If there is one sweetmeat sweeter than all 

 others to a coon, it is a frog. It was not mere 

 qhance that Mux was born in the edge of the 

 Bear Swamp, close to the wide marshes that ran 

 out to the river. This was the great country of 

 the frogs — the milk-and-honey country to the 

 ring-tailed family in the hollow gum. But Mux 

 had never tasted frog. He had not been weaned 

 when I kidnapped him. One day, wishing to 

 see if he knew what a frog was, I carelessly 

 offered him a big spotted fellow that I had 

 caught in the meadow. 



Did he know a frog? He fairly snatched the 

 poor thing from me, killed it, and started around 

 the cage with it in his mouth, dancing like a 

 cannibal. His long, serious face was more 

 thoughtful and solemn, however, than usual. I 

 was puzzled. I had heard of dancing at fune- 

 rals. Either this was such a dance, or else some 

 wild orgy to propitiate the spirits that preside 

 over the destiny of coons. 



Throughout this gruesome rite Mux held the 

 frog in his mouth, and I watched, expecting, 

 hoping every moment that he would swallow it. 

 Suddenly he stopped, sat down by his tub, 



[IIG] 



