Tommy was down to the corn-field, and his face was rather sober. At least it was sober for him, considering why he was on his way to the corn-field. It wasn’t to work. If it had been, his sober look would have been quite easy to understand. The fact is, Tommy was going on an errand that once would have filled him with joy and sent him whistling all the way.  
“Coons are raising down in the corn! You’d better get your traps out and see if you can catch the thieving little . Go down and look the ground over, and see what you think,” his father had said to him at noon that day.
 
So here he was on his way to look for signs of Bobby Coon, and, if the truth were known, actually hoping that he wouldn’t find them! There had been a time when he would have been all excitement over his quest, and eager to find the tell-tale tracks where Bobby Coon went into and out of the corn-field. Then he would have hurried home for his traps in great glee, or instead would have planned to watch with his gun for Bobby that very night.
 
But now he had no such feelings. Somehow, he had come to regard his little wild neighbors in a wholly different light. He no longer desired to do them[59] harm. Ever since he had begun to learn what their real lives were like, by wishing himself one of them as he sat on the old wishing-stone, he had cared less and less to hunt and frighten them and more and more to try to make friends with them.
 
His teacher would have said that he had a “sympathetic understanding” of them, and then probably would have had to explain to Tommy what that meant—that he knew just how they felt and had learned to look at things from their point of view. And it was true. He had put away his gun and traps. He no longer desired to kill. He liked to hunt for these little wild people as much as ever, perhaps more, but it was in order to make friends with them, and to find[60] out more about their ways and habits, instead of to kill them.
 
So it was that he didn’t like his present errand. On the brow of the hill that overlooked the corn-field he stopped for a minute to look down on the broad acres of long-leaved stalks row on row, row on row, like a well drilled army. He thought of the long hours he had spent among them with his hoe in the hot sunshine when the swimming-hole was calling to him, and a sudden sense of pride swept over him. The great sturdy plants no longer needed his hoe to keep the weeds down. The ears had filled out and were in the milk now.
 
“Seems as if we could spare what little a coon wants,” muttered Tommy, as he gazed down on the field. “Of course,[61] if there is a whole family of ’em, something’s got to be done, but I don’t believe one coon can eat enough to do much harm. Dad promised me a share in the crop, when it’s harvested, to pay for my work. It isn’t likely to be very much, and goodness knows I want every penny of it; but I guess, if that coon isn’t doing too much damage, I can pay for it.”
 
Tommy’s face lighted up at the idea. It was going to take self-denial on his part, but it was a way out. The thought chased the soberness from his face and put a spring into his hitherto reluctant steps. He went at once to that part of the corn-field nearest the Green Forest. It did not take him long to discover the evidences that a raccoon, or perhaps more than one, had been taking . Here a stalk less sturdy than its neighbors had been pulled down, the husks stripped from the ears, and a few mouthfuls of the grains taken. There a stalk had been climbed and an ear stripped and bitten into.
 
“Wasteful little beggar!” muttered Tommy. “Why can’t you be content to take an ear at a time and clean it up? Then there would be no kick coming. Dad wouldn’t mind if you filled your little tummy every night, if you didn’t spoil ten times as much as you eat. Ha! here are your tracks. Now we’ll see where you come in.”
 
Except for the sharp tips of the toes, the tracks were not unlike the print of a tiny hand, and there was no mistaking them for the tracks of any other animal. Tommy studied them until he was sure that all were made by one raccoon, and he was convinced that he had but one to deal with.
 
At length he found the place where the animal was in the habit of entering the field. There was just the suggestion of a path through the grass in the direction of the Green Forest. It was very clear that Bobby Coon came and went regularly that way, and of course this was the place to set a trap. Tommy’s face clouded again at the thought.
 
“I believe I’ll go up to the old wishing-stone and think it out,” he muttered.
 
So he headed for the familiar old wishing-stone that overlooked the Green Meadows and the corn-field, and was not so very far from the Green Forest; and when he reached it, he sat down. It is doubtful if Tommy ever got past[64] that old stone without sitting down on it. This time he had no intention of wishing himself into anything, yet hardly had he sat down when he did. You see his thoughts were all of Bobby Coon, and so, without stopping to think where he was, he said to no one in particular: “There are some things I want to know about raccoons. I wish I could be one long enough to find out.”
 
Tommy’s wish had come true. He was no longer Tommy the boy, but Tommy the coon. He was a thick-set, rather clumsy-looking gray-coated fellow, with a black ringed tail and a black band across the eyes. His ears were sharp, and his face was not unlike that of Reddy Fox in its outline. His toes were long and bare; and when he[65] walked, it was with his whole foot on the ground as a man does and as a bear does. In fact, although he didn’t know it, he was own cousin to Buster Bear.
 
Tommy’s home was a hollow tree with the entrance high up. Inside he had a comfortable bed, and there he spent his days sleeping away the long hours of sunshine. Night was the time he liked best to be abroad, and then he roamed far and wide without fear.
 
Reddy Fox he was not afraid of at all. In fact there was no one he feared much but man, and in the darkness of the night he thought he need not even fear him.
 
Tommy’s hollow tree was in a swamp through which flowed a , and it was Tommy’s delight to explore this brook, sometimes up, sometimes down. In it were fish to be caught, and Tommy as a boy never delighted in fishing more than did Tommy as a coon. On moonlight nights he would steal softly up to a quiet pool and, on the very edge of it, possess himself in patience, as a good fisherman should. Presently a careless fish would swim within reach. A swift with a black little paw with five sharp little hooks extended—and the fish would be high and dry on the shore. It was great fun.
 
Sometimes he would visit places where the frogs were making the night noisy with a chorus. This was the easiest kind of hunting. He had only to locate the spot from which one of those voices issued, steal softly up, and there was one less singer, though the voice would hardly be missed in the great chorus. Occasionally he would take a hint from Jerry and, where the water was very shallow, dig out a few mussels or fresh-water .
 
At other times, just by way of varying his bill of fare, he would go hunting. This was less certain of results but exciting; and when successful, the reward was great. Especially was this so in the nesting season, and many a good meal of eggs did Tommy have, to say nothing of tender young birds. Occasionally he prowled through the tree-tops in hope of surprising a family of young squirrels in their sleep. None knew better than he that in the light of day he could not catch them; but at night, when they could not see and he could, it was another matter.
 
But fish, meat, and eggs were only a part of Tommy’s diet. Fruit, berries, and nuts in their season were quite as much to his , not to mention certain tender roots. One day, quite by chance while he was exploring a hollow tree, he discovered that it already had and that they were of the most delicious sweets he ever had tasted. In short, he almost made himself sick on wild honey, his long hair protecting him from the little lances of the bees. After that he kept a sharp eye out for sweets and so discovered that bumble-bees make their nests in the ground; and that while they contained a supply of honey, there was enough as a rule to make it worth while to dig them open.
 
So Tommy grew fat and lazy. There was plenty to eat without working very hard for it, and he about in the Green Forest and along the Laughing Brook, eating whatever him and having a good time generally.
 
He dearly loved to play along the edge of the water and was as as a child with anything bright and shiny. Once he found a bit of tin shining in the moonlight and spent most of the remainder of that night playing with it. About one thing he was very particular. If he had meat of any kind and there was water near, he always washed it carefully before eating. In fact Tommy was very neat. It was born in him.
 
Sometimes daylight caught him far from his hollow tree. Then he would look for an old nest of a or crow and curl up in it to sleep the day away. If none was handy and he could find no hollow tree or , he would climb a big tree and stretch himself flat along one of the big limbs and there sleep until the Black Shadows came creeping through the Green Forest.
 
Once in a while he would be discovered by the sharp eyes of Sammy Jay or Blacky the Crow, and then life would be made for him until he would be glad to wake up and seek some hiding-place where they could not see him. It was for this reason chiefly that he always tried to get back to his own by the time jolly, round, red Mr. Sun shook his blankets off and began his daily climb up in the blue, blue sky.
 
One night he met Bobby Coon himself.
 
“Where do you live?” asked Tommy.
 
“Over on the Mountain,” replied Bobby.
 
“In a hollow tree?” asked Tommy.
 
“No. Oh, my, no!” replied Bobby. “I’ve got the nicest den in a of rock. No more hollow trees for me.”
 
“Why not?” demanded Tommy.
 
“They aren’t safe,” retorted Bobby. “I used to live in a hollow tree, but I’ve learned better. I guess you’ve never been hunted. When you’ve been nearly choked to death by smoke in your hollow tree, or had it cut down with you in it and barely escaped by the skin of your teeth, you won’t think so much of hollow trees. Give me a good rocky den every time.”
 
“But where does the smoke come from, and why should my hollow tree[72] be cut down?” asked Tommy, to whom this was all new and very strange.
 
“Hunters,” replied Bobby . “You wait until the cool weather comes and you’ll find out what I mean.”
 
“But who are the hunters and what do they hunt us for?” persisted Tommy.
 
“My, but you are innocent!” retorted Bobby. “They are those two-legged creatures called men, and I don’t know what they hunt us for. They just do, that’s all. They seem to think it’s fun. I wish one of them would have to fight for his life. Perhaps he wouldn’t see so much fun in it then. It was last fall that they drove me out of my hollow tree, and they pretty nearly got me, too. But they won’t do it this year! You take my advice and get a den in the rocks. Then you can laugh at them.”
 
 
“But what will they hunt me for? I haven’t done them any harm,” persisted Tommy.
 
“That doesn’t have anything to do with it,” retorted Bobby. “They do it for fun. Have you tried the corn yet? It’s delicious. Come on and we’ll have a feast.”
 
Now of course Tommy was ready for a feast. The very thought of it put everything else out of his head. He shuffled along behind Bobby Coon through the Green Forest, across a little stretch of meadow, and under the bars of a fence into a corn-field. For a minute he sat and watched Bobby. It was Tommy’s first visit to a corn-field and he didn’t know just what to do. But Bobby did. Oh, yes, Bobby did. He stood up on his legs and pulled one of the more[74] slender stalks down until he could get at the lowest ear. Then he stripped off the husk and took a huge bite of the tender milky .
 
“Um-m-m,” said Bobby Coon, and took another.
 
Tommy waited no longer. He found a stalk for himself, and two minutes later he was stuffing himself with the most delicious meal he ever had tasted. At least he thought so then. He forgot all about and hunters. He had no thought for anything but the feast before him. Here was plenty and to spare.
 
He dropped the ear he was eating and climbed a big stalk to strip another ear. The first one was good but this one was better. Perhaps a third would be better still. So he sampled a third. The[75] moon flooded the corn-field with silvery light. It was just the kind of a night that all raccoons love, and in that field of plenty Bobby and Tommy were perfectly happy. They did not know that they were in mischief. How should they? The corn was no more than other green things growing of which they were free to help themselves. So they wandered about, taking here a bite and there a bite and wasting many times as much as they ate.
 
Suddenly, in the midst of their good time, there sounded the of a dog, and there was something about it that sent a chill of fright along Tommy’s . It was an excited and yelp and yet there was something threatening in it. It was followed by another yelp, and then another, each more excited than the others, and then it broke into a full-throated roar in which there was something fierce and terrifying. It was coming nearer through the corn. Tommy looked over to where he had last seen Bobby Coon. He wasn’t there, but a of the corn-stalks beyond told him that Bobby was running, running for his life.
 
Tommy was in a panic. He never had had to run for his life before. Where should he go? To the Green Forest of course, where there were trees to climb. In a tree he would be safe. Then he heard another sound, the shout of a man. He remembered what Bobby Coon had said about trees and a new fear took possession of him. While he still hesitated, the dog passed, only a few yards away in the corn. Tommy heard the of the stalks and the roar of his voice. And then suddenly he knew that the dog was not after him. He was following the tracks of Bobby Coon.
 
Swiftly Tommy stole through the corn and ran across the bit of meadow, his heart in his mouth, to the great black bulk of the Green Forest. He ran swiftly, surprisingly so for such a clumsy-looking fellow. How friendly the tall trees looked! They seemed to promise safety. It was hard to believe that Bobby Coon was right and that they did not. He kept on, nor stopped until he was in his own hollow tree. The voice of the dog came to him, growing fainter and fainter in the direction of the mountain, and finally ceased altogether. He wondered if Bobby reached his den and was safe.
 
Of one thing Tommy was certain: that corn-field was no place for him. So he kept away from it and tried not to think of how good that milky corn had tasted. So the summer passed and the fall came with falling leaves and sharp frosty nights. They gave Tommy even more of an appetite, though there had been nothing the matter with that before. He grew fatter and fatter so that it made him to run. Unknown to him, Old Mother Nature was preparing him for the long winter sleep.
 
By this time the memory of the dog and of what Bobby Coon had said about hollow trees had almost dropped from his mind. He was concerned over nothing but filling his stomach and enjoying those frosty moonlight nights. He with no one and no one interfered with him.
 
One night he had gone down to the Laughing Brook, fishing. Without warning, there broke out on the still air the sound of that dog. Tommy listened for just a minute. This time it was his trail that dog was following. There could be no doubt about it. Tommy turned and ran swiftly. But he was fat and heavy, and he could hear the dog gaining rapidly. Straight for his hollow tree fled Tommy, and even as he reached it the dog was almost at his heels. Up the tree Tommy and, from the safe vantage of a big limb which was the threshold of his home, he looked[80] down. The dog was leaping up against the base of the tree excitedly and his voice had changed. He was barking. A feeling of relief swept over Tommy. The dog could not climb; he was safe.
 
But presently there were new sounds in the Green Forest, the shouting of men. Lights twinkled and drew nearer. Staring down from the edge of his hole, Tommy saw eager, cruel faces looking up. With a terrible fear gripping his heart he crept down into his bed. Presently the tree shook with the jar of an ax. Blow followed blow. The tree vibrated to each blow and the passed through Tommy’s body so that it shook, but it shook still more with a nameless and terrible fear.
 
At last there was a sharp cracking sound. Tommy felt himself falling[81] through space. He remembered what Bobby Coon had told him, and he wondered if he would be lucky enough to escape as Bobby did. Then he shut his eyes tight, waiting for the crash when the tree should strike the ground.
 
When he opened his eyes, he was—just Tommy sitting on the wishing-stone overlooking the Green Meadows. His face was wet with . Was it from the sun beating down upon him, or was it from the fear that had gripped him when that tree began to fall? A ran over him at the memory. He looked over to the corn-field where he had found the tracks of Bobby Coon and the mischief he had . What was he to do about it? Somehow strangely his sympathy was with Bobby.
 
“He doesn’t know any better,” muttered Tommy. “He thinks that corn belongs to him as much as to anybody else, and there isn’t any reason why he shouldn’t think so. It isn’t fair to trap him or kill him for something he doesn’t know he shouldn’t do. If he just knew enough to eat what he wants and not waste so much, I guess there wouldn’t be any trouble. He’s just like a lot of folks who have so much they don’t know what to do with it, only they know better than to waste it, and he doesn’t. I know what I’ll do. I’ll take Bowser down there to-night and give him a scare. I’ll give him such a scare that he won’t dare come back until the corn is so hard he won’t want it. That’s what I’ll do!
 
“My, it must be awful to think you’re safe and then find you’re trapped! I guess I won’t ever hunt coons any more. I used to think it was fun, but I never thought how the coon must feel. Now I know and—and—well, a live coon is a lot more interesting than a dead one, anyway. Funny what I find out on this old wishing-stone. If I keep on, I won’t want to hunt anything any more.”
 
Tommy got up, stretched, began to whistle as if there was a load off his mind, and started for home, still whistling.
 
And his whistle was good to hear.