It tante much different from stump oratory in America arter all, or speakin' off a whiskey barrel, is it?
It's a sort of divil me-kear-kind o' audience; independent critters, that look at a feller full in the face, as sarcy as the divil; as much as to say, 'Talk away, my old 'coon, you won't alter me, I can tell you, it's all _Bunkum_.' "Lord, I shall never forget poor old Davy Crocket's last speech; there was no "bunkum" in that.

He despised it; all good shots do, they aim right straight for the mark and hit it.

There's no shootin' round the ring, with them kinder men.

Poor old feller, he was a great hunter; a great shot with the rifle, a great wit, and a great man.

He didn't leave his _span_ behind him, when he slipt off the handle, I know.
"Well he stood for an election and lost it, just afore he left the States; so when it was over, he slings his powder horn on, over his shoulders, takes his "Betsey," which was his best rifle, onder his arm, and mounts on a barrel, to talk it into his constituents, and take leave of 'em.
"'Feller citizens,' sais he, 'we've had a fair stand-up fight for it, and I'm whipped, that are a fact; and thar is no denyin' of it.