Los Angeles herald., 1891-10-16

There is disciple OF the great and
only Nimrod in this city who wears
compound, duplex, extra-power pris-
matte spectacles, aud edits a weekly
German paper. Thus far he has been
follower Of his sportive proclivities only
theoretically, and has not even won a
leather medal as rife-sharp or a trap
shopper.
A most remarkable episode in the
career OF this desperate hunter deserves
recording. A few days ago, the sporting
editor (in its literal, not technical
sense) betook himself to the rolling
country about Santa Monica, in the
neighborhood Of the Soldiers home. He
was accompanied by double-barreled
shotgun, twelve-bore, pistol-grip, lami-
mated barrels, and a goodly supply OF
ammunition. 1t is believed that he
had with him pug pup in which he
had discovered retrieving talent. At any
rate, reports were more numerous about
the forest that day than they usually are
in the editors office. Yet, sad to relate,
though he sometimes makes a decided
bit with his articles, he failed to achieve
the same result with his gun,
and all the fun he got out of the day was
OF the same calibre that the small boy
enioys when he shoots frecrackers on
the nations birthday.
Accordingly, the Teutonic editor, seek
ing solace in Rants philosophy of pure
reason, was slowly vending his way
when an inexplicable inspiration caused
him to look skyward, and-hello! what
was that
On the summit of lofty eucalyptus
sat bird, huge bird, not as large as
barn door, but, oh, quite near it. The
editor thought it was wild turkey, and
inasmuch as the creature gleefully
wagged its tail and looked at him as
kance, he had plenty OF time to gain his
presence of mind, cock the piece, rest
the barrels on stump and blaze away.
Down came the bird, - a magnificent
turkey, thought the editor. 1t was dead,
stone dead, and the hunters heart
leaped in ecstasy. He tied the ami
malls feet together, slung it to
his gun, and gaily warbling the
hunters chorus from Der Freisch1tz,
trudged merrily on his way.
AS he passed the gates OF the Soldiers
home, peg-legged veteran gazed curl
ously at the hunter and his game.
''Shot a bird, hey?'' he remarked
laconically.
eyes, SIR" replied the editor, his
bosom swelling with pride.
"What kind of bird is it ?" quoth
the veteran, approaching to examine
the carcass.
Turkey" was the reply the hunter
had on his lips, but before he could say
the word, he was startled by seeing the
warrior first grow pale. then indulge in
a variety of facial contortions,5 and
finally calculate most excitedly:
"My God-my God--it's our Abe-our
pet eaglel''
The editor was petrifed. The soldier,
however, burst forth in a discharge of
vituperative eloquence which would
have made ex-senator Ingalls, jaundiced
with envy. More veterans were attract
ed By the turmoil, and ominous remarks
about dire vengeance began rumbling
over the neighborhood. While the re-
tired fire-eaters were discussing the
merits of different kinds OF violent
deaths, the editor made his escape, leav-
ing his game behind him.
His usual look OF bonhommie and nom
chalance has given way to the suspicious
glare of the hunted criminal, and blue
coat or an armless sleeve throws him
into commissions.
Funeral notice hereafter.