Way-Atcha, the Coon-Raccoon 
like mother, lifting up a double handful to smell, 
just like mother, clutching at some worthless root 
that seemed to wriggle, then sputtering it out with 
a growl, just like father. It was fun, every bit of it, 
and when at length his active little fingers clutched 
the unmistakable smooth and wriggly body of a 
frog. that was hiding in the mud, Way-atcha got 
such a thrill of joy that all the hair on his back stood 
up, and he gave the warwhoop of the Coon-Rac- 
coon, which is nothing more than a growl and a snort 
all mixed up together. It was a moment of tri- 
umph, but Way-atcha did not forget the first lesson, 
and that frog was washed as clean as water could 
make him before the hunter had his feast. 
This was intensely exciting, there was limitless 
joy in view, but a sudden noise from father changed 
it all. He had been scouting far down the river 
bank while the youngsters played along the creek 
near mother. Now he gave a signal that mother 
knew too well, a low puff, like “Foof,” followed 
by a deep grunt. Mother called the youngsters 
with a low grunting. They knew nothing at all 
of what it was about, but the sense of alarm had 
spread instantly among them, and a minute or 
two later there was a regular procession of furry 
balls climbing the great maple, following the two 
cracks, right up to tumble into their comfortable bed. 
Ry 
