"Well, son, this yere Crwafish Jim is as a den of serpents. I
reckons now he has a plumb dozen mowed away in his raiment. Thar's
no harm in 'em; bein' all bull-snakes, which is innocuous an'
without p'ison, fangs, or convictions.
"When Crawfish goes to cook, he dumps these folks oaten his clothes,
an' lets 'em hustle an'play'round while grub's gettin'.
"'These yere little animals,' he says, 'likes their reecreations
same as humans, so I allers gives 'em a play-spell while I'm busy
round camp.'
'"Don't they ever stampede off none?' I asks.
"'Shorely not,' says Crawfish. 'Bull-snakes is the most domestical
snake thar is. If I'd leave one of these yere tender creatures ere
over night he'd die of homesickness.'
"When Crawfish gets ready to bile the coffee, he tumbles the biggest
bullsnake I'd seen yet outen the coffee-pot onto the grass. Then he
fills the kettle with water, dumps in the coffee, an' sets her on
the coals to stew.
"'This yere partic'lar snake,' says Crawfish, 'which I calls him
Julius Caesar, is too big to tote 'round in my shirt, an' so he
lives in the coffee-pot while I'm away, an' keeps camp for me.'
"'Don't you yearn for no rattlesnakes to fondle?' I inquires, jest
to see what kyard he'd play.
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