Where the Red Fern Grows

1 ALSO AVAILABLE FROMLAUREL-LEAF BOOKSSUMMER OF THE MONKEYS, WilsonRawlsJOHNNY TREMAIN, Esther ForbesTHE WITCH OF BLACKBIRD PONDE lizabeth George SpeareTHE CHOCOLATE WAR, RobertCormierBEYOND THE CHOCOLATE WAR,Robert CormierNUMBER THE STARS, Lois LowrySHANE, Jack SchaeferPublished by Laurel-Leafan imprint of Random House Children s Booksa division of Random House, YorkThis is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, andincidents either are the product of the author simagination or are used fictitiously.

2 Any resemblance toactual persons, living or dead, events, or locales isentirely 1961 by Woodrow Wilson RawlsCopyright 1961 by The Curtis Publishing CompanyAll rights published in hardcover in the United States byDoubleday Books for Young Readers, New York, in1961. This edition published by arrangement withDoubleday Books for Young and colophon are registered trademarks ofRandom House, us on the Web! and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools,visit us of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data isavailable on : 978-0-307-78156-7RL.

3 2001 Random House Children s Books supports the FirstAmendment and celebrates the right to my wonderful wifewithout whose help this bookwould not have beenwrittenContentsCoverAlso Available from Laurel-Leaf BooksTitle PageCopyrightDedicationChapter IChapter IIChapter IIIC hapter IVChapter VChapter VIChapter VIIC hapter VIIIC hapter IXChapter XChapter XIChapter XIIC hapter XIIIC hapter XIVC hapter XVChapter XVIC hapter XVIIC hapter XVIIIC hapter XIXC hapter XXAbout the AuthorIWHEN I LEFT MY OFFICE THAT BEAUTIFUL SPRINGDAY, I HAD no idea what was in store for begin with, everything was too perfectfor anything unusual to happen.

4 It was oneof those days when a man feels good, feelslike speaking to his neighbor, is glad tolive in a country like ours, and proud ofhis government. You know what I mean,one of those rare days when everything isright and nothing is was walking along whistling when Iheard the dogfight. At first I paid noattention to it. After all it wasn t anythingto get excited about, just another dogfightin a residential the sound of the fight grew nearer, Icould tell there were quite a few dogsmixed up in it.

5 They boiled out of an alley,turned, and headed straight toward wanting to get bitten or run over, Imoved over to the edge of the could see that all the dogs werefighting one. About twenty-five feet fromme they caught him and down he went. Ifelt sorry for the unfortunate one. I knew ifsomething wasn t done quickly thesanitation department would have to pickup a dead was trying to make up my mind to helpwhen I got a surprise. Up out of thatsnarling, growling, slashing mass rearedan old redbone hound.

6 For a second I sawhim. I caught my breath. I couldn t believewhat I had and slashing, he fought hisway through the pack and backed up underthe low branches of a hedge. Growlingand snarling, they formed a halfmooncircle around him. A big bird dog, bolderthan the others, darted in. The hedge shookas he tangled with the hound. He came outso fast he fell over backwards. I saw thathis right ear was split wide open. It wastoo much for him and he took off down thestreet, squalling like a scalded big ugly cur tried his luck.

7 He didn tget off so easy. He came out with his leftshoulder laid open to the bone. He satdown on his rear and let the world knowthat he had been this time, my fighting blood wasboiling. It s hard for a man to stand andwatch an old hound fight against suchodds, especially if that man has memoriesin his heart like I had in mine. I had seenthe time when an old hound like that hadgiven his life so that I might off my coat, I waded in. Myyelling and scolding didn t have mucheffect, but the swinging coat did.

8 The dogsscattered and on my knees, I peered back underthe hedge. The hound was still mad. Hegrowled at me and showed his teeth. Iknew it wasn t his nature to fight a a soft voice, I started talking to him. Come on, boy, I said. It s all right. I myour friend. Come on now. The fighting fire slowly left his bowed his head and his long, red tailstarted thumping the ground. I keptcoaxing. On his stomach, an inch at a time,he came to me and laid his head in almost cried at what I saw.

9 His coatwas dirty and mud-caked. His skin wasstretched drum-tight over his bony knotty joints of his hips and shouldersstood out a good three inches from hisbody. I could tell he was couldn t figure it out. He didn t belongin town. He was far out of place with theboxers, poodles, bird dogs, and otherbreeds of town dogs. He belonged in thecountry. He was a hunting raised one of his paws. There I readthe story. The pads were worn down slickas the rind on an apple. I knew he hadcome a long way, and no doubt had a longway to go.

10 Around his neck was a crudecollar. On closer inspection, I saw it hadbeen made from a piece of check-lineleather. Two holes had been punched ineach end and the ends were laced togetherwith bailing I turned the collar with my finger, Isaw something else. There, scratcheddeep in the tough leather, was the name Buddie. I guessed that the crude,scribbly letters had probably been writtenby a little s strange indeed how memories canlie dormant in a man s mind for so manyyears.