SERGEANT FRANK NEAVILLE. 265 



is a pawpaw grove down by the river. They'll be ripe 

 now in a few days, and we'll make up a party and go 

 'coon hunting. 'Coons like 'em, and you can always 

 start one in the pawpaws when they're ripe." 



I had seen the trees when out after wild plums, which 

 were plenty in that part of Wisconsin, and were large and 

 excellent, but the pawpaws were merely wondered at 

 and passed. I think there was a dozen in our party when 

 we started for 'coons on a moonlight night. Except 

 Frank and Henry, Charley Guyon, John Clark and Bill 

 Patterson, the names are forgotten. Half a dozen dogs, 

 some of no particular breed and others that seemed to be 

 of all breeds mixed without regard to proportion, went 

 along as a necessary part of the outfit. 



I tasted my first pawpaw, but have yet to taste the 

 second one. The others ate them with a relish. All I 

 remember is that the fruit was shaped something like a 

 banana, but shorter, and had the taste of a raw potato 

 ground into a paste; its seeds were as large as a lima 

 bean. Of course I might learn to like them, but Potosi 

 boys acquired the taste in infancy. 



Soon the dogs remarked that a 'coon had gone off, 

 because it did not care to eat pawpaws while such a noisy 

 crowd invaded the woods ; for in hunting 'coons the more 

 noise the better, as it puts them afoot, while if you are 

 still they will squat on a limb at your approach. The 

 'coon soon treed, and hid so that it could not be shot. 

 John Clark's axe on one side and Henry Neaville's on 

 the other soon dropped the tree, and the dogs made a 

 rush. We had a fire started to light up the conflict, but 

 couldn't see a thing in that tree top but a mass of fighting 

 dogs. Cheers and yells from the men encouraged the 

 dogs. "Coin, Tige!" "Shake him up, Skip!" "Hang 

 to him, Buster!" and such cries cheered on the dogs. 



