Old Newt started the discussion on Southern Humorists by
asking about snipe hunting.
"Seems like I read somewheres where y'all have snipe
hunts around here every now and then. I sure do want to go
with y'all the next time you go, I'll even bring my own
tow-sack. I just dearly love snipe hunts, but I have the
worst luck. I ain't never caught the first one and the last
time I went, I got lost and it took me four days to find my
way out'n them bottoms."
Shelly tried to point Old Newt in the right direction by
sending him to a site about mythical creatures.
"If you want to hunt snipe, Old Newt, I hear tell
you can find one here. It might take you a few tries,
though. Good luck."
Old Newt forgot to take the sack and couldn’t find any
snipe anyhow. Fortunately, he did remember how to get back
to Southern Humorists, by just using the back arrow on his
Marti is from a long line of snipers among other things.
"My Pa was a snipe hunter from way back. He said he
caught a lot of them, but they were so fierce, he wrestled
with 'em for three days but they still got away.
Least wises that what he told Ma when he came home."
Tom then offered his sage advice:
"I think the problem was your Pa only found the
female snipe. They are fierce, fanged, aggressive and danged
near impossible to subdue without hog tieing 'em. 'Course
they are more valuable than the male specie once you get 'em
Old Newt nostigally remember his last snipe encounter:
"I reckon it must've been the female variety that
got after me whist I was lost on my last hunt. When I got
home I had claw marks on my back and fang bites on my neck.
I figured they was just scratches from briars while I was
lost in the bottoms. I bet my wife'll be glad to find out
they was from them female snipes chasing after me and bitin'
and peckin' and stuff, she said they sure didn't look like
no briar scratches to her.
Man I just can't wait to go again."
"Old Newt, you just stick to that story and I'll
back you up. I've been there myself." Replied Tom,
Skunk Feathers, unable to contain himself, told about his
own snipe experiences.
early Scoutin' days in NE Iowa, we engaged in many a snipe
hunt. Saw lots of 'sign', but never managed to run one to
earth. Probably too clumsy, noisy, inexperienced, etc....
you know us danged Yankees.
Then I moved to Colorado. Gave up on snipe huntin'. Out
here, the 'snipes' are referred to as 'sandpackers'.
Standing two feet tall, kangaroo in appearance, they have
spade sized/shaped feet, and travel in packs. When you think
you've cornered one, it's just like tangling with a
velociraptor: the others descend upon you from the flanks
and rear. They knock you down, and pack prodigious
quantities of sand up your... er... sitdown portion.
Sandpacker/human contacts are few: ERs are happy it is
Angela, thankfully, had a snipe story to share to change
the line of discussion.
"Now, about them thar
Snipe...... my good personal friend Gertrude Butterbean had
an encounter with Snipe with Beer Can Bob. It was downright
other day, my buddy Beer Can Bob™ paid me a social call.
We spent most of the day talkin' politics and when evenin'
rolled around, I asked him if he'd like to try his luck
snipe huntin'. Being the adventuresome type, he got all
I took ol' Beer Can Bob™ with me
out in the woods to a place where I recently heard snipe
stompin' and hollerin'. I described what they looked like
and how mean they got when you sing disco. I showed him how
to call em and how to flush em out from under the brush,
"You gotta make the right 'phhhbbbbbttttt' sound and
they'll come runnin'," I said. Since I had chickens to
feed, I left him out there with his snipe sack for a while.
It was almost dark when I got
worried and went to collect him. The poor thang - I found
him shaking and cowering in some briars. Right when I
reached to untangle him, I heard a real loud "tuh-tuh-tidder-tidder-TUH!"
Lord have mercy! Beer Can Bob™
explained to me that my neighbor off in the distance was
singing Kung Fu Fighting real loud while she was hoeing.
Whoof, it made them snipes mad! Up yonder at the top is a
picture of the two of us hiding beneath the pine trees until
Bobbye Joyce shut up and the snipes calmed down."
So, nobody saw one and nobody
sacked one to skin and cook. According to Ms. Shelly, they
must be real or else so many people wouldn’t know about
them. So, we’re still hunting them, especially with
If you should catch one, we suggest
that you use the beer butt chicken recipe and omit the sack
for best results.
Quotes, Exaggerations, and Speculations by Southern
Compiled and Edited by Sheila Moss
Copyright Southern Humorists