Where the Red Fern Grows

  I told him it was the ad, telling where to order my dogs.

  He read it, turned it over, and glanced at the other side.

  I saw the astonishment leave his eyes and the friendly-old-grandfather look come back. I felt much better.

  Dropping the paper back on the money, he turned, picked up an old turkey-feather duster, and started dusting where there was no dust. He kept glancing at me out of the corner of his eye as he walked slowly down to the other end of the store, dusting here and there.

  He put the duster down, came from behind the counter, and walked up to me. Laying a friendly old work-calloused hand on my head, he changed the conversation altogether, saying, “Son, you need a haircut.”

  I told him I didn’t mind. I didn’t like my hair short; flies and mosquitoes bothered me.

  He glanced down at my bare feet and asked, “How come your feet are cut and scratched like that?”

  I told him it was pretty tough picking blackberries barefoot.

  He nodded his head.

  It was too much for my grandfather. He turned and walked away. I saw the glasses come off, and the old red handkerchief come out. I heard the good excuse of blowing his nose. He stood for several seconds with his back toward me. When he turned around, I noticed his eyes were moist.

  In a quavering voice, he said, “Well, Son, it’s your money. You worked for it, and you worked hard. You got it honestly, and you want some dogs. We’re going to get those dogs. Be damned! Be damned!”

  That was as near as I ever came to hearing my grandfather curse, if you can call it cursing.

  He walked over and picked up the ad again, asking, “Is this two years old, too?”

  I nodded.

  “Well,” he said, “the first thing we have to do is write this outfit. There may not even be a place like this in Kentucky any more. After all, a lot of things can happen in two years.”

  Seeing that I was worried, he said, “Now you go on home. I’ll write to these kennels and I’ll let you know when I get an answer. If we can’t get the dogs there, we can get them someplace else. And I don’t think, if I were you, I’d let my Pa know anything about this right now. I happen to know he wants to buy that red mule from Old Man Potter.”

  I told him I wouldn’t, and turned to leave the store.

  As I reached the door, my grandfather said in a loud voice, “Say, it’s been a long time since you’ve had any candy, hasn’t it?”

  I nodded my head.

  He asked, “How long?”

  I told him, “A long time.”

  “Well,” he said, “we’ll have to do something about that.”

  Walking over behind the counter, he reached out and got a sack. I noticed it wasn’t one of the nickel sacks. It was one of the quarter kind.

  My eyes never left my grandfather’s hand. Time after time, it dipped in and out of the candy counter: peppermint sticks, jawbreakers, horehound, and gumdrops. The sack bulged. So did my eyes.

  Handing the sack to me, he said, “Here. First big coon you catch with those dogs, you can pay me back.”

  I told him I would.

  On my way home, with a jawbreaker in one side of my mouth and a piece of horehound in the other, I skipped and hopped, making half an effort to try to whistle and sing, and couldn’t for the candy. I had the finest grandpa in the world and I was the happiest boy in the world.

  I wanted to share my happiness with my sisters but decided not to say anything about ordering the pups.

  Arriving home, I dumped the sack of candy out on the bed. Six little hands helped themselves. I was well repaid by the love and adoration I saw in the wide blue eyes of my three little sisters.

  IV

  DAY AFTER DAY, I FLEW TO THE STORE, GRANDPA WOULD shake his head. Then on a Monday, as I entered the store, I sensed a change in him. He was in high spirits, talking and laughing with half a dozen farmers. Every time I caught his eye, he would smile and wink at me. I thought the farmers would never leave, but finally the store was empty.

  Grandpa told me the letter had come. The kennels were still there, and they had dogs for sale. He said he had made the mail buggy wait while he made out the order. And, another thing, the dog market had gone downhill. The price of dogs had dropped five dollars. He handed me a ten-dollar bill.

  “Now, there’s still one stump in the way,” he said. “The mail buggy can’t carry things like dogs, so they’ll come as far as the depot at Tahlequah, but you’ll get the notice here because I ordered them in your name.”

  I thanked my grandfather with all my heart and asked him how long I’d have to wait for the notice.

  He said, “I don’t know, but it shouldn’t take more than a couple of weeks.”

  I asked how I was going to get my dogs out from Tahlequah.

  “Well, there’s always someone going in,” he said, “and you could ride in with them.”

  That evening the silence of our supper was interrupted when I asked my father this question: “Papa, how far is it to Kentucky?”

  I may as well have exploded a bomb. For an instant there was complete silence, and then my oldest sister giggled. The two little ones stared at me.

  With a half-hearted laugh, my father said, “Well, now, I don’t know, but it’s a pretty good ways. What do you want to know for? Thinking of taking a trip to Kentucky?”

  “No,” I said. “I just wondered.”

  My youngest sister giggled and asked, “Can I go with you?”

  I glared at her.

  Mama broke into the conversation, “I declare, what kind of a question is that? How far is it to Kentucky? I don’t know what’s gotten into that mind of yours lately. You go around like you were lost, and you’re losing weight. You’re as skinny as a rail, and look at that hair. Just last Sunday they had a haircutting over at Tom Rolland’s place, but you couldn’t go. You had to go prowling around the river and the woods.”

  I told Mama that I’d get a haircut next time they had a cutting. And I just heard some fellows talking about Kentucky up at the store, and wondered how far away it was. Much to my relief, the conversation was ended.

  The days dragged by. A week passed and still no word about my dogs. Terrible thoughts ran through my mind. Maybe my dogs were lost; the train had a wreck; someone stole my money; or perhaps the mailman lost my order. Then, at the end of the second week, the notice came.

  My grandfather told me that he had talked to Jim Hodges that day. He was going into town in about a week and I could ride in with him to pick up my dogs. Again I thanked my grandfather.

  I started for home. Walking along in deep thought, I decided it was time to tell my father the whole story. I fully intended to tell him that evening. I tried several times, but somehow I couldn’t. I wasn’t scared of him, for he never whipped me. He was always kind and gentle, but for some reason, I don’t know why, I just couldn’t tell him.

  That night, snuggled deep in the soft folds of a feather bed, I lay thinking. I had waited so long for my dogs, and I so desperately wanted to see them and hold them. I didn’t want to wait a whole week.

  In a flash I made up my mind. Very quietly I got up and put on my clothes. I sneaked into the kitchen and got one of Mama’s precious flour sacks. In it I put six eggs, some leftover corn bread, a little salt, and a few matches. Next I went to the smokehouse and cut off a piece of salt pork. I stopped at the barn and picked up a gunny sack. I put the flour sack inside the gunny sack. This I rolled up and crammed lengthwise in the bib of my overalls.

  I was on my way. I was going after my dogs.

  Tahlequah was a small country town with a population of about eight hundred. By the road it was thirty-two miles away, but as the crow flies, it was only twenty miles. I went as the crow flies, straight through the hills.

  Although I had never been to town in my life, I knew what direction to take. Tahlequah and the railroad lay on the other side of the river from our place. I had the Frisco Railroad on my right, and the Illinois River on my left. Not
far from where the railroad crossed the river lay the town of Tahlequah. I knew if I bore to the right I would find the railroad, and if I bore to the left I had the river to guide me.

  Some time that night, I crossed the river on a riffle somewhere in the Dripping Springs country. Coming out of the river bottoms, I scatted up a long hogback ridge, and broke out on top in the flats. In a mile-eating trot, I moved along. I had the wind of a deer, the muscles of a country boy, a heart full of dog love, and a strong determination. I wasn’t scared of the darkness, or the mountains, for I was raised in those mountains.

  On and on, mile after mile, I moved along. I saw faint gray streaks appear in the east. I knew daylight was close. My bare feet were getting sore from the flint rocks and saw briers. I stopped beside a mountain stream, soaked my feet in the cool water, rested for a spell, and then started on.

  After leaving the mountain stream, my pace was much slower. The muscles of my legs were getting stiff. Feeling the pangs of hunger gnawing at my stomach, I decided I would stop and eat at the next stream I found. Then I remembered I had forgotten to include a can in which to boil my eggs.

  I stopped and built a small fire. Cutting off a nice thick slab of salt pork, I roasted it, and with a piece of cold corn bread made a sandwich. Putting out my fire, I was on my way again. I ate as I trotted along. I felt much better.

  I came into Tahlequah from the northeast. At the outskirts of town, I hid my flour sack and provisions, keeping the gunny sack. I walked into town.

  I was scared of Tahlequah and the people. I had never seen such a big town and so many people. There was store after store, some of them two stories high. The wagon yard had wagons on top of wagons; teams, buggies, and horses.

  Two young ladies about my age stopped, stared at me, and then giggled. My blood boiled, but I could understand. After all, I had three sisters. They couldn’t help it because they were womenfolks. I went on.

  I saw a big man coming up the street. The bright shiny star on his vest looked as big as a bucket. I saw the long, black gun at his side and I froze in my tracks. I’d heard of sheriffs and marshals, but had never seen one. Stories repeated about them in the mountains told how fast they were with a gun, and how many men they had killed.

  The closer he came, the more frightened I got. I knew it was the end for me. I could just see him aiming his big, black gun and shooting me between the eyes. It seemed like a miracle that he passed by, hardly glancing at me. Breathing a sigh, I walked on, seeing the wonders of the world.

  Passing a large store window, I stopped and stared. There in the window was the most wonderful sight I had ever seen; everything under the sun; overalls, jackets, bolts of beautiful cloth, new harnesses, collars, bridles; and then my eyes did pop open. There were several guns and one of them had two barrels. I couldn’t believe it—two barrels. I had seen several guns, but never one with two barrels.

  Then I saw something else. The sun was just right, and the plate glass was a perfect mirror. I saw the full reflection of myself for the first time in my life.

  I could see that I did look a little odd. My straw-colored hair was long and shaggy, and was bushed out like a corn tassle that had been hit by a wind. I tried to smooth it down with my hands. This helped some but not much. What it needed was a good combing and I had no comb.

  My overalls were patched and faded but they were clean. My shirt had pulled out. I tucked it back in.

  I took one look at my bare feet and winced. They were as brown as dead sycamore leaves. The spider-web pattern of raw, red scratches looked odd in the saddle-brown skin. I thought, “Well, I won’t have to pick any more blackberries and the scratches will soon go away.”

  I pumped up one of my arms and thought surely the muscle was going to pop right through my thin blue shirt. I stuck out my tongue. It was as red as pokeberry juice and anything that color was supposed to be healthy.

  After making a few faces at myself, I put my thumbs in my ears and was making mule ears when two old women came by. They stopped and stared at me. I stared back. As they turned to go on their way, I heard one of them say something to the other. The words were hard to catch, but I did hear one word: “Wild.” As I said before, they couldn’t help it, they were womenfolks.

  As I turned to leave, my eyes again fell on the overalls and the bolts of cloth. I thought of my mother, father, and sisters. Here was an opportunity to make amends for leaving home without telling anyone.

  I entered the store. I bought a pair of overalls for Papa. After telling the storekeeper how big my mother and sisters were, I bought several yards of cloth. I also bought a large sack of candy.

  Glancing down at my bare feet, the storekeeper said, “I have some good shoes.”

  I told him I didn’t need any shoes.

  He asked if that would be all.

  I nodded.

  He added up the bill. I handed him my ten dollars. He gave me my change.

  After wrapping up the bundles, he helped me put them in my sack. Lifting it to my shoulder, I turned and left the store.

  Out on the street, I picked out a friendly-looking old man and asked him where the depot was. He told me to go down to the last street and turn right, go as far as I could, and I couldn’t miss it. I thanked him and started on my way.

  Leaving the main part of town, I started up a long street through the residential section. I had never seen so many beautiful houses, and they were all different colors. The lawns were neat and clean and looked like green carpets. I saw a man pushing some kind of a mowing machine. I stopped to watch the whirling blades. He gawked at me. I hurried on.

  I heard a lot of shouting and laughing ahead of me. Not wanting to miss anything, I walked a little faster. I saw what was making the noise. More kids than I had ever seen were playing around a big red brick building. I thought some rich man lived there and was giving a party for his children. Walking up to the edge of the playground, I stopped to watch.

  The boys and girls were about my age, and were as thick as flies around a sorghum mill. They were milling, running, and jumping. Teeter-totters and swings were loaded down with them. Everyone was laughing and having a big time.

  Over against the building, a large blue pipe ran up on an angle from the ground. A few feet from the top there was a bend in it. The pipe seemed to go into the building. Boys were crawling into its dark mouth. I counted nine of them. One boy stood about six feet from the opening with a stick in his hand.

  Staring goggle-eyed, trying to figure out what they were doing, I got a surprise. Out of the hollow pipe spurted a boy. He sailed through the air and lit on his feet. The boy with the stick marked the ground where he landed. All nine of them came shooting out, one behind the other. As each boy landed, a new mark was scratched.

  They ganged around looking at the lines. There was a lot of loud talking, pointing, and arguing. Then all lines were erased and a new scorekeeper was picked out. The others crawled back into the pipe.

  I figured out how the game was played. After climbing to the top of the slide, the boys turned around and sat down. One at a time, they came flying down and out, feet first. The one that shot out the furthest was the winner. I thought how wonderful it would be if I could slide down just one time.

  One boy, spying me standing on the corner, came over. Looking me up and down, he asked, “Do you go to school here?”

  I said, “School?”

  He said, “Sure. School. What did you think it was?”

  “Oh. No, I don’t go to school here.”

  “Do you go to Jefferson?”

  “No. I don’t go there either.”

  “Don’t you go to school at all?”

  “Sure I go to school.”

  “Where?”

  “At home.”

  “You go to school at home?”

  I nodded.

  “What grade are you in?”

  I said I wasn’t in any grade.

  Puzzled, he said, “You go to school at home, and don’t know what
grade you’re in. Who teaches you?”

  “My mother.”

  “What does she teach you?”

  I said, “Reading, writing, and arithmetic, and I bet I’m just as good at it as you are.”

  He asked, “Don’t you have any shoes?”

  I said, “Sure, I have shoes.”

  “Why aren’t you wearing them?”

  “I don’t wear shoes until it gets cold.”

  He laughed and asked where I lived.

  I said, “Back in the hills.”

  He said, “Oh, you’re a hillbilly.”

  He ran back to the mob. I saw him pointing at me and talking to several boys. They started my way, yelling, “Hillbilly, hillbilly.”

  Just before they reached me, a bell started ringing. Turning, they ran to the front of the building, lined up in two long lines, and marching like little tin soldiers disappeared inside the school.

  The playground was silent. I was all alone, and felt lonely and sad.

  I heard a noise on my right. I didn’t have to turn around to recognize what it was. Someone was using a hoe. I’d know that sound if I heard it on a dark night. It was a little old white-headed woman working in a flower bed.

  Looking again at the long, blue pipe, I thought, “There’s no one around. Maybe I could have one slide anyway.”

  I eased over and looked up into the dark hollow. It looked scary, but I thought of all the other boys I had seen crawl into it. I could see the last mark on the ground, and thought, “I bet I can beat that.”

  Laying my sack down, I started climbing up. The farther I went, the darker and more scary it got. Just as I reached the top, my feet slipped. Down I sailed. All the way down I tried to grab on to something, but there was nothing to grab.

  I’m sure some great champions had slid out of that pipe, and no doubt more than one world record had been broken, but if someone had been there when I came out, I know the record I set would stand today in all its glory.