Besides, a hunter needed a gun, and that was one thing I couldn’t have, not until I was twenty-one anyway.
I couldn’t understand it. There I was sitting right in the middle of the finest hunting country in the world and I didn’t even have a dog.
Our home was in a beautiful valley far back in the rugged Ozarks. The country was new and sparsely settled.
The land we lived on was Cherokee land, allotted to my mother because of the Cherokee blood that flowed in her veins.
It lay in a strip from the foothills of the mountains to the banks of the Illinois River in northeastern Oklahoma.
The land was rich, black, and fertile. Papa said it would grow hair on a crosscut saw.
He was the first man to stick the cold steel point of a turning plow into the virgin soil. Mama had picked the spot for our log house.
It nestled at the edge of the foothills in the mouth of a small canyon, and was surrounded by a grove of huge red oaks.
Behind our house one could see miles and miles of the mighty Ozarks.
In the spring the aromatic scent of wild flowers, redbuds, papaws, and dogwoods,
drifting on the wind currents, spread over the valley and around our home.
Below our fields, twisting and winding, ran the clear blue waters of the Illinois River.
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