"Pssst! Davy! Davy! Hey stoopid!" the bear said from behind the bush. "Com' ere runt dog!"
The bear had known Davy since he was 'wet behind the ears', for as a baby Davy had rolled down a steep hill and into the bear's den, uninvited. Seeing the potential trouble the little lad could be to the bear should he make a quick snack of him, the bear propped him up against a tree in the North Carolina/Tennessee forest so his excitable folks could find him, but before he left he said to the precocious humanoid,
"You owe me, bub. Let's stay in touch."
Crawling off one day, Davy discovered Bear napping, as they do in the middle of the day. Thumping his big friend on the nose, Bear opened one eye, seein' exactly who he thought he'd been smelling for days on end, thinkin' 'Geesus man, don't they ever wash that kid?'
"So what do you want, Stinky?" the bear said, holding the 3 year old at arm's length using an ash branch. "You're always showin' up 'bout the time I'm settlin' down for a good snooze."
"I need to kill me a bear to go with a ballad about me that I know someone's going to write someday and make me famous," said Davy, quite able to communicate with Bears by the age of three, the precocious lad he was.
"Hmmmm," said Bear, with his eyes closed. "I know a few idiots that need killin', when do you need 'em?"
"Caint wait," said Davy. "Gotta kill 'im when I am only three."
"How old you now, kid?" asked Bear. "You smell ripe."
"Three, today," said Davy, smellin' himself under his armpits and makin' a face.
"Words are "Kilt him a bar when he was only three, Davy, Davy Crockett, King of the Wild Frontier."
"Whoa, dude!" said Bear, his eyes fully open. "Someone else writin' this here 'ballad' or are you? ""Kilt him a bar?" Who talks like that?"
"Well, I don't really have to kill a bear," said Davy. "After all, ballads are just fairy tales set to music, really. I thought maybe we could work out some sort of deal in which we both benefit from my stardom. I remember that you didn't eat me when you easily could have, just like now I'd be a quick snack, so I owe you big time. You want in on this or not? Likely there'll be other opportunities, but this is a pressing problem for now."
"Well, I could fake falling dead," said the bear, scratching his belly. "Done 'er mor than once. We could stage something over here above my den. How do you kill it?"
"Doesn't say," says Davy. "Only know that little bit of the proposed lyrics--it came to me in a dream. Some musician named George Bruns, working with some guy named Thomas W. Burns, I guess, is going to write it 166 years into the future. I'm probably off my rocker. I did take a nasty fall off that mountain top, you know. Strange that George and Thomas's last names have the same letters, only in different places...."
"Reckon someone'll have to witness it, so's they can say they seen it with their own eyes," said Bear, lookin' for the best place to stand along the top of the hill above his den. "You know anyone you kin trust?"
"Just my bestest friend, 'Orange', our old yellow mongrel dog," brightened Davy. "He ain't much for talkin', but he can rite 'is name and count to ten! The neighbors had a dog named "Yeller, so's I named 'im, Orange. I laugh my britches off when folks hereabouts ask me why didn't I name the l'il cuss, 'Yeller.' Then I tells 'em, "The neighbors named their dog, 'Yeller' first, so if I named my dog 'Yeller', there'd be two dogs within earshot named the same thing. Their dog is a croctchety mean bitey dog who likes to gnaw on people 'e don't know, like yerse'f. I can call 'im, so's you can see what I mean." The man about panicked, don't you think he didn't, shook like a popple leaf in a stiff wind. And I said,"Orange you glad I dint name 'im 'Yeller?'"
"Uh, Davy," Bear said patiently. "We need a human, not no yeller bastard hound dog who kin count to ten. Geesus man, you haven't been hangin' down at the Nolichucky River rapids, have you? I always thought you had more sense than that."
"Well, there's Ma, I reckon," said Davy. "I'd hate to be lyin' to her, not lettin' her in on our joke. She'd tan my hide fast, if'n she'd see you weren't kilt. More'n likely, she'd kill you herse'f. Don't think she likes bears much."
"Good grief, David," said Bear. "You go git yur ma and I'll show myself ..."
"Not that way you l'il pervert!" shouted Bear, indignantly, reacting to Davy's obscene gesture at Bear's statement. "I'll step out so she can see that I'm a bear ... and you run at me with a sharp stick to protect her, feign a stab with it into my chest, and I'll dump my old carcass over the cliff here--then go back to sleep for the winter. Your ma won't tell me apart from any other bear. Deal?"
"Deal, said Davy. "See you in the spring."
The bear had known Davy since he was 'wet behind the ears', for as a baby Davy had rolled down a steep hill and into the bear's den, uninvited. Seeing the potential trouble the little lad could be to the bear should he make a quick snack of him, the bear propped him up against a tree in the North Carolina/Tennessee forest so his excitable folks could find him, but before he left he said to the precocious humanoid,
"You owe me, bub. Let's stay in touch."
Crawling off one day, Davy discovered Bear napping, as they do in the middle of the day. Thumping his big friend on the nose, Bear opened one eye, seein' exactly who he thought he'd been smelling for days on end, thinkin' 'Geesus man, don't they ever wash that kid?'
"So what do you want, Stinky?" the bear said, holding the 3 year old at arm's length using an ash branch. "You're always showin' up 'bout the time I'm settlin' down for a good snooze."
"I need to kill me a bear to go with a ballad about me that I know someone's going to write someday and make me famous," said Davy, quite able to communicate with Bears by the age of three, the precocious lad he was.
"Hmmmm," said Bear, with his eyes closed. "I know a few idiots that need killin', when do you need 'em?"
"Caint wait," said Davy. "Gotta kill 'im when I am only three."
"How old you now, kid?" asked Bear. "You smell ripe."
"Three, today," said Davy, smellin' himself under his armpits and makin' a face.
"Words are "Kilt him a bar when he was only three, Davy, Davy Crockett, King of the Wild Frontier."
"Whoa, dude!" said Bear, his eyes fully open. "Someone else writin' this here 'ballad' or are you? ""Kilt him a bar?" Who talks like that?"
"Well, I don't really have to kill a bear," said Davy. "After all, ballads are just fairy tales set to music, really. I thought maybe we could work out some sort of deal in which we both benefit from my stardom. I remember that you didn't eat me when you easily could have, just like now I'd be a quick snack, so I owe you big time. You want in on this or not? Likely there'll be other opportunities, but this is a pressing problem for now."
"Well, I could fake falling dead," said the bear, scratching his belly. "Done 'er mor than once. We could stage something over here above my den. How do you kill it?"
"Doesn't say," says Davy. "Only know that little bit of the proposed lyrics--it came to me in a dream. Some musician named George Bruns, working with some guy named Thomas W. Burns, I guess, is going to write it 166 years into the future. I'm probably off my rocker. I did take a nasty fall off that mountain top, you know. Strange that George and Thomas's last names have the same letters, only in different places...."
"Reckon someone'll have to witness it, so's they can say they seen it with their own eyes," said Bear, lookin' for the best place to stand along the top of the hill above his den. "You know anyone you kin trust?"
"Just my bestest friend, 'Orange', our old yellow mongrel dog," brightened Davy. "He ain't much for talkin', but he can rite 'is name and count to ten! The neighbors had a dog named "Yeller, so's I named 'im, Orange. I laugh my britches off when folks hereabouts ask me why didn't I name the l'il cuss, 'Yeller.' Then I tells 'em, "The neighbors named their dog, 'Yeller' first, so if I named my dog 'Yeller', there'd be two dogs within earshot named the same thing. Their dog is a croctchety mean bitey dog who likes to gnaw on people 'e don't know, like yerse'f. I can call 'im, so's you can see what I mean." The man about panicked, don't you think he didn't, shook like a popple leaf in a stiff wind. And I said,"Orange you glad I dint name 'im 'Yeller?'"
"Uh, Davy," Bear said patiently. "We need a human, not no yeller bastard hound dog who kin count to ten. Geesus man, you haven't been hangin' down at the Nolichucky River rapids, have you? I always thought you had more sense than that."
"Well, there's Ma, I reckon," said Davy. "I'd hate to be lyin' to her, not lettin' her in on our joke. She'd tan my hide fast, if'n she'd see you weren't kilt. More'n likely, she'd kill you herse'f. Don't think she likes bears much."
"Good grief, David," said Bear. "You go git yur ma and I'll show myself ..."
"Not that way you l'il pervert!" shouted Bear, indignantly, reacting to Davy's obscene gesture at Bear's statement. "I'll step out so she can see that I'm a bear ... and you run at me with a sharp stick to protect her, feign a stab with it into my chest, and I'll dump my old carcass over the cliff here--then go back to sleep for the winter. Your ma won't tell me apart from any other bear. Deal?"
"Deal, said Davy. "See you in the spring."
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