We had wandered about for several hours, and the sky, which had not been the clearest in the commencement, now began to assume the appearance of rain. I had more than once suggested the propriety of going home—but Sam was eager to show me how to shine the eyes of a buck, and no argument or persuasion could win him from his purpose. We searched on as before for another half hour, and I was about to express my determination to go home, when Sam suddenly paused: “Stop, stop,” said he; “thar’s eyes, and whappers they is, too. Now hold still, Major.” I raised on tiptoe with eager anticipation—I heard the click of the lock—there was a moment of portentous silence—then the old musket blazed forth with a thundering report, and in the same instant was heard a loud squeal, and a noise like the snapping of bridle reins. “Thunder and lightnin’!” exclaimed Sam, as he dropped gun, pan and all, and stood fixed to the spot—“I’ve shot old Blaze!” So soon as he had recovered from the shock, we hastened to the spot, and, sure enough, there lay the luckless mule, still floundering in the agonies of death. The aim had been but too good, and poor Blaze was hurt “past all surgery.” Sam stood over him in silent agony, and, notwithstanding the bitter maledictions he had so recently heaped upon him, now that he saw the poor animal stretched upon the ground in death, and knew that his “infernal picter” would greet him no more for ever, a flood of tender recollections of past services poured over his repentant heart. He uttered not a word until after the last signs of life were extinct—then, with a heavy sigh, he muttered: “Pore old cretur!—well, well, I reckon I’s done the business now, sure enough. That’s what I calls a _pretty_ night’s work, anyhow!” “A ‘bad beginning doesn’t always make a good ending,’ Mr. Sikes,” I remarked. “Cus the luck, it will run so sometimes,” said he in a sullen tone, as he commenced taking the saddle off his deceased donkey. “I’m blamed if I see how I got so turned round.” By this time it had commenced to rain, and we were anxious to get home; but Sam had dropped his gun and pan, as the awful truth rushed upon him, that he had killed the only mule he possessed in the world, and we now found it difficult to recover them. After searching about for near half an hour in the drizzling rain, Sam chanced to come upon the spot from which he had taken the hapless aim, and having regained his gun and pan, we endeavoured to strike a fire; all our efforts, however, to produce a light, proved ineffectual, and we essayed to grope our way amid the darkness. “Hello, Major, whar is you?” “Here!” “Whar you gwine?” “Home!” “Well, that ain’t the way.” “Why, we came this way.” “No, I reckon not.” “I’m sure we didn’t come that way.” “Whar, in the devil’s name, is the branch?” petulantly inquired Sam. “If I could only see the branch, I could soon find the way.” “It must be down this way,” I replied.