There was only one thing wrong. I didn’t have a big coonskin to add to my collection.
I couldn’t trap old Mister Ringtail. He was too smart for me.
He’d steal the bait from the traps, spring the triggers, and sometimes even turn them over.
Once I found a small stick standing upright in one of my traps.
I showed it to Papa. He laughed and said the stick must have fallen from a tree.
It made no difference what Papa said. I was firmly convinced that a smart old coon had deliberately poked that stick in my trap.
The traps helped my dog-wanting considerably, but like a new toy, the newness wore off and I was right back where I started from.
Only this time it was worse, much worse. I had been exposed to the feel of wildlife.
I started pestering Mama again. She said, “Oh, no! Not that again.
I thought you’d be satisfied with the traps. No, Billy, I don’t want to hear any more about hounds.”
I knew Mama meant what she said. This broke my heart.
I decided I’d leave home. I sneaked out a quart jar of peaches, some cold corn bread, and a few onions, and started up the hollow back of our house.
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