Thinking his question over, I said, “You know, sometimes when I am hunting,
away back in the mountains or down on the river, I sing a little song I made up myself.
One of the verses goes like this: You can swim the river, Old Mister Ringtail, And play your tricks out one by one.
It won’t do any good, Old Mister Ringtail, My Little Ann knows every one.
The hunters roared with laughter. Some slapped me on the back.
Tired and sleepy, but with a smile on my face, I went off to bed.
The next morning two blue tick hounds, from the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee, came out in the lead with three big coons to their credit.
The other four sets were eliminated. The following morning all five sets of dogs were eliminated.
None had even tied the blue ticks, although two sets had gotten two coons, and one of these had treed a third one in a bluff.
That day, while eating dinner, my grandfather asked me if my dogs had ever treed three coons in one night.
I said, “Yes, four different times, but that’s all.” “Where do you think we should hunt on our night?” Papa asked.
I told him if we could get our judge to go with us in the buggy,
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