
A NEW: COON. 
kR. N. SAUNDERS. 
Three hunters learned in woodcraft sat 
on the dyke. 
Ezry, in whose eyes the tears always 
stood, even in his happier moods, when 
Fortune smiled and his traps were full. 
Jack, small and wiry. 
Harm, bent with rheumatism and burned 
by the sun. 
Three shot guns lay uncaressed across 
3 pairs of knees, while the shovels stuck 
carelessly in the bank were witness to prove 
that toil had been endured nor were the 3 
empty game bags needed to assert that the 
toil had been unrewarded. 
The dyke Timothy Hayes had thrown 
up to protect 2 sides of his lowland farm 
from the occasional overflow of the Klaver- 
rachen. In consequence of this protective 
policy of Hayes, the creek had decided not 
to play in his yard any more, and from year 
to year had slowly but surely receded, and 
in retaliation had thrown up behind it a 
collection of sand dunes and rubbish in 
many places several rods wide. On this 
uncultivated strip a wood of willows, maples 
and buttonballs had sprung up, while a 
dense growth of fire weeds and wild par- 
snips made it a paradise for muskrats and 
woodchucks. ‘ 
These animals tormented farmer Hayes 
by weakening his dyke with their burrows 
and by their inroads on his crops. He was 
a kind hearted old fellow and seldom com- 
plained, and if the truth be told he enjoyed 
the society of his wild tenants, for he would 
spend hours watching them and studying 
their habits, as he lay concealed in the shade 
behind a tree on the creek bank. 
About 3 weeks before an old and wise 
raccoon, weary of family cares, had decided, 
in her home on Becraft, that travel would 
refresh her and be an education for her 3 
cubs. So she set out on a journey which 
ended where picking was prime. 
Farmer Hayes was wild over the waste- 
ful antics of the newcomer, which with her 
3 sleek hopefuls had soon ruined a large 
part of a fine crop of late corn. His little 
dog, Snap, that kept the woodchucks in 
bounds, was unable to intimidate the new- 
comers, learning to his sorrow that a coon 
is not a “ chuck,” as a cub forced him to 
play horse by riding him out of the under- 
brush at their very first encounter. The 
- cub, being inexperienced and doubtless en- 
joying his first trial as an equestrian, went 
too far. His line of retreat was cut off by 
a farm hand who finished him with a fork. 
: The hunters pronounced the carcass 
giniwine,”’ and then began the quest for 
the mother and the little brothers of the 
99 
deceased; but the old lady proved too cun- 
ning and boldly carried on her depreda- 
tions, evading her pursuers by all sorts of 
strategic moves. The footprints, like those 
of a baby, and the newly husked ears of 
corn proved that Mrs. Coon and her chil- 
dren were still in the locality. 
One afternoon when farmer Hayes was 
walking near the cornfield, a little striped 
gray animal shot out of the field and ran 
swiftly into a hole in the dyke. Hastily 
filling this with stones and sods, the farmer 
sent for the hunters. 
The afternoon sun had enough of the 
ViTOGmOMmstiimimermstill Ment roma Caton tile 
conditions of the occasion. 
They soon struck fresh ground that 
showed that the coon was digging for dear 
life, and this added a zest to the toil. 
Harm’s old hound, Sport, lay sleeping 
disinterestedly in the weeds, and the 3 won- 
dered at his indifference, as they paused to 
mop the perspiration from their brows. 
At last they could hear the coon as she bit 
and clawed at the roots which hindered the 
progress of her tunnel. Ezry now fixed a 
long alder, splitting it at the end, and jab- 
bing this improvised instrument down into 
the hole he twisted it several times and was 
rewarded by bringing out a fine bunch of 
gray fur that made all eyes dance and all 
mouths chorus “ Coon’s hair, by jingo!” 
“We've got her this time sure, old man.” 
Ezry triumphantly shouted to farmer Hayes 
—‘ She’s chawed her last ear of corn. Now 
then, gen’lemen, while she’s tuggin’ at 
them roots well make a little fire and 
smoke her ont.” 
According to orders, Harm stood back 
with his breech loader in readiness, while 
the old hound, aroused by the excitement 
and the change of tactics, arose with a 
yawn and a “ zip” and sat down on the 
dyke. With his ears raised inquiringly, he 
took a long steady look into the hole, twist- 
ing his nose disdainfully as he faintly sniffed 
once or twice: then stretching away up on 
his tip toes while he yawned again, he de- 
liberately turned his back on the operations 
and gazed off across the fields, while a half- 
humorous expression came over his intel- 
ligent features. No one liked his actions— 
they showed a lack of politeness. 
The fire was kindled, the damp weeds 
piled on, and the smoke driven down into 
the hole, from which issued the most fright- 
ful coughing—but no coon. 
““ She’s dead game,” said Jack, and every- 
one was too much absorbed to note the pos- 
sible significance of his words. 
Ezry objected to a further “ fumygatin’ ” 

