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Updated: June 26, 2025
His fur bristled and the rings upon his tail stood out sharply, while his queer little masked face held such a puzzled look that the Hermit chuckled to himself. "You would make a fine pet, old Ringtail, but I suppose it would be a shame to deprive you of your liberty," thought he, as he looked admiringly at the big animal.
Thus the summer with its long, sunny days and velvety nights sped by and was succeeded by the moon of falling leaves. The air was tinged with frost and the forest flamed with color. The cornfield no longer held a lure for Ringtail, but the beech trees were dropping their little, three-cornered nuts and the big raccoon was still fat and happy.
Slowly he crept nearer, lured by that strange radiance, fearful, yet unable to resist. The rabbits vanished at his approach, while a tiny wood-mouse which had stolen up, fled with a squeak of panic. But for once Ringtail had no eyes for plump wood-mice. He stared a moment, then moved aside into the darkness where his eyes were not so blinded, and looked about him.
It was wrong, he knew, but then there was a certain flavor in this wrong; so, gingerly, he crossed the geranium-bed, took one web foot firmly between his teeth, and wondered at the thrill of life that sparked and snapped along his spine. Then Pete and Omar Ben tugged and tugged, till the clean geranium-bed was a comfortable, wholesome wreck. "Hully gee!" grinned Ringtail Pete.
The next morning Ringtail had disappeared, but, deciding that the raccoon would make a far more interesting neighbor than a colony of noisy sparrows, the Hermit tore out the nests and enlarged the doorway enough to permit the animal to enter. Then he awaited developments, trusting to the raccoon's curiosity to bring him back. He was not disappointed.
Then he would let go and fall with a thud, sometimes into the springy hammock, but more often upon the man. Nothing that the Hermit could do would break Ringtail of this playful habit. At length he was compelled to move his hammock, swinging it between a corner of the cabin and a small spruce having no long, horizontal branches.
He had only time to exclaim to his new ally, "My dear fellow, get me some brandy and water, for the love of mercy" when he blew up, with an explosion like the bursting of a steam boiler "Oh dear, oh dear," we could hear him murmuring in the lulls of his agony then another loud report "there goes my yesterday's supper hot grog and toasted cheese" another roar, as if the spirit was leaving its earthly tabernacle "dinner claret Madeira all cruel bad in a second edition cheese, teal, and ringtail pigeon black crabs calapi and turtle soup" as his fleshly indulgences of the previous day rose up in judgment against him, like a man's evil deeds on his death bed.
Before him lay a moon-washed open space and beyond that rose tall, green ranks of corn, a sight that filled the raccoon's heart with joy. He quickly crossed the clearing and, bearing down a stalk, stripped it of its husk and sank his teeth into the milky kernels. Ringtail dearly loved sweet corn and he ate until his round, furry sides were distended and he could hold no more.
He slid down into the hole, which was carpeted almost a foot deep with beech leaves, and, instead of resenting the intrusion, the other raccoon only sighed comfortably and went back to sleep. Ringtail squeezed his big body into the warm bed of leaves, cuddling his nose into the thick fur of his bedfellow and protecting his feet with his own bushy tail.
Ordinarily the peace-loving canine would hardly have attacked the raccoon, but the madness of the season was racing in the veins of the Hermit's dog and he longed for heroic adventure. So, after slowly circling the tree several times, he threw caution to the winds and closed in. Ringtail was ready, and for a time there was an inextricable tangle of raccoon and dog.
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