A COON HUNT IN PENNSYLVANIA. 



CHAS. H. WEAVER. 



One warm afternoon of March, '96, 

 George and I stood at the foot of what 

 had once been a lordly black oak, 3 miles 

 from Bethlehem, Pa. The tree was 2 feet 

 in diameter and much decayed, only 30 feet 

 of it still standing. It was without limbs, 

 and near the top was a large hole. As we 

 looked at the hole I remarked that it might 

 be worth a climb. A few minutes later I 

 was at the top, peering down into the hol- 

 low. Two feet from the mouth lay a large, 

 snarling raccoon. Believing there were 

 young with the big one, I asked George to 

 bring me a chunk of wood to choke the 

 opening above our game, and determined 

 to capture them alive. George brought 

 part of a stump, which I carried up and 

 used as a plug at the opening. 



With my little hatchet I cut a hole at the 

 level of the coon, making it only wide 

 enough to admit my hands. However, I 

 took no liberties. I had a healthy regard 

 for the snarling prisoner inside, who, with 

 gaping mouth and shiny teeth, watched 

 my motions. I soon mgde out the presence 

 of 2 young, hairless and squirming, nestled 

 under her. George gave me much encour- 

 agement with his mouth, but declined any 

 active participation in the capture, leaving 

 all the glory to me. 



Introducing through the hole a strap 

 with a noose I managed, after many fail- 

 ures, to lasso the coon, catching her around 



the neck. To do this, clinging to that half 

 decayed bark, and to hold her while I 

 climbed down, using only one hand for 

 clinging and my climbers for descending, 

 was no easy job, for I was obliged to hold 

 her at arm's length from me and from the 

 tree ; but it was at last safely accomplished. 



I crowded her, half strangled, into a bag, 

 which we tied, and we then had her safe 

 for carrying. The baby coons I tucked into 

 my coat to keep them snug and warm. 



We placed the little family in a tin-lined 

 box, where the babies soon became inter- 

 esting pets, tame nd contented; but the 

 mother never lost her ferocity. She began 

 a course of daily baths for her babies 

 when they were 2 months old. I some- 

 times feared she would drown them in her 

 earnestness, but she never did. All her 

 food she washed before she would eat it, 

 even rolling unbroken eggs about in the 

 water before beginning her feast on them.* 



After keeping the coons a few weeks I 

 gave them to the late Dr. Detweiler, of 

 Bethlehem. For a time they furnished 

 him much amusement, but one morning 

 they got out of their cage. One ate some 

 soap lye in the next room and died there. 

 The others disappeared. 



*The coon always washes his food, even if it be 

 obtained from the water, as in the case of craw- 

 fishes. If food be given him in captivity when 

 water is not at hand, he goes through the motions 

 of washing, then wiping it on his fur. — Editor. 



IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN. 



EDWARD BOURNE. 



Is there aught so annoying or less worth 

 enjoying, 

 While you're overhauling your last sum- 

 mer's load, 

 Mid direst confusion and hopeless profu- 

 sion, 

 In trunks and tackle boxes where every- 

 thing's stowed ; 

 While you ransack and rummage your last 

 season's dunnage, 

 And work like a beaver in spite of your 

 gout, 

 To find in the lining of your rain coat re- 

 clining 

 The hooks you can swear would have 

 saved that big trout? 

 185 



