“Beaver tail is almighty tasty,” Old Pete observed as he sat on the front porch whittling a stick.
Andrew scowled. “Papa says it’s all fat and grease. Not good at all.”
“Fat tastes plenty good when you’ve been eatin’ venison and elk a long spell. Wild game’s almighty lean.”
“You been eatin’ here,” Andrew insisted. “We’ve got plenty o’ fat from the hogs.”
Andrew’s mother came out of the house. “The kindling box is empty,” she told him.
He rose obediantly and headed toward the woodpile.
“Are you still teasing him about trapping that beaver?” she asked Old Pete.
The old man grinned. “He’s a right rizable youngster, ain’t he?”
“Who admires you, although I can’t think why,” she said tartly. “He’s beginning to believe that men kill for the sheer pleasure of it.”
Old Pete grunted and tossed down his stick. “Think I’ll help with that kindling,” he said.
Copyright © 2015 Loretta Miles Tollefson