When a week had gone by and still no results from my traps, I gave up.
What little patience I had was completely gone. I was firmly convinced that coons didn’t walk on sycamore logs any more,
and bright shiny objects had about as much effect on them as a coon hound would.
One morning I didn’t get up to run my trap line. I stayed in bed. What was the use? It was just a waste of time.
When the family sat down to breakfast, I heard my oldest sister say, “Mama, isn’t Billy going to get up for breakfast?”
“Why, is he in his room?” Mama asked. “I didn’t know. I thought he was down looking at his traps.”
I heard Papa say, “I’ll go wake him up.” He came to the door and said, “You’d better get up, Billy.
Breakfast is ready.” “I don’t want any breakfast,” I said. “I’m not hungry.”
Papa took one look at me and saw I had a bad case of the ringtail blues.
He came over and sat down on the bed. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “You having coon trouble?”
“Grandpa lied to me, Papa,” I said. “I should’ve known better.
Who ever heard of anyone catching a coon with a brace and bit and a few horseshoe nails.”
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