The fishermen were wonderful, as true sportsmen are.
They seemed to sense the urgency in my voice and always bought my wares.
However, many was the time I’d find my vegetables left in the abandoned camp.
There never was a set price. Anything they offered was good enough for me.
A year passed. I was twelve. I was over the halfway mark. I had twenty-seven dollars and forty-six cents.
My spirits soared. I worked harder. Another year crawled slowly by, and then the great day came.
The long hard grind was over. I had it—my fifty dollars! I cried as I counted it over and over.
As I set the can back in the shadowy eaves of the barn, it seemed to glow with a radiant whiteness I had never seen before.
Perhaps it was all imagination. I don’t know.
Lying back in the soft hay, I folded my hands behind my head, closed my eyes, and let my mind wander back over the two long years.
I thought of the fishermen, the blackberry patches, and the huckleberry hills.
I thought of the prayer I had said when I asked God to help me get two hound pups.
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