Ode to the Shotgun

I would rather have a shotgun than a car, home or steady career. In the well-crafted shotgun is the spirit of adventure, the soul of nostalgia and the dream of wilderness. A shotgun justifies the worn boot-leather of a wayward traveler. A shotgun provides a brace of game to both the pampered nobleman and the famished vagabond. A shotgun is the only worthy rival to the dog as utmost friend of man. The broken double-gun bespeaks the raw character of the olden sportsman for whom the beckoning fields are not an escape, but home itself. When the trigger is broken and the charge is sent to greet fur or feather the heart beats with a vigor rarely witnessed. A shotgun is the nobler firearm simply because its nature is that of fluidity and grace. As the cock flies in the copper-burnished sunset so the tempered barrels swing to it with equitable beauty. Even the residual trinkets of a sporting encounter are romantic. Those red hulls topped with gleaming brass release the fragrant curls of nitro—their pungency is the greater peer of bergamot. Hands that have not cradled the form of a fine shotgun have no more claim that those that have not touched smitten lass. Neither person should be entitled to the designation of “man”. Such is the understated merit of the shotgun!