Summer of the Monkeys

by Wilson Rawls

  Just then the deep voice of a hound dog rang out over the depot platform. In his own way, Rowdy was telling the whole wide world that he was a happy hound. The family was together again.

  All around us people started laughing. I was feeling so good that I laughed a little, too.

  We were putting the suitcases and bundles in our wagon when Papa looked at Mama and said, “Why did you bring Daisy’s old crutch home? She doesn’t need it now.”

  “I know,” Mama said as she climbed to the wagon seat, “but I don’t care. I brought it home anyway. I want it hung on the wall in our home where I can see it every day—and be thankful.”

  Papa never said a word as he laid Daisy’s crutch in the wagon, but I could tell by the look on his face that he was thankful, too.

  nineteen

  As we rode along in our bouncy old wagon, Daisy talked up a storm. She had so many things to tell me. She told me all about her operation and her stay in the hospital. She said that the first day she walked without her crutch was the happiest day of her life.

  Rowdy would ride in the wagon for a while. Then he’d jump out and go sniffing along the road. He had so much hunting blood in him, he couldn’t stay in the wagon for very long.

  When we came in sight of our home, Papa said, “It looks like we have company.”

  “Why, that’s Grandpa’s buckboard,” Mama said. “Bless his old heart! He just couldn’t wait—he wants to see Daisy.”

  Papa stretched up to see better. “What’s that I see in our barn lot?” he said. “I’m sure it wasn’t there when we left this morning.”

  I stood up in the wagon so I could see over the rail fence around our barn lot. My mouth flew open and my eyes all but popped out of my head. I got warm all over and my old heart started pounding like a sawmill.

  Standing in the center of the lot, with her head up and looking in our direction, was the little mare.

  Daisy grabbed the back of the spring seat to steady herself and stood up in the wagon, too. “What is it, Jay Berry?” she asked.

  I wanted to answer Daisy but I couldn’t. I couldn’t do anything but stare at that beautiful paint pony.

  Just then the little mare shook her head and snorted. She trotted over to the rail fence. With her small ears pointing straight up, she looked at me and nickered.

  The nicker jarred me out of the trance I was in. “It’s the little mare!” I shouted. “It’s the little mare!”

  “Oh, it’s a paint!” Daisy said. “Isn’t she beautiful!”

  The little mare was all excited. With her mane and tail flying, she galloped around the lot. Now and then, she would stop, toss her head, and nicker.

  I could see that she wasn’t limping at all.

  Daisy said, “Jay Berry, that pony acts like she knows you. Have you ever seen her before?”

  “She does know me,” I said. “I saw her at Grandpa’s store.”

  I was still looking at the little mare when Papa drove up in front of our house and stopped the wagon.

  Grandpa was sitting on the porch in Papa’s rocker. He was just sitting there with a grin on his whiskery old face; rocking away and looking at us.

  I jumped down from the wagon and ran to him. “Grandpa,” I said in a loud voice, “the little mare—did you bring her?”

  “I sure did,” Grandpa said. “She’s all yours—she’s your pony.”

  I was so stunned I couldn’t even thank Grandpa. I just stood there with my mouth open, looking at him and not even seeing him.

  From behind me I heard Daisy squeal with excitement. “Oh, Mama,” she said, “it came true! It really did! The wish I made in the fairy ring has come true. I wished that Jay Berry could get his pony and .22.”

  On hearing the rustling of paper, I turned around just as Daisy walked up to me. She had one of the packages in her hands and was hugging it to her.

  With a serious look on her face, she said, “Jay Berry, this is your gun. But before I give it to you, I want you to promise me something. I want you to promise me that you won’t ever shoot any of the little things that live in these hills. I mean little birds, squirrels, chipmunks, and bunnies. They don’t hurt anything. If you just have to shoot something, there are plenty of old rattlesnakes, chicken hawks, wolves, and wild cats around. You can shoot them—but not the little things. Will you promise me that?”

  Things were happening so fast I couldn’t think straight. My mind went completely blank. I wanted to promise Daisy but I couldn’t talk. All I could do was nod my head.

  Daisy said, “Don’t just nod your head, Jay Berry. I want to hear you say it out loud.”

  I took a deep breath and said, “All right, Daisy, I promise that I won’t hurt any of the little things—not ever again.”

  As Daisy held the package out to me, she smiled and said, “Mama and I walked all over Oklahoma City looking for this .22. I think it’s just like the one I saw you looking at in our catalogue.”

  With trembling hands, I tore the paper from the package. There it was—my own .22. It was a single-shot Hamilton—the very gun I had always wanted.

  I turned the gun over and over, and ran my hand along the dark walnut stock and the slick metal barrel. I put the stock to my shoulder and drew a bead on a fence post.

  As I stood there with the .22 in my hands—one of the most precious treasures a country boy can own—I looked over to the pony in our barn lot. The little mare was standing with her head over the rail fence, looking at me. She nickered, tossed her head, and started pawing the ground.

  It was so still on the porch of our home, you could have heard a worm breathing. Visions started flashing through my mind. I saw Daisy’s playhouse and all her treasures—the cross she had made from grapevines wrapped in tinfoil, and the face of Christ she had molded from the dark red clay of the Ozark hills. I could see the wild mountain flowers peeking from the tin cans—rooster heads, violets, and daisies. I saw the fairy ring and remembered the wish I had made when I knelt in the center of that snow-white circle.

  I felt the hot tears in my eyes. I tried not to bawl, but I just couldn’t help it. I bawled anyway.

  I wiped the tears from my face with the sleeve of my shirt. “Daisy,” I said, “there’s something that I want to tell you. The wish I made in the fairy ring has come true, too. I wished that you could get your crippled leg fixed up.”

  Whimpering like a pup under a tub, Mama buried her face in Papa’s chest.

  Papa put his arms around Mama. Looking at me, he said, “Son, when your mother and I made our wishes, we wished for the same thing you did. We wished that Daisy could get her crippled leg taken care of. Our wishes came true.”

  In a choking voice, Mama said, “It’s a miracle! All four of our wishes have come true. It was the work of the Lord. It couldn’t have been anything else.”

  With a low cough, Grandpa cleared his throat. He got up from his chair and said, “You know, when your grandma and I first came to this country, I did a lot of walking. I don’t do much walking any more—not since I opened the store. But from this day, I’m going to walk all over these hills and river bottoms, and I don’t care where I walk I’m going to look for a fairy ring. I’d sure like to find one. There are a lot of things I’d like to wish for—a lot of things.”

  Grandpa seemed to be so serious in what he was saying, it was funny. All of us started laughing.

  Grandpa got a little upset. He said, “I mean it. I mean every word I said.”

  All excited, Daisy turned to me and said, “Jay Berry, let’s go look at your pony. I’m dying to see her.”

  “All right,” I said as I set my gun down and leaned it against a porch post. “She’s a dandy.”

  With Rowdy bouncing along with us, Daisy and I hurried to the barn lot. We had no more than opened the gate, when the little mare tossed her head and came trotting to us.

  While Daisy was petting her, I went to the barn and got a currycomb. As much petting, rubbing, and grooming as my pony got, it was a wonder s
he had any hair left on her.

  The little mare loved the attention she was getting. She nibbled at our clothes and pushed us with her head. Once she got so excited she whirled, and galloped all the way around the lot.

  Daisy laughed and said, “Look at her. She’s a regular little show-off.”

  I felt sorry for Rowdy. The poor old fellow was so jealous of the little mare he could hardly stand it. In every way that a hound dog could, he tried to keep his body between us and the pony. He didn’t want my pony to get all the attention and petting. He wanted to get a little of it himself.

  Right out of a clear blue sky, Daisy said, “Jay Berry, what are you going to name your pony?”

  “Oh!” I said. “I haven’t even thought about a name for her.”

  So many things had happened to me, I hadn’t even thought about naming my pony.

  Daisy said, “She’s as sweet as a doll; I don’t think it would be hard to find a name for her.”

  When I heard Daisy say “doll,” I shouted, “That’s it! It’s perfect! I’ll name her Dolly.”

  Daisy looked at me and started repeating “Dolly” over and over. Then her eyes lit up and she said, “Oh, Jay Berry, it’s the perfect name for her. You couldn’t have thought of a better one.”

  Rubbing the soft velvety nose of my pony, I said, “Little girl, from now on your name is Dolly. Someday I may write a story about how I got you.

  “Daisy,” I said, “do you want me to get a bridle and put it on her? You can be the first to ride her.”

  “No, Jay Berry,” Daisy said. “I’d love to ride her, but we’ll have plenty of time for that. Right now, there is something else I want more than anything.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “I want you to run with me,” Daisy said. “I want that more than anything I’ve ever wanted.”

  I was so surprised I couldn’t believe what I heard Daisy say. “Run with you!” I said.

  “Yes,” Daisy said. “All through the years when I’ve been up in my playhouse and watched you and Rowdy running in our fields, I could hear you laughing and Rowdy barking. You seemed to be having so much fun. I wanted to be running with you. Oh, how I wanted to be there—but I couldn’t. Sometimes it hurt so much I cried. Now, I want to run and run and run. Please, Jay Berry, run with me this one time.”

  My little sister wasn’t just asking me to run with her, she was pleading with me. I could see it in her eyes and hear it in her voice. It almost broke my heart.

  “All right, Daisy,” I said. “I’ll run with you. I’ll run all over these hills with you if you want me to.”

  We climbed over the rail fence and walked out to the edge of our fields. I took my little sister’s small hand in mine and we started running.

  Rowdy seemed to know that this was a special day. He ran ahead of us and he bawled. He zigged and he zagged. Then he turned and came flying back.

  Hand in hand, Daisy and I ran through the clover, the alfalfa, and the timothy—through a field of shocked corn and a pumpkin patch. We leaped high in the air as we jumped over the big yellow pumpkins. We ran all the way down to the river bottoms.

  As we ran, I glanced over at Daisy. She had her head thrown back and her face was flushed with excitement. Her long hair was flying and her eyes were as bright as morning glory blossoms. She was squealing with laughter.

  I had never seen my little sister so happy. It made me feel good all over.

  I was still a boy when I left the Ozarks, only sixteen years old. Since that day, I’ve left my footprints in many lands: the frozen wastelands of the Arctic, the bush country of Old Mexico, and the steaming jungles of Yucatán.

  Throughout my life, I’ve been a lover of the great outdoors. I have built campfires in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado, and hunted wild turkey in the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee and the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. I have climbed the Grand Tetons of Wyoming, and hunted bull elk in the primitive area of Idaho.

  I can truthfully say that, regardless of where I have roamed or wandered, I have always looked for the fairy ring. I have never found one, but I’ll keep looking and hoping. If the day ever comes that I walk up to that snow-white circle, I’ll step into the center of it, kneel down, and make one wish, for in my heart I believe in the legend of the rare fairy ring.

  Don’t miss this heartwarming tale of adventure and friendship you’ll never forget from Wilson Rawls

  On sale now from Yearling Books

  0-440-41267-6

  Excerpt from Where the Red Fern Grows by Wilson Rawls

  Copyright © 1961 by Sophie S. Rawls, Trustee or successor

  Trustee(s) of Rawls Trust, dated July 31, 1991.

  Copyright © 1961 by the Curtis Publishing Company.

  Published by Bantam Doubleday Dell Books for Young Readers,

  a division of Random House, Inc.,

  1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.

  Reprinted by arrangement with Dell Books.

  All rights reserved.

  one

  When I left my office that beautiful spring day, I had no idea what was in store for me. To begin with, everything was too perfect for anything unusual to happen. It was one of those days when a man feels good, feels like speaking to his neighbor, is glad to live in a country like ours, and proud of his government. You know what I mean, one of those rare days when everything is right and nothing is wrong.

  I was walking along whistling when I heard the dogfight. At first I paid no attention to it. After all it wasn’t anything to get excited about, just another dogfight in a residential section.

  As the sound of the fight grew nearer, I could tell there were quite a few dogs mixed up in it. They boiled out of an alley, turned, and headed straight toward me. Not wanting to get bitten or run over, I moved to the edge of the sidewalk.

  I could see that all the dogs were fighting one. About twenty-five feet from me they caught him and down he went. I felt sorry for the unfortunate one. I knew if something wasn’t done quickly the sanitation department would have to pick up a dead dog.

  I was trying to make up my mind when I got a surprise. Up and out of that snarling, growling, slashing mass reared an old redbone hound. For a second I saw him. I caught my breath. I couldn’t believe what I had seen.

  Twisting and slashing, he fought his way through the pack and backed up under the low branches of a hedge. Growling and snarling, they formed a half-moon circle around him. A big bird dog, bolder than the others, darted in. The hedge shook as he tangled with the hound. He came out so fast he fell over backwards. I saw that his right ear was split wide open. It was too much for him and he took off down the street, squalling like a scalded cat.

  A big ugly cur tried his luck. He didn’t get off so easy. He came out with his left shoulder laid open to the bone. He sat down on his rear and let the world know that he had been hurt.

  By this time, my fighting blood was boiling. It’s hard for a man to stand and watch an old hound fight against such odds, especially if that man has memories in his heart like I had in mine. I had seen the time when an old hound like that had given his life so that I might live.

  Taking off my coat, I waded in. My yelling and scolding didn’t have much effect, but the swinging coat did. The dogs scattered and left.

  Down on my knees, I peered back under the hedge. The hound was still mad. He growled at me and showed his teeth. I knew it wasn’t his nature to fight a man.

  In a soft voice, I started talking to him. “Come on, boy,” I said. “It’s all right. I’m your friend. Come on now.”

  The fighting fire slowly left his eyes. He bowed his head and his long red tail started thumping the ground. I kept coaxing. On his stomach, an inch at a time, he came to me and laid his head in my hand.

  I almost cried at what I saw. His coat was dirty and mud-caked. His skin was stretched drum-tight over his bony frame. The knotty joints of his hips and shoulders stood out a good three inches from his body. I could tell he was starved.


  I couldn’t figure it out. He didn’t belong in town. He was far out of place with the boxers, poodles, bird dogs, and other breeds of town dogs. He belonged in the country. He was a hunting hound.

  I raised one of his paws. There I read the story. The pads were worn down slick as the rind on an apple. I knew he had come a long way, and no doubt had a long way to go. Around his neck was a crude collar. On closer inspection, I saw it had been made from a piece of check-line leather. Two holes had been punched in each end and the ends were laced together with baling wire.

  As I turned the collar with my finger, I saw something else. There, scratched deep in the tough leather, was the name “Buddie.” I guessed that the crude, scribbly letters had probably been written by a little boy.

  It’s strange indeed how memories can lie dormant in a man’s mind for so many years. Yet those memories can be awakened and brought forth fresh and new, just by something you’ve seen, or something you’ve heard, or the sight of an old familiar face.

  What I saw in the warm gray eyes of the friendly old hound brought back wonderful memories. To show my gratitude, I took hold of the collar and said, “Come on, boy, let’s go home and get something to eat.”

  He seemed to understand that he had found a friend. He came willingly.

  I gave him a bath and rubbed all the soreness from his muscles. He drank quarts of warm milk and ate all the meat I had in the house. I hurried down to the store and bought more. He ate until he was satisfied.

  He slept all night and most of the next day. Late in the afternoon he grew restless. I told him I understood, and as soon as it was dark he could be on his way. I figured he had a much better chance if he left town at night.

  That evening, a little after sundown, I opened the back gate. He walked out, stopped, turned around, and looked at me. He thanked me by wagging his tail.

  With tears in my eyes, I said, “You’re more than welcome, old fellow. In fact, you could’ve stayed here as long as you wanted to.”