Where the Red Fern Grows

by Wilson Rawls

On my way home I didn’t walk on the ground. I was way up in the clouds just skipping along. With a song, I told the sycamore trees and the popeyed gray squirrels how happy I was.

I was as nervous as a June bug in a henhouse.

My head swelled up as big as a number-four washtub.

Once I heard a voice say, “That’s the boy who owns the two little red hounds. I’ve heard they’re pretty good.” If my head had gotten any bigger, I know it would have burst.

Gazing at Little Ann, he shook his head and said, “I’ve been hunting coons and judging coon hunts for forty years, but I’ve never seen anything like that.”

By the time we reached the washout, Grandpa was fully conscious again, and was mumbling and grumbling. He couldn’t see why they had to carry him like a baby.