Raccoon and the Three Roasting Geese

Continued from last week

“Saa-nee-haa, saa-nee-haa,” creaked the limbs, which made Raccoon think they were calling out, “Don’t do that!”

So Raccoon scampered up the tree and ran to the crossed limbs, which squeaked. He stood on both of them and then lifted his paw to strike the spot where they crossed each other. Down went his paw with a terrible stroke. Apart flew the limbs, and then together again with a quick snap. Wind Boy had done the trick—he, the mischief-friend of Fox. “Oh, oh!” squealed Raccoon. “Let go! I didn’t know you could bite! You’ve caught my paw.”

Raccoon struggled until he lost balance and fell off the branches and swung high in the air. “Whee, whee,” he screamed. “Let go, let go!”

Fox looked up with great interest, but he could not laugh. He had such a terrible ache inside. Those three geese were picking away so savagely inside him—he was sorry he had eaten all of them now.

Raccoon kept on squealing in such a comical fashion that Fox, in spite of his pain, couldn’t help but creep out to enjoy his enemy’s discomfort.

“Hi, you, up there!” called out Fox. “What are you doing in that tree swinging by one paw?”

“Oh, get me down,” begged Raccoon.

“Why should I help you, cousin?” asked Fox. “You deserve all you are getting. Remember the time you fed me fire ball and burned my throat out?”

“Oh, get me down,” begged Raccoon.

“Why should I get you down?” laughed Fox as best he could, for those geese were making trouble inside. “Remember the time you called me names?”

“Oh, get me down,” begged Raccoon. “I will forgive you for eating my geese. I won’t hold it against you.”

“Well, I hold it against you, all right,” said Fox, rubbing his tummy. “You can’t cook anything fit to eat.”

“Oh, get me down,” squealed Raccoon. “I’ll give anything to get down.”

“What will you give?” inquired Fox.

“All the geese in the world,” replied Raccoon.

“You can eat them all after this. Besides, if you let me down I’ll tell you something you ought to know to save your life.”

“Save my life?” echoed Fox, doubling up with pain. “What do you mean? I’m not going to die, am I?”

“Yes, you are going to die unless I help you,” answered Raccoon.

Fox twisted up into a knot of torment. What a stomachache he had!

“All right,” said Fox, as soon as he could speak. “I’ll ask Wind Boy to blow a little and let you down.” Of course Wind Boy obeyed Fox and moved the tree just enough to loosen Raccoon’s poor pinched paw. Down he fell with a thud ,which nearly knocked the breath out of him. “Oh, Fox, oh, Fox!” was all he could say.

“Well, what were you going to tell me?” inquired Fox, doubling up again with pain.

“You’re poisoned!” exclaimed Raccoon. “I put poison in those geese because I was afraid Wolverine would find them while I slept.”

“Poison?” yelped Fox. “What kind of poison?”

“Fox poison,” asserted Raccoon, licking his sore paw. “It is the worst kind, and I knew if it would kill foxes it would kill wolverines.”

“Then you weren’t going to eat those geese?” yelped Fox, with a ghastly look on his face. “No,” lied Raccoon. “I was trying to revenge myself on the meanest fellow I know.”

“Oh, oh,” groaned Fox, rubbing his tummy.

“Oh, oh,” groaned Raccoon, sucking his poor pinched paw.

“What’ll I do?” inquired Fox.

“Get medicine,” answered Raccoon.

“Who from?”

“From me.”

“You got some?”

“Yes.”

“Give me some.”

“What’ll you give for a dose?”

“What do you want?”

“Three well-roasted geese.”

“All right, I’ll get ’em. Give me the medicine.”

“Chew up these six gristly feet and call yourself names,” commanded Raccoon. “That’s the medicine.”

Fox chewed up the feet and called himself all the terrible names he could think of.

“I’m a mud mouth, I’m a mud puppy, I’m a split-lip, I’m a hippety-hopper, I’m a mean hummer!” he shouted.

“Now get the geese and roast them,” commanded Raccoon. “Quick now, I’m hungry.”

So Fox caught the geese and fixed them for the roast. Then he went down to the river and chewed calamus root. After that he felt better.

“Hmm,” Fox thought, “I wonder if Raccoon was fooling me. I’ll bet he was just making me chew feet and call myself names to get revenged. Oh, I’ll fix him!”

Fox felt a lot better now and so he watched the geese roast. The calamus roots stopped his inside aching and his mind became sharper, but still he pretended to be terribly sick.

“Oh, I am so sick yet,” he howled. “Those gristly feet make me sicker than ever. I’m afraid I’ll die. Don’t go to sleep, cousin,” he pleaded.

“Guess I will curl up and sleep,” said Raccoon. “You watch those geese or you’ll surely die. Remember, I haven’t given you the final cure yet.”

So saying, Raccoon ran up the tree and curled up on a big limb right over the fire. Looking down with one open eye, he saw the feet of the geese—one, two, three, four, five, six. As he closed his eye, he smelled the savory odors of the cooking geese. Then he fell into a deep slumber.

Fox wanted no more geese, but just for a frolic he opened the ashes enough to let out the most appetizing odors that ever steamed from an ash-oven. Delicious!

Whispering to Wind Boy, he said, “Blow this smell to Wolverine.”

Wind Boy did just as he was told, and soon Wolverine came trotting along.

“Get out,” snorted Wolverine. “Where I come, everyone else leaves the scene.”

Fox ran around the tree and waited as Wolverine, the glutton, ate the geese, feet and all, and then departed.

After awhile Raccoon awoke and, smelling the remains of the feast, scrambled down from his perch. He looked with angry eyes at the scattered ashes.

“Where are my geese?” he demanded, with fire in his eyes and his teeth parted.

“Your geese?” yelped back Fox. “Your geese? Why, you gave me all the geese in the world as the price of your release from the pinch of those limbs up there, so when the geese were done I ate them.”

“You ate them!” screamed Raccoon. “Why, I thought you had eaten enough goose to be sick!”

“Well, I got over it,” answered Fox.

“But I cured you,” snapped Raccoon.

“Like fun, you did,” laughed Fox. “Calamus root cured me.”

Raccoon was now as mad as a mean-hummer. “Go away!” he snarled. “For one thing, you think you’ve starved me, but you haven’t.”

“Ah, me,” sighed Fox, “if you are sorry I saved your life, I’ll go. But I am as mad as can be that I didn’t leave you hanging in the tree. It would have served you right because you can’t learn anything.”

“What can’t I learn?” snapped Raccoon.

“You can’t learn to keep awake when your meat is on the fire,” answered Fox. “But that isn’t all you can’t learn.”

“What else can’t I learn?” inquired Raccoon, greatly vexed.

“That you should never ask for what you have given away,” answered Fox, swishing his tail and sauntering down the trail.

Raccoon scowled as he watched the retreating form of the old red fox.

“It is a hard fate,” thought he, “to be in debt to an enemy, especially if he be a clever fellow.”

Thereupon he fell to cracking goose bones and licking out the marrow.

“He can’t starve me,” growled Raccoon. “Little does he know that the best part of the meat lies in the heart of the bones.”

So this is what the old folk say, and it must be true.

Na ho!