Where the Red Fern Grows

by Wilson Rawls

  “I’m sure it is, Papa,” I said, “and I do understand. I feel different now, and I don’t hurt any more.”

  “Come,” Mama said, “let’s go back to the wagon. Billy wants to be alone with his dogs for a while.”

  Just as they turned to leave, I heard Papa murmur in a low voice, “Wonderful indeed is the work of our Lord.”

  As I stood looking at the two graves, I noticed things I hadn’t seen before. Wild violets, rooster heads, and mountain daisies had completely covered the two little mounds. A summer breeze gushed down from the rugged hills. I felt its warm caress as it fanned my face. It hummed a tune in the underbrush and rustled the leaves on the huge red oak. The red fern wavered and danced to the music of the hills.

  Taking off my cap, I bowed my head. In a choking voice, I said, “Good-bye, Old Dan and Little Ann. I’ll never forget you; and this I know—if God made room in heaven for all good dogs, I know He made a special place for you.”

  With a heavy heart, I turned and walked away. I knew that as long as I lived I’d never forget the two little graves and the sacred red fern.

  Not far from our home, the road wound its way up and over a hill. At the top Papa stopped the team. We all stood up and looked back. It was a beautiful sight, one I’ll never forget.

  As I stood and looked at the home of my birth, it looked sad and lonely. There was no spiral of lazy blue smoke twisting from the rock chimney, no white leghorn hen chasing a June bug, no horse or cow standing with head down and tail switching.

  I saw I had left the door to the barn loft open. A tuft of hay hung out. It wavered gently in the warm summer breeze.

  Something scurried across the vacant yard and disappeared under the barn. It was Samie, our house cat. I heard my little sister say in a choking voice, “Mommie, we forgot Samie.”

  There was no answer.

  To the left, I could see our fields and the zigzag lines of rail fences. Farther down, I could see the shimmering whiteness of the tall sycamores. My vision blurred as tears came to my eyes.

  The sorrowful silence was broken by my mother’s voice. She asked, “Billy, can you see it?”

  “See what, Mama?” I asked.

  “The red fern,” she said.

  My oldest sister spoke up. “I can see it,” she said.

  Rubbing my eyes, I looked to the hillside above our home. There it stood in all its wild beauty, a waving red banner in a carpet of green. It seemed to be saying, “Good-bye, and don’t worry, for I’ll be here always.”

  Hearing a sniffling, I turned around. My three little sisters had started crying. Mama said something to Papa. I heard the jingle of the trace chains as they tightened in the singletrees.

  Our wagon moved on.

  I have never been back to the Ozarks. All I have left are my dreams and memories, but if God is willing, some day I’d like to go back—back to those beautiful hills. I’d like to walk again on trails I walked in my boyhood days.

  Once again I’d like to face a mountain breeze and smell the wonderful scent of the redbuds, and papaws, and the dogwoods. With my hands I’d like to caress the cool white bark of a sycamore.

  I’d like to take a walk far back in the flinty hills and search for a souvenir, an old double-bitted ax stuck deep in the side of a white oak tree. I know the handle has long since rotted away with time. Perhaps the rusty frame of a coal-oil lantern still hangs there on the blade.

  I’d like to see the old home place, the barn and the rail fences. I’d like to pause under the beautiful red oaks where my sisters and I played in our childhood. I’d like to walk up the hillside to the graves of my dogs.

  I’m sure the red fern has grown and has completely covered the two little mounds. I know it is still there, hiding its secret beneath those long, red leaves, but it wouldn’t be hidden from me for part of my life is buried there, too.

  Yes, I know it is still there, for in my heart I believe the legend of the sacred red fern.

  WILSON RAWLS was born on a small farm in the Oklahoma Ozarks. He spent his youth in the heart of the Cherokee nation, prowling the hills and river bottoms with his only companion, an old bluetick hound. Rawls’s first writing was done with his fingers in the dust of the country roads and in the sands along the river, and his earliest stories were told to his dog. Not until Rawls’s family moved to Muskogee and he could attend high school did he encounter books. Where the Red Fern Grows has become a modern classic and has been made into a widely acclaimed motion picture.