Mama told us children a story about a big giant that lived in the mountains and ate little children that were lost.
Right away I started looking for another name. One day, while lying in the warm sun staring at its magnificent beauty, I found the perfect name.
From that day on, it was called “the big tree.” I named the bottoms around it “the big tree bottoms.”
Walking around it, and using the moon as a light, I started looking for the coon.
High up in the top I saw a hollow in the end of a broken limb. I figured that that was the coon’s den.
I could climb almost any tree I had ever seen but I knew I could never climb the big sycamore and it would take days to chop it down.
There had been very little hope from the beginning, but on seeing the hollow I gave up.
“Come on,” I said to my dogs. “There’s nothing I can do. We’ll go someplace else and find another coon.”
I turned to walk away. My hounds made no move to follow. They started whining.
Old Dan reared up, placed his front paws on the trunk, and started bawling.
“I know he’s there,” I said, “but there’s nothing I can do.”
I can’t climb it. Why it’s sixty feet up to the first limb and it would take me a month to cut it down.
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