“A fellow wouldn’t have to be very smart to see that,” I said.
Grandpa started talking seriously again. “You know,” he said, “a coon has more than one peculiarity about him.
When I was a boy I had a pet coon. By watching him, I saw and learned a lot of things.
He had a den in an old hollow tree in our front yard.
I don’t know the number of times I’d have to climb that tree and get my mother’s scissors, buttons, needles, and thimble from his den.
Why, he’d even carry out our knives, forks, and spoons. Anything that was bright and shiny, he took to his den.
Grandpa stopped talking for a few minutes. I could see a faraway look in his eyes.
Once again he was living in those long-ago days. I waited in silence for him to go on with his story.
One of the most peculiar things about that coon,” he said, “was his front feet.
Once he wrapped those little paws around something he would never let go.
My mother had an old churn. It was one of those kind with a small hole in the lid for the dasher.
When she would get through churning, she would take the dasher out to wash it.
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