He was nervous and wouldn’t let anyone pet him. He would gobble down his milk and then scoot for the timber.
Once I decided to make friends with him because I felt bad about catching him in my traps.
I reached out my hand to rub his back. He swelled up like a sitting hen.
His eyeballs got all green, and he growled way down deep.
He spat at me, and drew back his paw like he was going to knock my head off.
I decided I’d better leave him alone. In no time at all I cleaned out the rats.
Then something bad happened. I caught one of Mama’s prize hens.
I got one of those “young man peach tree” switchings over that.
Papa told me to go down in the canebrakes back of our fields and trap.
This opened up all kinds of new wonders. I caught opossums, skunks, rabbits, and squirrels.
Papa showed me how to skin my game. In neat little rows I tacked the hides on the smokehouse wall.
I’d stand for hours and admire my magnificent trophies.
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