'You're going to have to do something,' she said. 'I never saw a boy grieve like that. It's not right, not right at all.'
'I know,' said Papa, 'and I feel just as badly as you do, but what can I do? You know we don't have that kind of money.'
'I don't care,' said Mama. 'You've got to do something. I can't stand to see him cry like that. Besides he's getting to be a problem. I can't get my work done. He follows me around all day long begging for hounds.'
'I offered to get him a dog,' said Papa, 'but he doesn't want just any kind of dog. He wants hounds, and they cost money. Do you know what the Parker boys paid for those two hounds they bought? Seventy-five dollars! If I had that much money, I'd buy another mule. I sure do need one.'
I had overheard this conversation from another room. At first it made me feel pretty good. At least I was getting to be a problem. Then I didn't feel so good. I knew my mother and father were poor and didn't have any money. I began to feel sorry for them and myself.
After thinking it over, I figured out a way to help. Even though it was a great sacrifice, I told Papa I had decided I didn't want two hounds. One would be enough. I saw the hurt in his eyes. It made me feel like someone was squeezing water out of my heart.
Papa set me on his lap and we had a good talk. He told me how hard times were, and that it looked like a man couldn't get a fair price for anything he raised. Some of the farmers had quit farming and were cutting railroad ties so they could feed their families. If things didn't get better, that's what he'd have to do. He said he'd give anything if he could get some good hounds for me, but there didn't seem to be any way he could right then.
I went off to bed with my heart all torn up in little pieces, and cried myself to sleep.
The next day Papa had to go to the store. Late that evening I saw him coming back. As fast as I could, I ran to meet him, expecting a sack of candy. Instead he handed me three small steel traps.
If Santa Claus himself had come down out of the mountains, reindeer and all, I would not have been more pleased. I jumped up and down, and cried a whole bucketful of tears. I hugged him and told him what a wonderful papa he was.
He showed me how to set them by mashing the spring down with my foot, and how to work the trigger. I took them to bed with me that night.
The next morning I started trapping around the barn. The first thing I caught was Samie, our house cat. If this didn't cause a commotion! I didn't intend to catch him. I was trying to catch a rat, but somehow he came nosing around and got in my trap.
My sisters started bawling and yelling for Mama. She came running, wanting to know what in the world was going on. None of us had to tell her, Samie told her with his spitting and squalling.
He was mad. He couldn't understand what that thing was that was biting his foot, and he was making an awful fuss about it. His tail was as big as a wet corncob and every hair on his small body was sticking straight up. He spit and yowled and dared anyone to get close to him.
My sisters yelled their fool heads off, all the time saying, 'Poor Samie! Poor Samie!'
Mama shushed them up and told me to go get the forked stick from under the clothesline. I ran and got it.
Mama was the best helper a boy ever had. She put the forked end over Sarnie's neck and pinned him to the ground.
It was bad enough for the trap to be biting his foot, but to have his neck pinned down that way was too much. He threw a fit. I never heard such a racket in all my life.
It wasn't long until everything on the place was all spooked up. The chickens started cackling and flew way up on the hillside. Daisy, our milk cow, all but tore the barn lot up and refused to give any milk that night. Sloppy Ann, our hog, started running in circles, squealing and grunting.
Sarnie wiggled and twisted. He yowled and spit, but it didn't do him any good. Mama was good and stout. She held him down, tight to the ground. I ran in and put my foot on the trap spring, mashed it down, and released his foot. With one loud squall, he scooted under the barn.
After it was all over, Mama said, 'I don't think you'll have any more trouble with that cat. I think he has learned his lesson.'
How wrong Mama was. Sarnie was one of those nosy kind of cats. He would lie up on the red oak limbs and watch every move I made.
I found some slick little trails out in our garden down under some tall hollyhocks. Thinking they were game trails, and not knowing they were Sarnie's favorite hunting trails, I set my traps. Sarnie couldn't understand what I
