Then I saw it, an old K. C. Baking Powder can. It was perfect, long and slender, with a good tight lid.
I took it down to the creek and scrubbed it with sand until it was bright and new-looking.
I dropped the twenty-three cents in the can. The coins looked so small lying there on the shiny bottom, but to me it was a good start.
With my finger, I tried to measure how full it would be with fifty dollars in it.
Next, I went to the barn and up in the loft. Far back over the hay and up under the eaves, I hid my can.
I had a start toward making my dreams come true—twenty-three cents.
I had a good bank, safe from the rats and from the rain and snow.
All through that summer I worked like a beaver. In the small creek that wormed its way down through our fields, I caught crawfish with my bare hands.
I trapped minnows with an old screen-wire trap I made myself, baited with yellow corn bread from my mother’s kitchen.
These were sold to the fishermen, along with fresh vegetables and roasting ears.
I tore my way through the blackberry patches until my hands and feet were scratched raw and red from the thorns.
I tramped the hills seeking out the huckleberry bushes. My grandfather paid me ten cents a bucket for my berries.
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