Taddy replied that he was quite sure, as he climbed from the chaise into Atkins's wagon. The minister smilingly remarked that he hoped she would find no robbery had been committed, and went his way. Atkins, driving back, and setting her and Taddy down at the Ducklow gate, answered her embarrassed "Much obleeged to ye," with a sincere "Not at all," considering the fun he had had a sufficient compensation for his trouble. And thus ended the morning adventures, with the exception of an unimportant episode, in which Taddy, Mrs. Ducklow, and Mrs. Ducklow's rattan were the principal actors. THE SHOOTING-MATCH BY A.B. LONGSTREET Shooting-matches are probably nearly coeval with the colonization of Georgia. They are still common throughout the Southern States, though they are not as common as they were twenty-five or thirty years ago. Chance led me to one about a year ago. I was traveling in one of the northeastern counties, when I overtook a swarthy, bright-eyed, smirky little fellow, riding a small pony, and bearing on his shoulder a long, heavy rifle, which, judging from its looks, I should say had done service in Morgan's corps. "Good morning, sir!" said I, reining up my horse as I came beside him. "How goes it, stranger?" said he, with a tone of independence and self-confidence that awakened my curiosity to know a little of his character. "Going driving?" inquired I. "Not exactly," replied he, surveying my horse with a quizzical smile; "I haven't been a driving _by myself_ for a year or two; and my nose has got so bad lately, I can't carry a cold trail _without hounds to help me_." Alone, and without hounds as he was, the question was rather a silly one; but it answered the purpose for which it was put, which was only to draw him into conversation, and I proceeded to make as decent a retreat as I could. "I didn't know," said I, "but that you were going to meet the huntsmen, or going to your stand." "Ah, sure enough," rejoined he, "that _mout_ be a bee, as the old woman said when she killed a wasp. It seems to me I ought to know you." "Well, if you _ought_, why _don't_ you?" "What _mout_ your name be?" "It _might_ be anything," said I, with a borrowed wit, for I knew my man and knew what kind of conversation would please him most. "Well, what _is_ it, then?" "It _is_ Hall," said I; "but you know it might as well have been anything else." "Pretty digging!" said he. "I find you're not the fool I took you to be; so here's to a better acquaintance with you." "With all my heart," returned I; "but you must be as clever as I've been, and give me your name." "To be sure I will, my old coon; take it, take it, and welcome. Anything else about me you'd like to have?" "No," said I, "there's nothing else about you worth having."