THE RACCOON 



The waning moon throbs into view 

 above a serrated hill-crest, then climbs 

 the sky, while the shadows draw east- 

 ward, then pales in the dawn, and when 

 it is like a blotch of white cloud in the 

 zenith, a sunrise gun welcomes day and 

 brings the coon tumbling to earth. Or 

 perhaps not a coon, but some vagrant 

 house cat is the poor reward of the long 

 watch. Then the weary hunters plod 

 homeward to breakfast and to nail their 

 trophies to the barn door. 



When the sweet acorns, dropping in 

 the frosty night, tempt the coon to a 

 later feast, there is as good sport and 

 primer peltry. In any of the nights 

 wherein this sport may be pursued, the 

 man of lazy mould and contemplative 

 mind loves best the hunt deemed unsuc- 

 cessful by the more ardent hunters, 

 when the hounds strike the trail of a 

 wandering fox and carry a tide of wild 

 music, flooding and ebbing over valley 

 and hilltop, while the indolent hunter 

 reclines at ease, smoking his pipe and 

 listening, content to let more ambitious 

 hunters stumble over ledges and wallow 

 through swamps. 



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