and the hooting and laughing of the owls gave an added thrill. We skirted all the cornfields before letting the dog go. That was our best chance to find a fresh coon track.
Our excuse for hunting the raccoon was that he raided the hen-coops, scooped out the insides of the pumpkins, and did considerable damage to other vegetables. Of course, Mr. Raccoon had to live, but we did not think of that.
If we were lucky enough to tree a coon, then the fun began. He had to be either shaken or frightened out of the tree, or perhaps the tree had to be cut down. A very wasteful performance, as one good tree is worth many coonskins, or even Mr. Raccoon himself, delicious as he is, baked with sweet potatoes and served in the most approved manner.
If we were unlucky and did not start a coon, we made the best of it by going to a near-by cornfield and picking some corn that was still in the milk. This we would roast around a blazing campfire, where we would stay until the small hours of the morning, eating roast corn and ripe apples and telling stories.
