the 'coon. His years of persecution by hunting has given him a wisdom in eluding a dog very near to reasoning power. Many a dog has found out to his sorrow after a chase of a couple of miles that the coon has fooled him, and lives to give him another chase.

Many a good coon story can the pioneers tell of the times when coon were plentiful. When one was treed it was fun to cut the tree down; and it generally came down, even if the man who owned the woods was watching. That was often not the least part of the sport. Now all this is changed and coon are so scarce that you are fortunate to catch one in two or three hunts. There are a few den trees left that dare not now be cut down, and the animals know where they are safe.

There are times, too, when they will not travel for several days ahead of an approaching storm. As one coon hunter remarked, "They are a wise weather bureau."

It is often a hard matter to distinguish the difference between the tracks of a woodchuck and a coon; but just remember that a coon has five toes on each foot while a woodchuck has four toes on each frout foot and five on each hind one. Many coon are adapting themselves to woodchuck holes, and they will often take refuge in them, but they must not love these underground quarters very well.

No wild animal, whether carnivorous or vegetarian, will refuse to eat berries. Even the coon and skunk, both flesh eaters, will eat raspberries, blackberries, wild grapes or wild cherries. The squirrel family like nothing better than to feast on berries. Many times you will find the red squirrel in a patch of berries busily picking the ripest ones.

Several years ago I observed two pet coons quite a while and they were very interesting. They always desired to be clean and their way of washing was peculiar. One would dip one paw in the pan of water then the other, then rub his paws together, then wash his nose over his long mustache, brushing out each whisker very carefully. These long whiskers are very useful to him on his trips through the woods. A meat rind which lay in the cage he used as soap, dipping each forepaw in the water then rubbing it on the rind and thereafter carefully rubbing his head and face.

The position the coon takes when sleeping is lying full length with his head between the forepaws.

Old coon hunters will tell you that there were three varieties of coons, the short-legged gray coon, the long-legged grayish water coon, and the black coon. The last are very rare, if not extinct. Along about the sixties they could be met with any time you cared. to go hunting.

The long-legged grayish water coon will lure a dog out in the water, and will never leave a swamp unless compelled to do so. A dog that does not well understand how to run him is soon fagged out and leaves the coon to escape. Old hunters would always have from two to a dozen dogs, and the whole pack were sometimes left wondering where the coon had gone.

The black coon had the complete combination all in one, and the dog who tried to tree this old sage of the woods had to have sagacity, a constitution of steel and the fighting powers of a veteran. Pioneers who have caught many coons claim this was almost a separate species, so powerful was he in fighting and trailing, and it took a good dog to keep up with him.

Nothing is quite so interesting to me as to listen to some old pioneer cr coon hunter relating his hunting experiences. Could these tales be written as they are told, so as to convey the facial expressions and little oddities of speech of the relator, what interesting stories they would be. But few in this latter day enjoy the sport of chasing this elusive fellow of the woods, the gamble of finding whom makes the sport all the more exciting.

The more a person goes coon hunting the better he likes it—if he has good luck. A coon will travel nights when you would not think he would be astir. In the dark of the moon, and of nights when it is rainy or misty; 'tis then he most likely sets out for a feast of chicken or a taste of other delicacies about the farm-yard; or perhaps, if in fall, his quest is for bumble bees' nests.

A tame coon is "one big circus," and one that is good natured is a fine pet. One I know of in particular liked to play with a young pup. Over and over they would roll, biting each other's necks, wrestling and fighting, but all in play, and it was fun to watch them. The coon was very fond of pie and in eating it he

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was very comical, though he went about it in a very practical way, holding it in his forepaws, sitting on his haunches and nibbling off chunks of it as large as he could swallow. Apple pies were his favorites and of these he would eat the insides, but would leave the crusts. His face then was a sight, for he would have pie from ear to ear, and his long whiskers, of which he was so careful, would be full of crushed apple. These latter he would promptly clean by passing them through his mouth.

He liked young chickens quite well; so well indeed that for their protection it was necessary to keep him prisoner in a pen. He was inquisitive; would poke his head into your coat pockets and search for peanuts there. His long white whiskers served him to good purpose, for if he could get his head through a hole without their touching, his body would go through. And this very thing led to his escape one night. The lid on his pen was not down properly and he left for parts unknown, after serving himself a farewell banquet of chicken.

One night in late October a party of boys started out for a hunt. The night was an ideal one for coon, just at the season when they like to travel best. The boys tramped through the woods and into a cornfield, at the far side of which there was a turnip patch. While they were feasting on the turnips and having their jokes the dog started a coon. Down the rail fence they went, then off through a patch of blackberry briars. The dog circled! The coon put in his best licks to gain the fence again, but scented the boys and was off through the field toward the woods. The dog following too close for safety he made for a fair-sized basswood tree where the dog treed him.

The boys tried to "shine" him, that is, hold a lantern so that the light of it would make luminous his eyes that they might shoot him, but could not. They tried to climb the tree to shake him off, but it was quite large and tall and the first limb was high off the ground and they had no climbers, so they gave up the attempt. They then decided to stay by the tree till morning. One of them went to the owner of the woods and asked permission to cut the tree down but it was refused. Two o'clock came and they were cold, tired, hungry and sleepy. Someone moved that they go home.

He was seconded by everyone but the dog and his master. They staid an hour or so longer and then they, too, became disgusted and started for home.

One of the party returned the next morning, and he and the owner of the woods cut down the tree, but they found no coon. And there were his tracks, as plain as day, where he had come down and scampered away after his tormentors were gone. There was a good bit of explaining during the next few days and at least one disgusted coon hunter.

All day dark gray clouds had floated over, and toward night a light drizzly rain began to fall. The right season of the year had come and every coon that could travel was on legs. And on this late October night every pond and swamp was full of water, all places where the crafty fellow liked to puddle for frogs and other feed.

A party of three left the cornfield near an eighty acre piece of woods. Their dog was out at the far corner of the field. There came a sound of a fierce struggle. Then all was still. They sat down on the rail fence which ran along a swamp. The twigs began cracking and the dog came tearing along, rushing into the water. The growl of a coon brought all three men to the top rail of the fence. The dog was howling and thrashing about in great shape. Such a fight! "It was like a bear fight," one of the boys afterwards said. Never had they heard such a racket. The water splashed and the twigs cracked. Then a sound as if some animal was running through the water. A few minutes later the dog came back howling. The three were frightened. The youngest fell off the rail fence and broke the lantern. All voted to go home. On telling their experiences to an old coon hunter he laughed and told them that their dog had simply encountered a coon and got a licking.

This coon was caught several years afterward, near his den. Every one who saw him stoutly averred he had never seen such a coon. "He was all legs," some of them expressed it. Many dogs had lost him in the long chases he had led them, and many were the tired pairs of hunters' legs that were compelled to abandon those chases in the small hours of the mornings.

But years told on the vitality of the masterful old fellow and he could not travel as fast as once he could. On a night in November he fell to the best coon dog in the country. The dog managed to corner him at the base of his old den tree, a large whitewood. There he stood at bay. The dog could not have killed him alone, for he fought like a tiger, but he could not climb up the tree, for the dog pulled him down every time he tried it, and a bullet keeled him over. No wonder he had been more than a match for so many dogs. He was near three feet in length, and had a powerful chest and long slim legs. He was one of the last survivors of the long-legged grayish water coon.

THE SKUNK.

The mere mention of a skunk makes the nose turn up in disgust. No odor retains its originality as long as does the scent of a skunk. Several years ago one man asked another what the three strongest elements were in the world, and after a little study he said he thought that the smell of a skunk was the strongest of them all.

The skunk is an omnivorous eater from the most putrid rotten meat to mice, poultry or birds. During the summer time he likes to go hunting in an old pasture lot for white grubworms. He will bore little holes in the ground with his nose, sometimes using his claws to help. How he locates grubs I can not understand, unless, like robins, he does it by his sense of hearing. Besides his fondness for grubs he likes bumblebee honey, and many a nest of these clover pollinators becomes a toothsome morsel for his palate.

He is so eccentric, erratic and full of idiosyncrasies, that when you start to track him in the winter time you think that you are on the wind up of some fox and goose ring. So many and varied are his crooks and turns that it seems he will never get any place. He will go a short distance, then turn and go back again, and then go on for quite a distance. Then more turns, as if he did not know where he was going. He knows where all the good holes are located, and if he is a large fellow he will drive a smaller brother out of his hole. But his travels in the winter time are a conundrum. You may pick up the track here and it will make a circle, come