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BILLY c. CLARK Born in Catlettsburg, Kentucky, in 1928, Billy C. Clark grew up hunting and trapping in the foothills along the Big Sandy River. He put himselfthrough high school while serving as his own guardian and living in a vacant building that offered yearround access to the school. Following his graduation, Clark served in the military for four years and then returned to Kentucky, where he studied English with Hollis Summers and others at the University ofKentucky. To date, he has published seven novels: Song ofthe River (1957), Riverboy (1958), The MooneyedHound(1958), The Trail ofthe Hunter's Horn (1958), Useless Dog (1961), Goodbye Kate (1964), and The Champion ofSourwood Mountain (1966). His widely acclaimed memoir chronicling his childhood and adolescence, A Long Row to Hoe, was published in 1960, and his collection of short stories, Sourwood Tales, appeared in 1968. The Jesse Stuart Foundation in Ashland, Kentucky, has recently published new editions of many ofhis books. Clark's most recent work is By "Way ofthe Forked Stick (2000), a collection offour intertwined stories. Clark's work, thoroughly grounded in Appalachian culture, reflects the pervasive oral storytelling tradition both in tone and delivery. His stories are reminiscent ofthose ofstorytellers gathered around the stove ofa country store, but they are also modern in their blend of directness and unwritten portent of something greater than the "what happened next" of oral narration. First published in 1953, "Fur in the Hickory" portrays respect for elders and reflects the optimistic vision ofa happy union of tradition and technology that was so prevalent in post-WWII America. • "You can talk about that new repeating rifle ofyours all you want," the old man said to the boy as they made their way up the slope ofthe hill toward the ridge where the shagbark hickories grew. "It's your gun and only natural that you ought to have some feeling for it. But me? When I go for squirrel I aim to put meat on the table. You don't see me carrying a repeating rifle, either. I take my old musket. Been with me a long time. Went through the war together. Brought a brag once from General Morgan himself." The old man stroked the barrel of the musket and jerked it into firing position. "Yep, when I lay an eye down the sights, I want to know there's fur FUR IN THE HICKORY 67 under the hickory. It's the eye, too, Jacob. Remember that. The eye is one of the reasons you see so many fellows carrying them repeating rifles now days. Afraid one shot won't do it. Don't trust their eye or their gun. So they go to repeaters to cut down the odds." The weeds along the path were wet from a light rain, and the old man, walking in front, took up some of the rain with his britches legs and the pants made a low whistling noise. Daylight was beginning to break over the ridge, and no wind was stirring. The trees were taking shape. Birds were stirring in the tree limbs along the path and as they moved in the wet branches the boy cocked his ears, thinking that the noise might be a squirrel jumping through the trees, traveling to the hickories on the ridge. It was a good way to locate squirrels, listening for the sprays of water made by squirrels hitting the limbs. The old man had taught him this. On the ridge the old man stepped ever so lightly. He stopped under a shagbark hickory. Daylight was shifting fast now through the limbs ofthe trees. The old man stopped and picked up a half-chewed nut. He held it close to his face. "Sampling," he said, pushing the nut into a pocket. "Too low on the ridge yet." And he looked off to where the ridge peaked. He glanced again at the new repeating rifle the boy carried. "Times have changed," he said, walking stoop-shouldered. "When I was a boy your age I'd have been laughed out of the mountains for carrying a gun like that. If you had to shoot more than once at the same target you went back to practicing. And squirrels! Ifyou hit a squirrel with a bullet, you didn't dare take him home. Bark 'em, that's what we did. Hit the tree right under the squirrel's chin and knocked the wind from 'im. Not a scratch on the squirrel. Everyone carried...

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