PAGE 5
The Coon Dog
by
“Poor Tiger! poor Tiger!” said the good-natured sportsman, when somebody said that the dog did n’t act as if he were much used to being out by night. “He ‘ll be all right when he once gets track of the coon.” But when they were fairly in the woods, Tiger’s distress was perfectly genuine. The long rays of light from the old-fashioned lanterns of pierced tin went wheeling round and round, making a tall ghost of every tree, and strange shadows went darting in and out behind the pines. The woods were like an interminable pillared room where the darkness made a high ceiling. The clean frosty smell of the open fields was changed for a warmer air, damp with the heavy odor of moss and fallen leaves. There was something wild and delicious in the forest in that hour of night. The men and boys tramped on silently in single file, as if they followed the flickering light instead of carrying it. The dog fell back by instinct, as did his companions, into the easy familiarity of forest life. He ran beside them, and watched eagerly as they chose a safe place to leave a coat or two and a basket. He seemed to be an affectionate dog, now that he had made acquaintance with his masters.
“Seems to me he don’t exactly know what he ‘s about,” said one of the York boys scornfully; “we must have struck that coon’s track somewhere, comin’ in.”
“We ‘ll get through talkin’, an’ heap up a little somethin’ for a fire, if you ‘ll turn to and help,” said his father. “I ‘ve always noticed that nobody can give so much good advice about a piece o’ work as a new hand. When you ‘ve treed as many coons as your Uncle Brown an’ me, you won’t feel so certain. Isaac, you be the one to take the dog up round the ledge, there. He ‘ll scent the coon quick enough then. We ‘ll ‘tend to this part o’ the business.”
“You may come too, John Henry,” said the indulgent father, and they set off together silently with the coon dog. He followed well enough now; his tail and ears were drooping even more than usual, but he whimpered along as bravely as he could, much excited, at John Henry’s heels, like one of those great soldiers who are all unnerved until the battle is well begun.
A minute later the father and son came hurrying back, breathless, and stumbling over roots and bushes. The fire was already lighted, and sending a great glow higher and higher among the trees.
“He’s off! He ‘s struck a track! He was off like a major!” wheezed Mr. Isaac Brown.
“Which way ‘d he go?” asked everybody.
“Right out toward the fields. Like’s not the old fellow was just starting after more of our fowls. I ‘m glad we come early,–he can’t have got far yet. We can’t do nothin’ but wait now, boys. I ‘ll set right down here.”
“Soon as the coon trees, you ‘ll hear the dog sing, now I tell you!” said John York, with great enthusiasm. “That night your father an’ me got those four busters we ‘ve told you about, they come right back here to the ledge. I don’t know but they will now. ‘T was a dreadful cold night, I know. We did n’t get home till past three o’clock in the mornin’, either. You remember, don’t you, Isaac?”
“I do,” said Isaac. “How old Rover worked that night! Could n’t see out of his eyes, nor hardly wag his clever old tail, for two days; thorns in both his fore paws, and the last coon took a piece right out of his off shoulder.”
“Why did n’t you let Rover come tonight, father?” asked the younger boy. “I think he knew somethin’ was up. He was jumpin’ round at a great rate when I come out of the yard.”