Bob was jumping and snapping at the snake so as to make it strike and throw itself off guard. Bob has killed twenty-eight copperheads this spring. He knows how to kill a snake. He doesn’t rush to do it. He takes his time and does the job well.
“Let’s don’t kill the snake,” I said. “ A blacksnake is a harmless snake. It kills poison snakes. It kills the copperhead. It catches more mice from the fields than a cat.”
I could see the snake didn’t want to fight the dog. The snake wanted to get away. Bob wouldn’t let it. I wondered why it was crawling toward a heap of black loamy earth at the bench of the hill. I wondered why it had come from the chestnut oak sprouts and the matted green briars on the cliff. I looked as the snake lifted its pretty head in response to one of Bob’s jumps. “ It’s not a bull blacksnake,” I said. “ It’s a she-snake. Look at the white on her throat.”
“ A snake is an enemy to me,” my father snapped. “ I hate a snake. Kill it, Bob. Go in there and get that snake and quit playing with it!”
Bob obeyed my father. I hated to see him take this snake by the throat. She was so beautifully poised in the sunlight. Bob grabbed the white patch on her throat. He cracked her long body like an ox whip in the wind. He cracked it against the wind only. The blood spurted from her fine-curved throat.
- ClaudiaLv 61 0 年前最佳解答