The huntsman swayed in his porch's rocking chair and tongued at the tobacco stuck to his teeth, looping the motion, until he caught a glimpse of something large and unusual in the sky. He instinctively groped his rifle, and bore witness to nothing short of a birthday-suited angel cutting through the clouds, which he immediately shot as the thing went tumbling down into a soft bed of trees then to the forest floor. He approached her, poked at the spurting neck with his boot, and threw her over his shoulder to take to his cellar. He hung her and cut off her wings with a butchers knife at their base then gutted her empty, keeping only the best organs. He stuffed her wings and displayed them on a wooden frame hung above his dining table, where he sung to God his gratitude with great hurry, and gorged himself on liver.