The squealing of the pig and the scent of his blood made the hogs beneath me go nearly wild with anger. You never heard such roaring and teeth-popping, as they kept circling the tree and rearing up on its trunk, trying to get to me. The noise they made and the hate and anger that showed in their eyes was enough to chill your blood. Only, I was used to the feeling and didn’t let it bother me. That is, not much. Sometimes I’d let my mind slip for a minute and get to thinking how they’d slash me to pieces if I happened to fall out of the tree, and I’d feel a sort of cold shudder run all through me. But Papa had told me right from the start that fear was a right natural feeling for anybody, and nothing to be ashamed of.
“It’s a thing of your mind,” he said, “and you can train your mind to handle it just like you can train your arm to throw a rock.”
Put that way, it made sense to be afraid so I hadn’t bothered about that. I’d put in all my time trying to train my mind no to let fear stampede me.
Old Yeller by Fred Gipson, 1956.
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