No sound was heard from even
Brom, during these portentous movements, until Kirby discharged his
piece, with the same want of success as before. Then, indeed, the shouts
of the negro rung through the bushes, and sounded among the trees of the
neighboring forest, like the outcries of a tribe of Indians. He laughed,
rolling his head, first on one side, then on the other, until nature
seemed exhausted with mirth. He danced, until his legs were wearied with
motion, in the snow; and in short, he exhibited all that violence of joy
that characterizes the mirth of a thoughtless negro.
The wood-chopper had exerted his art, and felt a proportionate degree
of disappointment at his failure. He first examined the bird with the
utmost attention, and more than once suggested that he had touched its
feathers, but the voice of the multitude was against him, for it felt
disposed to listen to the often-repeated cries of the black, to "gib a
nigger fair play."
Finding it impossible to make out a title to the bird, Kirby turned
fiercely to the black, and said--
"Shut your oven, you crow! Where is the man that can hit a turkey's head
at a hundred yards? I was a fool for trying. You needn't make an uproar
like a falling pine-tree about it.
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