Mrs. Gammit's face gave way to consternation. Then she
reddened to the ears with wrath, dashed the offending gun to the
ground, and stamped on it. She had done her part, that she knew, but
the wretched weapon had played her false. Well, she had never thought
much of guns, anyway. Henceforth she would depend on herself.

The unfortunate turkey-cock now lay quite still. Mrs. Gammit crossed
the yard and bent over the sprawling body in deep regret. She had had
a certain affection for the noisy and self-sufficient old bird, who
had been "company" for her as he strutted "gobbling" about the yard
with stiff-trailed wings while his hens were away brooding their
chicks. "Too bad!" she muttered over him, by way of requiem; "too bad
ye had to go an' git in the road o' that blame gun!" Then, suddenly
bethinking herself that a fowl was more easily plucked while yet warm,
she carried the limp corpse, head downward, across the yard, fetched a
basket from the kitchen, sat down on the doorstep in the moonlight,
and began sadly stripping the victim of his feathers. He was a fine,
heavy