“Well, it was a long time ago, before I owned the fowls,” said Clinton.
“It isn’t many months since Mr. White caught a skunk in the act of killing his fowls,” added Mr. Davenport.
“But they have never disturbed our fowls since I owned them, and that is over five years,” suggested Clinton.
“And there is a good reason for that; you have always kept your fowls well secured against wild animals, until this summer,” replied his father.
This was true. Clinton was at first very particular to shut up the poultry at night, so that no animal could get at them; but their exemption from attack for several years had gradually allayed all fears on this score, and of late he had not properly secured his charge from the midnight attacks of their natural enemies.
“Well,” said Clinton, “I don’t believe it was a skunk; I think it was a fox or a wild-cat, or it may have been a ’coon. I mean to borrow Mr. Preston’s trap, and see if I can’t catch him, to-night.”
“I’ll give you fifty cents for his skin, if you catch a ’coon, a wild-cat, or a fox,” said his father, as he turned away from the scene to resume his morning work.
“Agreed; and you shall have it for nothing, if it’s a skunk,” replied Clinton, with a laugh.
“No, I thank you,—I shan’t accept that offer,” replied his father.
“Come, Annie, I wouldn’t look at the poor things any longer,” said Mrs. Davenport, leading her little daughter away.