ffle across the yard with his coat collar turned up, his hat
over his eye, his elbows angled--just as if he had been born and bred on
the Bowery instead of in the Bear Swamp. He was king of the yard, but I
could see that he wore his crown uneasily. He kept a bold front, accepted
every challenge, and even went out of his way to pick a quarrel; yet he
quaked at heart continually. He feared and hated the noises of the yard,
particularly the crowing of our big buff cochin rooster and the screaming
of the guineas. This was one of the swamp-fears that he had brought with
him and could not outlive. It haunted him. If he had a conscience, its
only warnings were of coming noises great and terrible.

But Mux had no conscience, unless it was one that troubled him only when
he was out of mischief. His face was never so long and so solemn as when I
had caught him in some questionable act or spoiled some wayward plan.

Mux, however, was possessed by a much stubborner spirit than this
interesting mischief-devil. Upon one point he was positively demented--the
only four-footed maniac I ever knew. He had gone crazy on the subject of
dirt, mad to wash things, especially his victuals.

He was not particular about what he ate; almost anything that could be
swallowed would do, provided that it could be washed, and washed by
himself, after his own approved fashion.

If I gave him half of my apple, he would squat down by his wash-tub and
begin to hunt for dirt. He would look the apple over and over, pick
around the blossom end, inspect carefully, then pull out the stem, if
there happened to be a stem, dig out the seeds and peek into the core,
then douse it into the water and begin to wash. He would rub with might
and main for a second or two, then rinse it, take a bite, and douse it
back again for more scrubbing, until it was scrubbed and chewed away.

Even when the water was thick with mud, this crazy coon persisted in
washing his clean cake and cabbage therein. Indeed, the muddier the water,
the more vigorously would he wash. The habit was a part of him, as real a
thing in his constitution as the black ring in his fur. It was a very
dirty habit, here in captivity, even if it went by the name of washing. Of
course Mux could not be blamed for his soiled wash-water. That was my
fault; only I couldn't be changing it every time he soaked up a fistful of
earth in his endeavor to wash something to eat out of it. No; he was not
at fault, altogeth