Where the Red Fern Grows

by Wilson Rawls

Little Ann came over and started rolling in the leaves. The way I was feeling toward her, I couldn’t even smile at her playful mood. “Of course you feel good,” I said in an irritated voice, “and it’s no wonder, you had a good night’s sleep in a nice warm doghouse, but Old Dan didn’t. He was down here in the cold all by himself, watching the tree. The way you’re acting, I don’t believe you care if the coon gets away or not.” I would have said more but just then I noticed something. I walked over for a better look. There, scratched deep in the soft leaves were two little beds. One was smaller than the other. Looking at Little Ann, I read the answer in her warm gray eyes. Old Dan hadn’t been alone when he had gone back to the tree. She too had gone along. There was no doubt that in the early morning she had come home to get me.