“Gentlemen, when I was a young man I used to know very well one Joe Wilson, who built himself a log-cabin not far from where I lived. Joe was very fond of eggs and chickens, and he took a good deal of pains in fitting up a poultry bed. Having at length got together a choice lot of young fowls, — of which eh was very proud, — he began to be much annoyed by the depredations of those little black and white spotted animals, which is not necessary to name. One night Joe was awakened by an unusual cackling and fluttering among his chickens. Getting up, he crept out to see what was going on. It was a bright moonlight night, and he soon caught sight of half a dozen of the little pests, which with their dam were running in and out of the shadow of the shed. Very wrathy, Joe put a double charge into his old musket, and thought he would ‘clean’ out the whole tribe at one shot. Somehow he only killed one, and the balance scampered off across the field. In telling the story, Joe would always pause here, and hold his nose. ‘Why didn’t you follow them up, and kill the rest?’ inquired the neighbors. ‘Blast it,’ said Joe, ‘why, it was eleven weeks before I got over killin’ one. If you want any more skirmishing in that line you can just do it yourselves!”
Francis Carpenter, Six Months at the White House, p. 139.