I was so stiff and sore he had to help me to the buggy seat.
I called to my dogs. Little Ann came, but not willingly. Old Dan refused to leave the tree.
“Come on, boy,” I coaxed. “Let’s go home and get something to eat. We’ll come back tomorrow.”
He bowed his head and looked the other way. “Come on,” I scolded, “we can’t sit here all night.”
This hurt his feelings. He walked around behind the big sycamore and hid.
“Well, I’ll be darned,” Grandpa said as he jumped down from the buggy.
“He knows that coon’s there and he doesn’t want to leave it. You’ve got a coon hound there and I mean a good one.”
He picked Old Dan up in his arms and set him in the buggy.
All the way home I had to hold on to his collar to keep him from jumping out and going back to the tree.
As our buggy wound its way up through the bottoms, Grandpa started talking.
“You know, Billy,” he said, “about this tree-chopping of yours, I think it’s all right.
In fact, I think it would be a good thing if all young boys had to cut down a big tree like that once in their life.
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