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Where the Red Fern Grows

Day Two

"Oh. No, I don't go to school here."

    "Do you go to Jefferson?"

    "No. I don't go there either."

    "Don't you go to school at all?"

    "Sure I go to school."

    "Where?"

    "At home."

    "You go to school at home?"

    I nodded.

    "What grade are you in?"

    I said I wasn't in any grade.

    Puzzled, he said, "You go to school at home, and

don't know what grade you're in. Who teaches you?"

    "My mother."

    "What does she teach you?"

    I said, "Reading, writing, and arithmetic, and I

bet I'm just as good at it as you are."

    He asked, "Don't you have any shoes?"

    I said, "Sure, I have shoes."

    "Why aren't you wearing them?"

    "I don't wear shoes until it gets cold."

    He laughed and asked where I lived.

    I said, "Back in the hills."

    He said, "Oh, you're a hillbilly."

    He ran back to the mob. I saw him pointing at

me and talking to several boys. They started my way,

yelling, "Hillbilly, hillbilly."

    Just before they reached me, a bell started ring-

ing. Turning, they ran to the front of the building,

lined up in two long lines, and marching like little tin

soldiers disappeared inside the school.

    The playground was silent. I was all alone, and

felt lonely and sad.

    I heard a noise on my right. I didn't have to turn

around to recognize what it was. Someone was using

a hoe. I'd know that sound if I heard it on a dark

night. It was a little old white-headed woman work-

ing in a flower bed.

    Looking again at the long, blue pipe, I thought,

"There's no one around. Maybe I could have one slide

anyway."     

   I eased over and looked up into the dark hollow.

It looked scary, but I thought of all the other boys I

had seen crawl into it I could see the last mark on

the ground, and thought, "I bet I can beat that."

    Laying my sack down, I started climbing up. The

farther I went, the darker and more scary it got just

as I reached the top, my feet slipped. Down I sailed.

All the way down I tried to grab on to something, but

there was nothing to grab.

     I'm sure some great champions had slid out of

that pipe, and no doubt more than one world record

had been broken, but if someone had been there

when I came out, I know the record I set would stand

today in all its glory.

    I came out just like I went in, feet first and belly

down. My legs were spread out like a bean-shooter

stalk. Arms flailing the air, I zoomed out and up. I

seemed to hang suspended in air at the peak of my

climb. I could see the hard-packed ground far below.

    As I started down, I shut my eyes tight and grit-

ted my teeth. This didn't seem to help. With a splat-

tering sound, I landed. I felt the air whoosh out be-

tween my teeth. I tried to scream, but had no wind

left to make a sound.

    After bouncing a couple of times, I finally settled

down to earth. I lay spread-eagle for a few seconds,

and then slowly got to my knees.

    Hearing loud laughter, I looked around. It was

the little old lady with the hoe in her hand. She hol-

lered and asked how I liked it. Without answering, I

grabbed up my gunny sack and left. Far up the

street, I looked back. The little old lady was sitting

down, rocking with laughter.

     I couldn't understand these town people. If they

weren't staring at a fellow, they were laughing at

him.

Chapter 5.

    ON ARRIVING AT THE DEPOT, MY NERVES FAILED ME. I WAS

afraid to go in. I didn't know what I was scared of,

but I was scared.

    Before going around to the front, I peeked in a

window. The station-master was in his office looking at

some papers. He was wearing a funny little cap that

had no top in it. He looked friendly enough but I still

couldn't muster up enough courage to go in.

    I cocked my ear to see if I could hear puppies

crying, but could hear nothing. A bird started chirp-

ing. It was a yellow canary in a cage. The station-

master walked over and gave it some water. I

thought, "Anyone that is kind to birds surely wouldn't

be mean to a boy."

    With my courage built up I walked around to the

front and eased myself past the office. He glanced at

me and turned back to the papers. I walked clear

around the depot and again walked slowly past the

office. Glancing from the corner of my eye, I saw the

station-master looking at me and smiling. He opened

the door and came out on the platform. I stopped and

leaned against the building.

    Yawning and stretching his arms he said," It sure

is hot today. It doesn't look like its ever going to

rain."

    I looked up at the sky and said, "Yes, sir. It is hot

and we sure could do with good rain. We need one

bad up where I come from."

    He asked me where I lived.

    I told him, "Up the river a ways."

    "You know," he said, "I have some puppies in

there for a boy that lives up on the river. His name is

Billy Colman. I know his dad, but never have seen

the boy. I figured he would be in after them today."

    On hearing this remark, my heart jumped clear

up in my throat. I thought surely it was going to hop

right out on the depot platform. I looked up and tried

to tell him who I was, but something went wrong.

When the words finally came out they sounded like

the squeaky old pulley on our well when Mama drew

up a bucket of water.

    I could see a twinkle in the station-master's eyes

He came over and laid his hand on my shoulder. In a

friendly voice he said, "So you're Billy Colman. How is

your dad?"

    I told him Papa was fine and handed him the

slip my grandpa had given me.

    "They sure are fine-looking pups," he said. "You'll

have to go around to the freight door."

    I'm sure my feet never touched the ground as I

flew around the building. He unlocked the door, and I

stepped in, looking for my dogs. I couldn't see any-

thing but boxes, barrels, old trunks, and some rolls of

barbed wire.

    The kindly station-master walked over to one of

the boxes.

    "Do you want box and all?" he asked.

    I told him I didn't want the box. All I wanted

was the dogs.

    "How are you going to carry them?" he asked. "I

think they're a little too young to follow."

    I held out my gunny sack. 

    He looked at me and looked at the sack. Chuck-

ling, he said, "Well, I guess dogs can be carried that

way same as anything else, but we'll have to cut a

couple of holes to stick their heads through so that

they won't smother."

    Getting a claw hammer, he started tearing off the

top of the box. As nails gave way and boards splin-

tered, I heard several puppy whimpers. I didn't walk

over. I just stood and waited.

    After what seemed like hours, the box was open.

He reached in, lifted the pups out, and set them down

on the floor.

    "Well, there they are," he said. "What do you

think of them?"

    I didn't answer. I couldn't.  All I could do was

stare at them.

    They seemed to he blinded by the light and kept

blinking their eyes. One sat down on his little rear

and started crying. The other one was waddling

around and whimpering.

    I wanted so much to step over and pick them up.

Several times I tried to move my feet, but they

seemed to be nailed to the floor. I knew the pups

were mine, all mine, yet I couldn't move. My heart

started acting like a drunk grasshopper. I tried to

swallow and couldn't.  My Adam's apple wouldn't

work.

    One pup started my way. I held my breath. On

he came until I felt a scratchy little foot on mine. The

other pup followed. A warm puppy tongue caressed

my sore foot.

    I heard the station-master say, "They already

know you."

    I knelt down and gathered them in my arms. I

buried my face between their wiggling bodies and

cried. The station-master, sensing something more

than just two dogs and a boy, waited in silence.

    Rising with the two pups held close to my chest,

I asked if I owed anything.

    He said, "There Is a small feed bill but I'll take

care of it. It's not much anyway."

    Taking his knife he cut two slits in the sack. He

put the pups in it and worked their heads through

the holes. As he handed the sack to me, he said,

"Well, there you are. Good-bye and good hunting!"

    Walking down the street toward town, I thought,

"Now, maybe the people won't stare at me when they

see what I've got. After all, not every boy owns two

good hounds."

    Turning the corner onto the main street, I threw

out my chest.

    I hadn't gone far before I realized that the recep-

tion I got wasn't what I thought It would be. People

began to stop and stare, some even snickered.  I

couldn't understand why they were staring. Surely it

couldn't be at the two beautiful hound pups sticking

out of the gunny sack.

    Thinking that maybe I had a hole in the seat of

my britches, I looked over to my reflection in a plate

glass window. I craned my neck for a better view of

my rear. I could see a patch there all right, and a few

thread bare spots, but no whiteness was showing

through. I figured that the people were just jealous

because they didn't have two good hounds.

    I saw a drunk coming. He was staggering all over

the street.  Just as he was passing me I heard him stop.

As I looked back I saw he was staring wide-eyed at

my sack. Closing his eyes, he rubbed them with his

hands. Opening them again he stared. Shaking his

head, he staggered on down the street.

    All around people began to roar with laughter

Someone shouted, "What's the matter, John? You

seeing things today?"

    I hurried on, wanting to get away from the stares

and the snickers.

    It wouldn't have happened again in a hundred

years, but there they came. The same two old women

I had met before. We stopped and had another glar-

ing fight.

    One said, "I declare."

    The other one snorted, "Well, I never."

    My face burned. I couldn't take any more. After

all, a man can stand so much and no more. In a loud

voice, I said, "You may have these people fooled with

those expensive-looking feathers in your hats, but I

know what they are. They're goose feathers painted

with iodine."

    One started to say something, but her words

were drowned out by the roaring laughter from all

around. Gathering up their long skirts, they swished

on down the street.

    All around me people began to shout questions

and laugh. One wanted to know if I had the mother

in the sack. Storekeepers stepped out and gawked. I

could see the end of the street, but it looked as if it

were a hundred miles away. My face was as red as a

fox's tail. I ducked my head, tightened my grip on the

sack, and walked on.

    I don't know where they came from, but like

chickens coming home to roost, they flocked around

me. Most of them were about my age. Some were a

little bigger, some smaller. They ganged around me,

screaming and yelling. They started clapping their

hands and chanting, "The dog boy has come to town.

The dog boy has come to town."

    My heart burst. Tears came rolling. The day I

had waited for so long had turned black and ugly.

    The leader of the gang was about my size. He

had a dirty freckled face and his two front teeth were

missing. I suppose he had lost them in a back alley

fight.  His shock of yellow sunburnt hair bobbed up

and down as he skipped and jumped to the rhythm

of the "dog boy" song. He wore a pair of cowboy

boots. They were two sizes too big for him, no doubt

handed down by an older brother.

    He stomped on my right foot. I looked down and

saw a drop of blood ooze out from under the broken

nail. It hurt like the dickens but I gritted my teeth

and walked on.

    Freckle-face pulled the ear of my little girl pup.

I heard her painful cry. That was too much. I hadn't

worked two long hard years for my pups to have

some freckle face punk pull their ears.

    Swinging the sack from my shoulder, I walked

over and set it down in a doorway. As I turned

around to face the mob, I doubled up my fist, and

took a Jack Dempsey stance.

    Freckle-face said, "So you want to fight." He came

in swinging. 

    I reached way back in Arkansas somewhere. By

the time my fist had traveled all the way down to the

Cherokee Strip, there was a lot of power behind it.

    Smack on the end of Freck's nose it exploded.

With a loud grunt he sat down in the dusty street.

Grabbing his nose in both hands, he started rocking

and moaning. I saw the blood squeeze out between

his fingers.

    Another one sailed in. He didn't want to fight. He

wanted to wrestle. He stuck a finger in my mouth. I

ground down. Shaking his hand and yelling like the

hoot owls were after him, he ran across the street.

    Another one bored in. I aimed for his eye, but

my aim was a little low. It caught him in the Adam's

apple. A sick look came over his face. Bending over,

croaking like a bullfrog that had been caught by a

water moccasin, he started going around in a circle.

    But there were too many of them. By sheer

weight and numbers, they pulled me down. I man-

aged to twist over on my stomach and buried my face

in my arms. I could feel them beating and kicking my

body.

    All at once the beating stopped. I heard loud

cries from the gang. Turning over on my back, I was

just in time to see the big marshal plant a number

twelve boot in the seat of the last kid. I just knew I

was next. I wondered if he'd kick me while I was

down.

    I lay where I was. He started toward me. I closed

my eyes. I felt a hand as big as an anvil clamp on my

shoulder. I thought, "He's going to stand me up, and

then knock me down."

    He raised me to a sitting position. His deep

friendly voice said, "Are you all right, son?"

    I opened my eyes. There was a smile on his wide

rugged face. In a choking voice, I said, "Yes, sir. I'm

all right."

    He helped me to my feet. His big hands started

brushing the dust from my clothes.

    "Those kids are pretty tough, son," he said, "but

they're really not bad. They'll grow up some day."

    "Marshal," I said, "I wouldn't have fought them,

but they pulled my pup's ears."

    He looked over to my sack. One pup had worked

its way almost out through the hole. The other one's

head and two little paws were sticking out. Both of

them were whimpering.

    A smile spread all over the big marshal's face.

"So that's what started the fight," he said.

    Walking over, he knelt down and started petting

the pups. "They're fine-looking dogs," he said.  "Where

did you get them?"

    I told him I had ordered them from Kentucky.

    "What did they cost you?" he asked.

    "Forty dollars," I said.

    He asked if my father had bought them for me.

    "No," I said. "I bought them myself."

    He asked me where I got the money.

    " I worked and saved it," I said.

    "It takes a long time to save forty dollars," he

said.

    "Yes;" I said. "It took me two years."

    "Two years!" be exclaimed.

    I saw an outraged look come over the marshal's

face. Reaching up, he pushed his hat back. He

glanced up and down the street I heard him mutter,

"There's not a one in that bunch with that kind of

grit."

    Picking up my sack, I said, "Thanks for helping

me out. I guess I'd better be heading for home.

    He asked where I lived.

    I said, "Up the river a way."

    "Well, you've got time for a bottle of pop before

you go, haven't you?"

    I started to say "No," but looking at his big

friendly smile, I smiled back and said, "I guess I

have."

    Walking into a general store, the marshal went

over to a large red box and pulled back the lid. He

asked what kind I wanted. I'd never had a bottle of

pop in my life, and didn't know what to say.

    Seeing my hesitation, he said, "This strawberry

looks pretty good."

    I said that would be fine.

    The cool pop felt wonderful to my hot dry throat.

My dark little world had brightened up again. I had

my pups, and had found a wonderful friend. I knew

that the stories I had heard about marshals weren't

true. Never again would I be scared when I saw one.

    Back out on the street, I shook hands with the

marshal, saying as I did, "If you're ever up in my part

of the county come over and see me. You can find

our place by asking at my grandfather's store."

    "Store?" he asked. "Why, the only store upriver is

about thirty miles from here."

    "Yes," I said, "that's my grandpa's place."

    He asked if I was afoot.

    "Yes," I said.

    "You won't make it tonight," he said. "Will you?"

    "No," I said. "I intend to camp out somewhere."

    I saw he was bothered.

    "I'll be all right," I said. "I'm not scared of the

mountains."

    He looked at me and at my pups. Taking off his

hat, he scratched his head. Chuckling deep down in

his barrel-like chest, he said, "Yes, I guess you will be

all right. Well, good-bye and good luck! If you're ever

in town again look me up."

    From far down the street, I looked back. The

marshal was still standing where I had left him. He

waved his hand. I waved back.

    On the outskirts of town, I stopped and picked

up a can and my provisions.

    I hadn't gone far before I realized that I had un-

dertaken a tough job. The sack became heavier and

heavier.

    For a while my pups cried and whimpered. They

had long since pulled their heads back in the sack. I

would peek in at them every once in a while. They

were doing all right.  Curled up into two little round

balls on my bundles, they were fast asleep.

    Deep in the heart of the Sparrow Hawk Moun-

tains, night overtook me. There, in a cave with a

stream close by, I put up for the night.

    Taking my pups and bundles from the gunny

sack, I used it to gather leaves to make us a bed. My

pups followed me on every trip, whimpering and

crying, tumbling and falling over sticks and rocks.

    After the bed was made I built a fire. In a can of

water from the mountain stream, I boiled three eggs.

Next, I boiled half of the remaining salt pork. Cutting

the meat up in small pieces, I fed it to my pups. Each

of us had a piece of candy for dessert. My pups en-

joyed the candy. With their needle-sharp teeth, they

gnawed and worried with it until it was melted away.

    While they were busy playing, I dragged up

several large timbers and built a fire which would last

for hours. In a short time the cave grew warm and

comfortable from the heat.  The leaves were soft, and

felt good to my tired body and sore feet. As I lay

stretched out, my pups crawled all over me. I played

with them. They would waddle up to the front of the

cave, look at the fire, and come scampering back to

roll and play in the soft leaves.

    I noticed the boy dog was much larger than the

girl dog. He was a deeper red in color. His chest was

broad and solid. His puppy muscles knotted and rip-

pled under the velvety skin. He was different in every

way. He would go closer to the fire. I saw right away

he was bold and aggressive.

    Once he went around the fire and ventured out

into the darkness. I waited to see if he would come

back. He came wobbling to the mouth of the cave, but

hesitated there. He made several attempts to come

back, but the flames were leaping higher by the min-

ute. The space between the fire and the wall of the

cave was much hotter than when he had ventured

out. Whimpering and crying, he kept trying to get

around the fire. I said not a word; just watched.

    Puppy though he was, he did something which

brought a smile to my face. Getting as close as he

could to the side of the cave, he turned his rear to the

fire. Hoping sideways, yipping at every jump, he

made it through the heat and sailed into the pile of

leaves.  He had enough. Curling up in a ball close

to me, he went to sleep.

    The girl pup was small and timid. Her legs and

body were short. Her head was small and delicate.

She must have been a runt in the litter. I didn't have

to look twice to see that what she lacked in power,

she made up in brains. She was a much smarter dog

than the boy dog, more sure of herself, more cautious.

I knew when the frail became tough, she would be

the one to unravel it.

    I knew I had a wonderful combination. In my

dogs, I had not only the power, but the brains along

with it.

    I was a tired boy. My legs were stiff, and my feet

sore and throbbing.  My shoulders were red and raw

from the weight of the sack. I covered my pups up in

the leaves and moved my body as close to them as I

could. I knew as night wore on, and the fire died

down, the chill would come. Tired but happy, I fell

asleep.

    Along in the silent hours of night, I was awak-

ened. I opened my eyes, but didn't move. I lay and

listened, trying to figure out what it was that had

aroused me. At first I thought one of my pups had

awakened me by moving and whimpering. I dis-

carded this thought for I could see that they were

both fast asleep. I decided it was my imagination

working.

    My fire had burned down, leaving only a glowing

red body of coals. The cave was dark and silent. Chill

from the night had crept in. I was on the point of get-

ting up to rebuild my fire, when I heard what had

awakened me. At first I thought it was a woman

screaming. I listened. My heart began to pound. I

could feel the strain all over my body as nerves grew

tighter and tighter.

    It came again, closer this time. The high pitch of

the scream shattered the silence of the quiet night.

The sound seemed to be all around us. It screamed its

way into the cave and rang like a blacksmith's anvil

against the rock walls. The blood froze in my veins. I

was terrified. Although I had never heard one, I knew

what it was. It was the scream of a mountain lion.

    The big cat screamed again. Leaves boiled and

stirred where my pups were. In the reflection of the

glowing coals, I could see that one was sitting up. It

was the boy dog. A leaf had become entangled in the

fuzzy hair of a floppy ear. The ear flicked. The leaf

dropped.

    Again the hellish scream ran out over the moun-

tains. Leaves flew as my pup left the bed. I jumped

up and tried to call him back.

    Reaching the mouth of the cave, he stopped.

Raising his small red head high in the air, he bawled

his challenge to the devil cat. The bawl must have

scared him as much as it had startled me. He came

tearing back. The tiny hairs on his back were stand-

ing on end.

    My father had told me lions were scared of fire. I

started throwing on more wood. I was glad I'd

dragged up a good supply while making camp.

    Hearing a noise from the bed, I looked back. The

girl pup, hearing the commotion, had gotten up and

joined the boy dog. They were sitting side by side

with their bodies stiff and rigid. Their beady little

eyes bored into the darkness beyond the cave. The

moist tips of their little black noses wiggled and

twisted as if trying to catch a scent.

    What I saw in my pups gave me courage. My

knees quit shaking and my heart stopped pounding.

    I figured the lion had scented my pups. The

more I thought about anything harming them, the

madder I got. I was ready to die for my dogs. 

    Every time the big cat screamed, the boy dog

would run to the mouth of the cave and bawl back at

him. I started whooping and throwing rocks down the

mountainside, hoping to scare the lion away. Through

the long hours of the night, I kept this up.

    The lion prowled around us, screaming  and

growling; first on the right, and then on the left, and

above and below. In the wee hours of morning, he

gave up and left to stalk other parts of the mountains.

I'm sure he thought he didn't stand a chance against

two vicious hounds and a big hunter.

Chapter 6.

      AFTER THE TERRIFYING NIGHT, THE BRIGHT MORNING

sun was a welcome sight. I fixed breakfast and soon

we were on our way. I tried to get the pups to follow

me, so as to lighten my load.   They would for a way,

and then, sitting down on their rears, they would cry

and whimper. Back in the sack they would go, with

their heads sticking out of the holes and their long

ears flopping. I moved on.

    About midday I entered country I knew. I wasn't

far from home. I dropped down out of the mountains

into the bottoms far above the place I had crossed the

river on my way to town.

    Staying on the left of the river, I followed its

course past several campgrounds, but didn't stop until

I came to the one where I had found the magazine.

Here I took the pups out of the sack and sat down in

the warm sand.

    As the afternoon wore on, I sat there deep in

thought. I was trying to think what I was going to tell

my mother and father. I could think of nothing. Fi-

nally I decided I would just tell them the truth, and

with the help of the new overalls, cloth, and candy, I

would weather the storm.

    My pups were having a big time playing with

their little front paws locked around each other. They

were growling, rolling, and chewing on one another.

They looked so cute, I laughed out loud.

    While I was watching their romping, the thought

came, "I haven't named them."

    I went over the list of names. For him, I tried

"Red," "Bugle," "Lead," name after name as before.

For her, I tried "Susie," "Mabel," "Queen," all kinds of

girl names. None seemed to fit.

    Still mumbling names over and over, I glance

up. There, carved in the white bark of a sycamore

tree, was a large heart. In the center of the heart

were two names, "Dan" and "Ann." The name

was a little larger than Ann. It was wide and bold

The scar stood out more. The name Ann was small,

neat, and even. I stared unbelieving for there were

my names. They were perfect.

    I walked over and picked up my pups. Looking

at him, I said, "Your name is Dan. I'll call you Old

Dan." Looking at her, I said, "Your name, little girl, is

Ann. I'll call you Little Ann."

    It was then I realized it was all too perfect. Here

in this fishermen's camp, I had found the magazine

and the ad. I looked over at the old sycamore log.

There I had asked God to help me get two hound

pups. There were the pups, rolling and playing in the

warm sand. I thought of the old K. C. Baking Powder

can, and the fishermen. How freely they had given

their nickels and dimes.

    I looked up again to the names carved in the

tree. Yes, it was all there like a large puzzle. Piece by

piece, each fit perfectly until the puzzle was com-

plete. It could not have happened without the help of

an unseen power.

    I stayed at the campground until dark. I knew I

had to go home but I put it off as long as I could. The

crying of the pups, telling me they were hungry

made up my mind for me. I knew the time had come

for me to face my mother and father.

   I sacked up my dogs and waded the river. As I

came out of the bottoms, I could see the lamplight

glow from the windows of our home. One of the small

yellow squares darkened for an instant. Someone had

walked across the floor. I wondered who it was. I

heard Daisy, our milk cow, moo. I was thinking so

hard of what I would say, it startled me for a second.

    Reaching the gate to our house, I stopped. I had

never thought our home very pretty, but at night it

looked different. It looked clean and neat and peace-

ful, nestled there in the foothills of the Ozarks. Yes,

on that night I was proud of our home.

    My bare feet made no noise as I crossed the

porch. With my free hand, I reached and pulled the

leather that worked the latch. Slowly the door swung

inward.

    I couldn't see my father or sisters. They were too

far to the right of me, but my mother was directly in

front of the door, sitting in her old cane-bottom

rocker, knitting.

    She looked up. I saw all the worry and grief

leave her eyes. Her head bowed down. The knitting in

her hands came up to cover her face. I stepped inside

the room. I wanted to run to her and comfort her and

tell her how sorry I was for the worry and grief I

had caused her.

    The booming voice of my father shook me from

my trance.

    He said, "Well, what have you got there?"

    Laughing, he got up from his chair and came

to me. He reached and took the sack from my shoulder.

"When we started looking for you," he said, I

went to the store and your grandpa told me all about

it. It wasn't too hard to figure out what you had

done, but you should have told us."

    I ran to my mother and, dropping to my knees, I

buried my face in her lap.

    As Mama patted my bead, I heard her say in a

quavering voice, "Oh, why didn't you tell us? Why?"

I couldn't answer.

    Between sobs, I heard the squeals of delight from

my sisters as they fondled my pups.

    I heard my father say, "What's this other stuff

you've got?"

    Without raising my head from my mother's lap,

in a choking voice I said, "One is for you, one is for

Mama, and the other is for the girls."

    I heard the snapping of string and the rattle of

paper. The oh's and ah's from my sisters were won-

derful to hear.

    Papa came over to Mama. Laying the cloth on

the arm of her chair, he said, "Well, you've been

wanting a new dress. Here is enough cloth to make

half a dozen dresses."

    Realizing that everything was forgiven, I stood

up and dried my eyes. Papa was pleased with his

new overalls. My sisters forgot the pups for the

candy. The light that was shining from my mother's

eyes, as she fingered the cheap cotton cloth, was

something I will never forget.

    Mama warmed some milk for the pups. They

drank until their little tummies were tight and round.

    As I ate, Papa sat down at the table and started

talking man-talk to me. He asked, "How are things in

town?"

    I told him it was boiling with people. The wagon

yard was full of wagons and teams.

    He asked if I had seen anyone I knew.

    I told him I hadn't, but the station-master had

asked about him.

    He asked me where I had spent the night.

    I told him about the cave in the Sparrow Hawk

Mountains.

    He said that must have been the one called "Rob-

ber's Cave."

    My youngest sister piped up, "Did you stay all

night with some robbers?"

    My oldest sister said, "Silly, that was a long time

ago. There aren't any robbers there now."

    The other one put her nickel's worth in, "Weren't

you scared?"

    "No," I said, "I wasn't scared of staying in the

cave, but I heard a mountain lion scream and it

scared me half to death."

    "Aw, they won't bother you," Papa said. "You had

a fire, didn't you?"

    I said, "Yes."

    He said, "They'll never bother you unless they are

wounded or cornered, but if they are, you had better

look out."

    Papa asked me how I liked town.

    I said I didn't like it at all, and wouldn't live

there even if they gave it to me.

    With a querying look on his face, he said, "I'm

afraid I don't understand. I thought you always want-

ed to go to town."

    "I did," I said, "but I don't any more. I don't like

the people there and couldn't understand them."

    "What was wrong with them?" he asked.

    I told him how they had stared at me, and had

even laughed and made fun of me.

    He said, "Aw, I don't think they were making fun

of you, were they?"

    "Yes, they were," I said, "and to beat it all, the

boys jumped on me and knocked me down in the

dirt. If it hadn't been for the marshal, I would have

taken a beating."

    Papa said, "So you met the marshal. What did

you think of him?"

    I told him he was a nice man. He had bought me

a bottle of soda pop."

    At the mention of soda pop, the blue eyes of my

sisters opened wide. They started firing questions at

me, wanting to know what color it was, and what it

tasted like. I told them it was strawberry and it bub-

bled and tickled when I drank it, and it made me

burp.

    The eager questions of my three little sisters had

had an effect on my father and mother.

    Papa said, "Billy, I don't want you to feel badly

about the people in town. I don't think they were

poking fun at you, anyway not like you think they

were."

    "Maybe they weren't," I said, "But I still don't

want to ever live in town. It's too crowded and you

couldn't get a breath of fresh air."

     In a sober voice my father said, "Some day you

may have to live in town. Your mother and I don't in-

tend to live in these hills all our lives. It's no place to

raise a family. A man's children should have an edu-

cation. They should get out and see the world and

meet people."

    "I don't see why we have to move to town to get

an education," I said. "Hasn't Mama taught us how to

read and write?"

    "There's more to an education than just reading

and writing," Papa said. "Much more."

    I asked him when he thought we'd be moving to

town.

    "Well, it'll be some time yet," he said. "We don't

have the money now, but I'm hoping some day we

will."

    From the stove where she was heating salt water

for my feet, Mama said in a low voice, "I'll pray every

day and night for that day to come. I don't want you

children to grow up without an education, not even

knowing what a bottle of soda pop is, or ever seeing

the inside of a schoolhouse. I don't think I could

stand that. I'll just keep praying and some day the

good Lord may answer my prayer."

    I told my mother I had seen the schoolhouse in

town. Again I had to answer a thousand questions for

my sisters. I told them it was made of red brick and

was bigger than Grandpa's store, a lot bigger. There

must have been at least a thousand kids going to

school there.

   I told all about the teeter-totters, the swings

made out of log chains, the funny-looking pipe that

ran up the side of the building, and how I had

climbed up in it and slid out like the other kids. I

didn't tell them how I came out.

   "I think that was a fire escape," Papa said.

   "Fire escape!" I said. "It looked like a slide to

me."

   "Did you notice where it made that bend up at

the top?" be asked.

   I nodded my head.

   "Well, inside the school there's a door," he said.

"If the school gets on fire, they open the door. The

children jump in the pipe and slide out to safety."

   "Boy, that's a keen way of getting out of a fire," I

said.

   "Well, it's getting late," Papa said. "We'll talk

about this some other time. We'd better get to bed as

we have a lot of work to do tomorrow."

   My pups were put in the corn crib for the night.

I covered them with shucks and kissed them good

night.

   The next day was a busy one for me. With the

hampering help of my sisters I made the little dog-

house.

   Papa cut the ends off his check lines and gave

them to me for collars. With painstaking care, deep in

the tough leather I scratched the name "Old Dan" on

one and "Little Ann" on the other. With a nail and a

rock two holes were punched in each end of the

straps. I put them around their small necks and laced

the ends together with bailing wire.

   That evening I had a talk with my mother. I told

her about praying for the two pups, about the maga-

zine and the plans I had made. I told her how hard I

had tried to find names for them and how strange it

was finding them carved in the bark of a sycamore

tree.

    With a smile on her face, she asked, "Do you be-

lieve God heard your prayer and helped you?"

    "Yes, Mama," I said. "I know He did and I'll al-

ways be thankful."

                    Chapter 7.

    IT SEEMS THAT THE WORRIES AND WANTS OF A YOUNG

boy never cease. Now that I had my pups another ob-

stacle had cropped up. This one looked absolutely im-

possible. I had to have a coonskin so I could train

them.

    With my three little traps and a bulldogged de-

termination, I set out to trap Mister Ringtail. For

three solid weeks I practically lived on the river. I

tried every trick I knew. It was no use. I just couldn't

catch the wiley old coons.

    In desperation I went to my grandfather. He

smiled as he listened to my tale of woe. "Well, we'll

have to do something about that," he said. "To train

those dogs right, you'll need that coon hide, that's for

sure. Now you watch the store while I go over to my

tool shed. I'll be right back."

    After what seemed like an eternity I saw him

coming. He was carrying a brace and bit. That was all.

    With a mischievous little smile on his face, be

said, "You wouldn't think a fellow could catch a coon

with this brace and bit, would you?"

    I thought he was kidding me and it made me

feel bad. "Why, Grandpa," I said, "you couldn't catch

a coon in a jillion years with that thing. You just don't

have any idea how smart they are."

    "Yes, you can," he said. "You bet your boots you

can. Why, when I was a boy I caught coons on top of

coons with one of these things."

    I saw Grandpa was serious and I got interested.

    He laid the brace down on the counter, picked up

a small paper sack, and filled it about half-full of

horseshoe nails.

    "Now you do everything exactly as I tell you," he

said, "and you'll catch that coon."

    "Yes, sir, Grandpa," I said, I will. I'll do anything

to catch one of them."

    "Now the first thing you'll need is some bright

objects," he said. "The best thing is bright shiny tin.

Cut out some little round pieces, a little smaller than

this bit. Do you understand?"

    I nodded my head.

    "Now," he said, "you go down along the river

where there are a lot of coon tracks. Find a good solid

log close by and bore a hole down about six inches.

Drop one of the bright pieces of tin down in the hole,

and be sure it's laying right on the bottom."

    I was all ears. I didn't want to miss one word my

grandfather said. Now and then I would glance at

him to see if he was kidding me.

    In a serious voice, he went on talking. "Now pay

close attention," he said, "because this is the main

part of the trap."

    With eyes as big as a hoot owl's, I looked and lis-

tened.

    He took four of the horseshoe nails from the sack.

With the thumb and forefinger of his left hand he

made a small "o" about the size of the bit, which was

an inch and half in diameter.

    "Now, we'll say this is the hole you bored in the

log," he said. "About an inch apart, drive these nails

in on a slant opposite each other."

    Holding one of the nails in his right hand, he

showed me the right angle.

    "The ends of the nails will enter the hole about

halfway between the top and the piece of tin," he

continued. "Leave an opening between the sharp

points big enough for a coon to get his paw through."

    He asked me if I understood.

    Again I nodded my head and moved a little

closer to him.

    "How is that going to catch a coon, Grandpa?" I

asked.

    It'll catch him all right," he said, "and it won't

fail. You see a coon is a curious little animal. Any-

thing that is bright and shiny attracts him. He will

reach in and pick it up. When his paw closes on the

bright object, it balls up, and when he starts to pull it

from the hole, the sharp ends of the nails will gouge

into his paw and he's caught."

    He looked over at me.

    "Well, what do you think of it?" he asked.

    I closed my eyes and in my mind I could see the

funnel-like entrance of the hole, and the sharp slant-

ing points of the nails. I could see the coon reaching

in for the shiny piece of metal. Naturally his paw

would be much larger when closed than it was when

he reached in. It would be impossible for it to pass

the sharp nails.

    It was all looking pretty good to me and I was on

the point of saying so, when it hit me. Why, all the

coon had to do was open his paw, drop the object,

and he was free. It all blew up then and there. I just

knew my grandfather was playing a joke on me.

    I stepped back and almost cried as I said,

"Grandpa, you're kidding me. That kind of a trap

couldn't catch a coon. Why all he'd have to do is open

his paw, drop the piece of tin, and he could pull it

from the hole."

    Grandpa started roaring with laughter. This did

make me feel bad. With tears in my eyes, I started

for the door.

   "Wait a minute," Grandpa said. I'm not kidding

you. Oh, I know I like to have my jokes, same as any

man, but I meant every word I said."

    I turned around and looked at him. He had

stopped laughing and there was a hurt expression on

his face.

    "I wasn't laughing at you," he said. "I was laugh-

ing more at myself than you. I just wanted to see if

you were smart enough to see that there was a way

the coon could free himself."

    "A fellow wouldn't have to be very smart to see

that," I said.

    Grandpa started talking seriously again. "You

know," he said, "a coon has more than one peculiarity

about him. When I was a boy I had a pet coon.

    Watching him, I saw and learned a lot of things.

    "He had a den in an old hollow tree in our front

yard. I don't know the number of times I'd have to

climb that tree and get my mother's scissors, buttons

needles, and thimble from his den. Why, he'd even

carry out our knives, forks, and spoons. Anything that

was bright and shiny, he took to his den."

    Grandpa stopped talking  for a few minutes. I

could see a faraway look in is eyes. Once again he

was living in those long-ago days. I waited in silence

for him to go on with his story.

    "One of the most peculiar things about that

coon," he said, "was his front feet. Once he wrapped

those little paws around something he would never

let go.

    My mother had an old churn. It was one of

those kind with a small hole in the lid for the dasher.

When she would get through churning, she would

take the dasher out to wash it. That crazy coon would

climb up on top of the churn, poke his little front paw

through the hole, and get a fistful of butter. The hole

was small, and when he closed his paw, he couldn't

get it back out. All he had to do was open it, drop the

butter. and he would be free, but do you think he

would? No, sir. He would carry that churn lid all over

the house, squalling and growling. Why, it took every-

one in the house to free him. I'd have to wrap him up

in a gunny sack or an old coat and pry his claws loose

from the butter. Seeing this time after time is what

gave me the idea for this trap. Once he reaches in

and gets hold of that tin, he's caught, because he will

never open his paw."

    With my confidence restored, it all sounded

pretty good to me and I was anxious to try out this

wonderful plan. I thanked him and, taking the brace

and nails, I left the store.

    By the time I reached home it was too late in the

day to start making my traps.  That night I talked the

idea over with Papa.

    "I've heard of coons being caught that way," he

said, "but I never paid much attention to it. Your

grandfather should know, though, for he was quite a

coon hunter when he was a boy."

    "From what he told me," I said, "it never fails."

    Papa asked if I wanted him to help make my

traps.

    "No," I said, "I think I can do it myself."

    I didn't sleep too well that night. I bored holes,

drove nails, and fought coons practically all night.

    Early the next morning I went to the trash pile.

As I stirred around in the rusty old cans, I thought of

another time I had searched for a can. Finally I found

the one I wanted. It was bright and shiny.

    Everything was going along just fine until Mama

caught me cutting out the circles of tin with her scis-

sors. I always swore she could find the biggest

switches of any woman in the Ozarks. That time she

overdid it. I was almost to the river before the sting-

ing stopped.

    It wasn't hard to find places for my traps. All

along the river large sycamore logs lay partly sub-

merged in the clear blue water.  On one where I could

see the muddy little tracks of the ringtails, I bored a  

hole, dropped in a piece of tin and drove my nails.

    On down the river I went, making my traps. I

stopped when I ran out of nails. Altogether I had

fourteen traps.

    That night Papa asked me how I was making

out.

    "Oh, all right," I said. I've got fourteen of them

made."

    He laughed and said, "Well, you can't ever tell

You may catch one."

    The next morning I was up with the chickens. I

took my pups with me as I just knew I'd have a big

ringtail trapped and I wanted them to see it. I was a

disappointed boy when I peeked out of a canebrake

at my last trap and didn't see a coon. All the way I

home tried to figure out what I had done wrong.

    I went to Papa. He put his thinking cap on and

thought the situation over. "Maybe you left too much

scent around when you made those traps," he said. "If

you did, It'll take a while for it to go away. Now I

wouldn't get too impatient. I'm pretty sure you'll

catch one sooner or later."

    Pa's words perked me up just like air does a

deflated inner tube. He was right. I had simply left

too much scent around my traps. All I had to do was

wait until it disappeared and I'd have my coon hide.

    Morning after morning it was the same old disap-

pointment; no coon. When a week had gone by and

still no results from my traps, I gave up. What little

patience I had was completely gone. I was firmly con-

vinced that coons didn't walk on sycamore logs any

more, and bright shiny objects had about as much ef-

fect on them as a coon hound would.

    One morning I didn't get up to run my trap line.

I stayed in bed. What was the use? It was just a

waste of time.

    When the family sat down to breakfast, I heard

my oldest sister say, "Mama, isn't Billy going to get

up for breakfast?"

    "Why, is he in his room?" Mama asked. I didn't

know. I thought he was down looking at his traps."

    I heard Papa say, "I'll go wake him up."

    He came to the door and said, "You'd better get

up, Billy. Breakfast is ready."

    "I don't want any breakfast," I said. "I'm not hun-

gry."

    Papa took one look at me and saw I Had a bad

case of the ringtail blues. He came over and sat down

on the bed.

    "What's the matter?" he asked. "You having coon

trouble?"

    "Grandpa lied to me, Papa," I said. I should've

known better. Who ever heard of anyone catching a

coon with a brace and bit and a few horseshoe nails."

    "I wouldn't say that," Papa said. "I don't think

your grandpa deliberately lied to you. Besides, I've

heard of coons being caught that way."

    "Well, I don't think I've done anything wrong," I

said. "I've done everything exactly as he said, and I

haven't caught one yet."

    "I still think it's that scent," Papa said. "You

know, someone told me, or I read it somewhere, that

it takes about a week for scent to die away. How long

has it been since you made those traps?"

    "It's been over a week," I said.

    "Well, the way I figure, it's about time for you to

catch one. Yes, sir, I wouldn't be surprised if you

came in with one any day now."

    After Papa had left the room I lay thinking of

what he had said. "Any day now." I got up and hur-

ried into my clothes.

    As soon as I was finished with breakfast, I called

my pups and lit out for the river.

    The first trap was empty. So was the second one.

That old feeling of doubt came over me again. I

thought, It's no use. I'll never catch one and I so

need the skin to train my pups."

    On the way to my third trap I had to walk

through a thick stand of wild cane. It was tough

going and my pups started whimpering. I stopped

and picked them up.

    "We'll be out of this in a few minutes," I said,

"and then you'll be all right."

    I came plowing out of the matted mass and was

right on the trap before I realized it. I was met by a

loud squall. I was so surprised I dropped the pups.

There he was, my first coon.

    He was humped up on the sycamore log, growling

and showing his teeth. He kept jerking his front paw,

which was jammed deep in the hole I had bored. He

was trapped by his own curiosity.

    I couldn't move and I felt like my wind had been

cut off. I kept hearing a noise but couldn't make out

what it was. The movement of the boy pup shook me

from my trance. The unidentified sound was his

bawling. He was trying to climb up on the log and get

to the coon.

    I yelled at him and darted in to get hold of his

collar. On seeing my movement, the coon let out an-

other squall. It scared me half to death. I froze in my

tracks and started yelling again at my pup.

    The girl pup worked around behind the coon

and climbed up on the log. I screamed at her. She

paid no attention to me.

    Digging his sharp little claws in the bark, the boy

pup made it to the top.  He didn't hesitate. Straight

down that sycamore log he charged. With teeth

bared, the coon waited. When my pup was about two

feet from him, he made a lunge. The coon just

seemed to pull my pup up under his stomach and

went to work with tooth and claw.

    The girl pup saved him. Like a cat in a corn crib,

she sneaked in from behind and sank her needle-

sharp teeth in the coon's back.

    It was too much for Old Ringy. He turned the

boy pup loose, turned around, and slapped her clear

off the log. She came running to me, yelping her head

off. I grabbed her up in my arms and looked for the

boy pup. When the coon had turned him loose, he too

had fallen off the log. He was trying to get back to the

coon. I darted in an grabbed him by the hind leg.