Father Napoose is a wise man. He also makes great pickles.
             He sat in the dark of his cabin contemplating the subtle differences between killing in the hunt, where the animal is a stranger, and butchering beasts of domestication, when he heard a sound from outside.
             Napoose put on a vest, reached habitually for a battered .22 rifle which he crooked in his elbow, and stepped into the moonless darkness. He walked fifty paces and sat down on his woodpile to listen.
             Shortly he heard whispered phrases and stealthy footsteps come into the yard. Napoose slid the bolt in the rifle back and forth once without chambering a shell. The footsteps came to an abrupt halt.
             "What are you guys up to?" Napoose asked finally.
             Two shadows emerged from the black of night and hesitantly walked to where Napoose was sitting with the gun on his knee.
             "You know us," one of the shadows said.
             Napoose did know them. Two boys from town, one carrying a gas can. An empty gas can.
             "We were wondering if we could buy some gas."
             "I suppose," Napoose answered, and silently led the way to the gasoline barrel.
             Nothing was said while the fuel was pumped by one of the youths. Came time to pay, though, it was reluctantly admitted that neither had money.
             Well, Napoose would see them good for it, but as they made to leave he said: "Boys, when you come to buy gas next time, you shouldn't come in the dark. You might be mistaken for thieves."
             Father Napoose is a wise man, and you really should taste his pickles. He got paid for the gas, too ~ a couple of months later.