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. 



