That crazy coon would climb up on top of the churn, poke his little front paw through the hole, and get a fistful of butter.
The hole was small, and when he closed his paw, he couldn’t get it back out.
All he had to do was open it, drop the butter, and he would be free, but do you think he would?
No, sir. He would carry that churn lid all over the house, squalling and growling.
Why, it took everyone in the house to free him. I’d have to wrap him up in a gunny sack or an old coat and pry his claws loose from the butter.
Seeing this time after time is what gave me the idea for this trap.
Once he reaches in and gets hold of that tin, he’s caught, because he will never open his paw.
With my confidence restored, it all sounded pretty good to me and I was anxious to try out this wonderful plan.
I thanked him and, taking the brace and nails, I left the store.
By the time I reached home it was too late in the day to start making my traps.
That night I talked the idea over with Papa. “I’ve heard of coons being caught that way,” he said, “but I never paid much attention to it.
Your grandfather should know, though, for he was quite a coon hunter when he was a boy.”
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