I was tearing my way through some elders when the voices of my dogs stopped.
Holding my breath, I stood still and waited. Then it came, the long-drawn-out bawl of the tree bark.
My little hounds had done it. They had treed their first coon.
When I came to them and saw what they had done I was speechless.
I groaned and closed my eyes. I didn’t want to believe it.
There were a lot of big sycamores in the bottoms but the one in which my dogs had treed was the giant of them all.
While prowling the woods, I had seen the big tree many times.
I had always stopped and admired it. Like a king in his own domain, it towered far above the smaller trees.
It had taken me quite a while to find a name suitable for the big sycamore.
For a while I had called it “the chicken tree.” In some ways it had reminded me of a mother hen hovering over her young in a rainstorm.
Its huge limbs spread out over the small birch, ash, box elder, and water oak as if it alone were their protector.
Next, I named it “the giant.” That name didn’t last long.
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