Where the Red Fern Grows

by Wilson Rawls

By this time, my fighting blood was boiling. It’s hard for a man to stand and watch an old hound fight against such odds, especially if that man has memories in his heart like I had in mine. I had seen the time when an old hound like that had given his life so that I might live.

I didn’t have to let him go. I could have kept him in my back yard, but to pen up a dog like that is a sin. It would have broken his heart. The will to live would have slowly left his body. I had no idea where he had come from or where he was going. Perhaps it wasn’t too far, or maybe it was a long, long way.

I figured something drastic must have happened in his life, as it is very unusual for a hound to be traveling all alone. Perhaps he had been stolen, or maybe he had been sold for some much-needed money. Whatever it was that had interrupted his life, he was trying to straighten it out.

Although the old hound had no way of knowing it, he had stirred memories, and what priceless treasures they were. Memories of my boyhood days, an old K. C. Baking Powder can, and two little red hounds. Memories of a wonderful love, unselfish devotion, and death in its saddest form.

As I caressed the smooth surfaces, my mind drifted back through the years, back to my boyhood days. How wonderful the memories were. Piece by piece the story unfolded.

what is the point of this framing?

I suppose there’s a time in practically every young boy’s life when he’s affected by that wonderful disease of puppy love.

Our home was in a beautiful valley far back in the rugged Ozarks. The country was new and sparsely settled. The land we lived on was Cherokee land, allotted to my mother because of the Cherokee blood that flowed in her veins. It lay in a strip from the foothills of the mountains to the banks of the Illinois River in northeastern Oklahoma.

It finally got too tough for Samie. He left home. Oh, he came in once in a while, all long and lean looking, but he never was the same friendly cat any more. He was nervous and wouldn’t let anyone pet him.

lovely story of animal abuse and neglect... this family doesn't deserve dogs, so no wonder this book is known to end sad

Glancing down at my bare feet, the storekeeper said, “I have some good shoes.” I told him I didn’t need any shoes.

I looked up again to the names carved in the tree. Yes, it was all there like a large puzzle. Piece by piece, each fit perfectly until the puzzle was complete. It could not have happened without the help of an unseen power.

*blinks*

Papa asked me how I liked town. I said I didn’t like it at all, and wouldn’t live there even if they gave it to me.

Everything was going along just fine until Mama caught me cutting out the circles of tin with her scissors. I always swore she could find the biggest switches of any woman in the Ozarks.

“I know,” said Papa. “It’s all right with me, but women are a little different than men. They worry more.

With tears in my eyes, I looked again at the big sycamore. A wave of anger came over me. Gritting my teeth, I said, “I don’t care how big you are, I’m not going to let my dogs down. I told them if they put a coon in a tree I would do the rest and I’m going to. I’m going to cut you down. I don’t care if it takes me a whole year.”

“Why, Billy,” he said, “you can’t stay down here without anything to eat and no sleep. Besides, it’ll take at least two days to cut that tree down and that’s hard work.” “Please, Papa,” I begged, “don’t make me quit. I just have to get that coon. If I don’t, my dogs won’t ever believe in me again.”

I was trying hard to make them understand when I heard someone coming. It was Grandpa in his buggy. I’m sure no one in the world can understand a young boy like his grandfather can. He drove up with a twinkle in his eyes and a smile on his whiskery old face.

“Well, I never in all my life,” she said. “I had no idea a dog loved to hunt that much. Yes, Billy, I can see now, and I want you to get him. I don’t care if you have to cut down every tree in those bottoms. I want you to get that coon for those dogs.”

It was true that my dogs were small, especially Little Ann. She could walk under an ordinary hound; in fact, she was a regular midget. If it had not been for her long ears, no one could have told that she was a hound. Her actions weren’t those of a hunting hound. She was constantly playing. She would play with our chickens and young calves, with a piece of paper or a corncob. What my little girl lacked in size, she made up in sweetness. She could make friends with a tomcat.

“Never underestimate the cunning of an old river coon. When the nights are dark and the ground is frozen and slick, they can pull some mean tricks on a hound. Sometimes the tricks can be fatal.”

I thought of the prayer I had said when I had asked God to help me get two hound pups. I knelt down and sobbed out a prayer. I asked for a miracle which would save the life of my little dog. I promised all the things that a young boy could if only He would help me.

These lessons suck. Literally "hold the wheel, Jesus"

I don’t care if your dogs are no bigger than a snuff can. They still have a chance.

You can swim the river, Old Mister Ringtail, And play your tricks out one by one. It won’t do any good, Old Mister Ringtail, My Little Ann knows every one.

“a man could freeze to death in this storm, and besides, your dogs will give up and come in.” “That’s what has me worried,” I cried. “They won’t come in. They won’t, Papa. Little Ann might, but not Old Dan. He’d die before he’d leave a coon in a tree.”

“Those two hounds,” he said. “I found them. They’re frozen solid. They’re nothing but white ice from the tips of their noses to the ends of their tails.”

“people have been trying to understand dogs ever since the beginning of time. One never knows what they’ll do. You can read every day where a dog saved the life of a drowning child, or lay down his life for his master. Some people call this loyalty. I don’t. I may be wrong, but I call it love—the deepest kind of love.”

Very gently Mama worked the entrails out and in a pan of warm soapy water, washed them clean of the pine needles, leaves, and grit. “If I only knew what I was doing,” Mama said, as she worked, “I’d feel better.”

The noise I had heard had been made by Little Ann. All her life she had slept by Old Dan’s side. And although he was dead, she had left the doghouse, had come back to the porch, and snuggled up close to his side.

I carried her back to the house. I offered her food and water. She wouldn’t touch it. I noticed how lifeless she was. I thought perhaps she had a wound I had overlooked. I felt and probed with my fingers. I could find nothing.

get this dog some antibiotics ffs

I know what you’re going through and how it hurts, but there’s always an answer. The Good Lord has a reason for everything He does.” “There couldn’t be any reason for my dogs to die, Papa,” I said. “There just couldn’t. They hadn’t done anything wrong.”

“If he gave them to me, then why did he take them away?” I asked. “I think there’s an answer for that, too,” Papa said. “You see, Billy, your mother and I had decided not to separate you from your dogs. We knew how much you loved them. We decided that when we moved to town we’d leave you here with your grandpa for a while. He needs help anyway. But I guess the Good Lord didn’t want that to happen. He doesn’t like to see families split up. That’s why they were taken away.”

horrible

I had heard the old Indian legend about the red fern. How a little Indian boy and girl were lost in a blizzard and had frozen to death. In the spring, when they were found, a beautiful red fern had grown up between their two bodies. The story went on to say that only an angel could plant the seeds of a red fern, and that they never died; where one grew, that spot was sacred.