From what he told me,” I said, “it never fails.” Papa asked if I wanted him to help make my traps.
“No,” I said, “I think I can do it myself.” I didn’t sleep too well that night.
I bored holes, drove nails, and fought coons practically all night.
Early the next morning I went to the trash pile. As I stirred around in the rusty old cans, I thought of another time I had searched for a can.
Finally I found the one I wanted. It was bright and shiny.
Everything was going along just fine until Mama caught me cutting out the circles of tin with her scissors.
I always swore she could find the biggest switches of any woman in the Ozarks.
That time she overdid it. I was almost to the river before the stinging stopped.
It wasn’t hard to find places for my traps. All along the river large sycamore logs lay partly submerged in the clear blue water.
On one where I could see the muddy little tracks of the ringtails, I bored a hole, dropped in a piece of tin, and drove my nails.
On down the river I went, making my traps. I stopped when I ran out of nails. Altogether I had fourteen traps.
That night Papa asked me how I was making out. “Oh, all right,” I said. “I’ve got fourteen of them made.”
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