Where the Red Fern Grows

I told her how hard I had tried to find names for them and how strange i* was finding them carved in the bark of a sycamore tree.

Bending over, she started kissing me. I finally squirmed away from her, feeling as wet as a dirt dauber’s nest. My mother never could kiss me like a fellow should be kissed. Before she was done I was kissed all over. It always made me feel silly and baby-like. I tried to tell her that a coon hunter wasn’t supposed to be kissed that way, but Mama never could understand things like that.