1 68 Next to the Ground 



February. They nest high, in hollows well 

 up the trunks of tall trees. A warm spell in 

 January wakes them to sit nodding and blink- 

 ing in the doors of their holes. But the sleep- 

 ing is evidently not to escape cold weather, 

 since they run about over light early snows, and 

 if the creeks, at their lowest in November, 

 skim over from sudden severe weather, often 

 break the ice to wash their feet, their faces, and 

 their breakfasts, thus showing themselves the 

 cleanliest among nest-making animals. Joe 

 had had more than one young coon for a pet. 

 They were pretty, intelligent, and full of cun- 

 ning tricks, but so mischievous he always ended 

 by turning them loose as soon as they were big 

 enough to shift well for themselves. 



Sharp axes, with strong and willing arms to 

 ply them, bring down very big trees in a 

 little while. By time the coon was caught or 

 the colony chopped out, the fire was blazing 

 royally and potato-roasting in order. Some- 

 times the potatoes, sweet yellow yams, came 

 out of the gunny-sack or the pockets of the 

 hunters. Oftener somebody had slipped aside 

 to plunder an outlying patch. Nobody ever 

 objected to such plundering. It was accepted 

 indeed as the sign of good neighborhood — 

 besides the plundered knew their potatoes 

 might come back to them in the shape of a 

 fat possum. The yams were dumped right 



