The coon-hunting season is on again, and almost every night one can hear the barking of coon dogs. There has been a change in the method of procedure of coon hunters, however. The ringing of the axes no longer disturbs the stillness, and you never hear at midnight the crash of a falling tree. Trees are now worth more than many coonskins, and the farmer who heard coon hunters chopping in his woods would not only make a roar, but would probably chase off the hunters with a fence stake. The present method is to hunt on moonlight nights and try to bring down the coons with a rifle. I am told that if the barrel is whitened with chalk it is possible to sight the gun fairly accurately. If the coon happens to be treed where it is not too hard to get at, the hunter straps on telephone pole climbers and shins up the tree. But with all these improvements coon hunting is not what it used to be—chiefly because the farmers do not raise as many melons as they used to. I remember—but no, I guess I'll not tell about it.
The husking was varied by an exciting rat hunt. Under one of the shocks there was a surprising pile of earth, fully two feet high. It was evidently the home of a family of rats, and as these creatures have no redeeming features it was decided to destroy them. They are filthy, destructive, disease-bearing vermin, and to kill them is a public service. As the ground was mellow, it was easy to follow the winding tunnels that went out on every side. These tunnels had little chambers every yard or two, evidently to enable the rats to turn round if pursued, but I was surprised to find that every tunnel ended without a hole leading to the surface. I thought that every creature that burrows in the earth has a back door as well as a front door to his home, but these rats had only one hole for going in or out. They evidently depended for safety on their intricate system of tunnels, and they had a system that must have equalled the one in the Portland estates in England or the kind you read about in old romances. The tunnels were so near the surface that they broke through when stepped on, and it was not hard to follow them and throw them open with a fork-handle. After yards of tunnels had been opened rats began to pop out—but there is no need describing the carnage. One old rat and twelve that were partly grown were rooted out and killed. It was an unpleasant duty, but a duty nevertheless. If left to themselves those rats would have eaten and destroyed as much corn as several hogs. While it is a scientific fact that man and the rats have discovered and conquered the world together there is war between them, and there will be war until the end of time.
After the day's husking comes the job of binding up the cornstalks and when the stalks are dry it is just about the meannest job imaginable. You pick out the softest, juiciest-looking stalk you can find, bend it between the joints and proceed to tie up an armful of stalks that scratch your wrists and face, and just as you are starting to twist the ends into a knot the wretched thing breaks and you have to start the whole performance over again. After this has happened a few times your temper begins to slip cogs and your language becomes "painful and frequent and free." Of course it had the advantage of making me forget how stiff my joints were from sitting on the cold ground, and before I knew it I was warm clean through, but that kind of warmth is not the kind of warmth a fellow wants. I grumbled so much about this feature of the husking that a man of experience asked why I did not use binder twine. That solved the difficulty, and the husking is being done in a proper frame of mind. Although the yield is not remarkable for quantity, the ears are large and the grain is sound.
Oct. 8.—There is a pear tree that is hemmed in on one side by an apple tree and on the other by an oak. The result is that the lower branches have died and fallen off and the fruit grows from thirty to forty feet above the ground. For some time past the children had been picking up the wind-falls, ripening them in the bureau drawers, and asking when I was going to pick the pears. When it comes to lofty and fancy climbing I have to do it myself. The youngsters do enough climbing to tear their clothes, but that is all. When we got ready to pick the apples I decided to begin by picking the pears. I have a weakness for these particular pears that made me want to harvest them. This was the only kind on the farm when I was a boy and I have never found others quite like them. They are not of any of the standard varieties, and as they are not good keepers or particularly good for preserves they are not in favour with thrifty people. But as eating pears they are unrivalled. When picked at the right time and hidden in a hay-mow for a few weeks they used to be as delicious to a predatory small boy as hoarded beechnuts to a red squirrel. Even when ripened among the clothes in a bureau drawer they are good enough, though they lack the tang of stolen fruit. This year there was about a bushel on the tree in spite of the spring frost that destroyed most of the blossoms. The longest ladder on the place barely reached to the first branches, but when I had pulled myself up among the fruit I was greatly rewarded. About the first thing that caught my eye was a big, perfect pear lying in a little nest of twigs where several branches were crossing one another. It had evidently ripened early, fallen into this hiding place, and then mellowed in the sun and wind. As I picked it up my thumb made a dent in its soft flesh. A moment later I had sunk my teeth in its rosy, juicy side and my palate was quivering with joy. It had the real hay-mow flavour and after the first taste I got the stolen fruit tang, for a voice floated up from below,
"Aw, gimme a bite!"
"All right! Come up and get it!" I exulted. Making myself comfortable in a fork of the tree I proceeded with my little banquet, and before it was done I was derisively singing an old schoolboy refrain:
"Billy! Dey ain't goin' to be no core!"
Feeling greatly refreshed I then picked the pears.
It was no easy job, for the top branches were long and slim, and as I swung around and took chances I felt that Calverly knew what he was talking about when he described the monkeys as clinging,