Herald Of The Times, And Rhode Islander

Slow, but Dreadful Sure.—Speaking of that powder which burnt half up before the owner could put the fire out,' said an Oldtown gunter the other day, 'puts me in mind of some I once had. 'Twas slow, but dreadful sure.' My fowling piece had been loaded with some of it for a day or two, in anticipation of a lick at some kind of wild fowl, when one morning, in the fall, about daybreak, I discovered a flock of ducks—twenty-five at least, [gunners are proverbial for large stories] in a pond, distant from my house one-fourth of a mile.

I took my gun and started for them, and, keeping under cover of a stone wall, soon got as near as I wanted to be when I pulled the trigger, but no report followed. She flashed in the pan. I had forgotten to take any priming with me, so I was forced to go back to the house for my powder-horn, which I did in no pleasant mood I tell you : but just as I got most home I heard a slight commotion in the barrel of my piece, and looking into the muzzle found the charge was making its way slowly out. I started back to my old position and resting the gun upon the wall, took a good aim at the ducks, and in about five minutes after, she went off and killed every mother's son of them.—Yank. Blade.