Out here in the sunshine state we call them mud daubers too. When I was a teenager my dad accused me of losing his .22 rifle, or selling it. I denied it, but was painted with the brush just as well. Come spring my dad found the little rifle, right where he had left it. You see it was a Mossberg with a breakdown forearm, and he had been shooting birds out of the cherry tree with it. Something must have come up, so he broke down the forearm, and hung the gun in the inside limbs of the cherry tree. The mud daubers filled the barrel soon after he abandoned it, and it stayed plugged all winter. He took it to the local gunsmith, who cleaned the mud out of the barrel, and recrowned it. My son owns the gun today, and I shoot it at the local novelty matches on new years day. It is known in our gun club as old lucky, because it has taken more prizes at this match than any other .22. I like to think it is because, it, and I, were created in the same year, 1949.
My wife calls me lucky, as in lucky I let you live.
Hungry Horse
