He fired salutes with his rifle.

He sung his merriest songs.

He told his funniest stories.

He indulged himself in the highest exhilaration which whiskey could induce.
As this holiday approached, Crockett was much troubled in finding that his powder was nearly expended, and that he had none "to fire Christmas guns." This seemed really to annoy him more than that he had none to hunt with.
In the mean time, a brother-in-law had moved to that region, and had reared his cabin at a distance of six miles from the hut of David Crockett, on the western bank of Rutherford's Fork, one of the tributaries of Obion River.

He had brought with him a keg of powder for Crockett, which had not yet been delivered.
The region all around was low and swampy.