x A LITTLE BROTHER OF THE BEAR 291 
Nobody ever heard of a real ’coon-hunt by day- 
light. The animals are moving about then, leav- 
ing trails that, starting at the edge of the woods, 
lead into the fastnesses where they take refuge. 
Such trails would grow “cold” before noonday. 
There are dogs called ‘coon-dogs, but of no 
particular breed or pedigree. A local pack will 
consist of Rag, Tag, and Bobtail, with all of Bob- 
tail’s friends and connections. One of them is 
known to be best and takes the lead. They call 
him the trailer. The rest rush yelping after, and 
as fast as possible follow the hunters, with torches 
or lanterns or by moonlight, carrying axes and 
hatchets, guns, and antidotes for snake-bite in 
flat, black bottles. Trailer’s motley crew catch a 
sniff of the trail and disappear in the darkness 
of the brushy woods, baying, barking, yelping, 
squealing, each after its kind. After them go the 
whooping hunters, following by ear as the dogs do 
by nose, for none can use the sense of sight. They 
crash through the bushes, dodge the trees, but are 
tripped up by the roots, stumble over logs and 
rocks, bruise their legs against stumps and snags, 
flounder into holes and puddles, are whipped by 
elastic branches, scratched by briers, pierced by 
thorns, drenched with dew, and spattered with mud 
and dead leaves. The strongest get far ahead, 
and calling on to the dogs and back to their fellows, 
discourage instead of aid the breathless laggards 
by their lessening voices. 
