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With the opening of hunting season and all the hopeful Nirarods donning red caps, a few of us are sitting hack, tongue in cheek, awaiting those tales—like the fish stories of the “one that got away."
At least no one around here has had to do as the fanner out west and label his cows. It seems the over-sealous hunters got triggerhappy and shot at any animal that had horns and four feet. After losing a cow during last year’s hunting season, the fanner this year bought large placards and labeled his animals “C-O-W.”
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The election the first of the month gave a lot of pleasant conversation in the county—as is the way with most elections. (To encourage tact, the mention of unpleasant conversation is o v e rlooked.) There was lots of fun around the county seat teasing the new Commissioner or Revenue about receiving one vote for Sheriff and one for Commonwealth Attorney- It seemed the rubber stamp used to stamp in the name on the ballot was an item unfamiliar to some hands, and Voters stamped the name in the wrong place. The result was strange voting.
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As per usual, I’m back in the dog-house. (I’m becoming so accustomed to that residence that I now scratch fleas and chase rabbits with the slightest provocation. I also realise that the kennel terminology gives me a special name for my sex.)
Mr. D. Lyle Miller is forever accusing me of being a politician, a fact I emphatically deny on all occasions. The error made in printing his poem proves that politics and politicians mean nothing in these quarters. He -wrote about MacArthur, using the word “self less.” Mr. D. Lyle wins no prize
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