THESE sunny days bring forth the snakes from holes in quarries, cliffs
and brakes. The gentle bullsnake, mild and meek, sets forth his proper
prey to seek; of all good snakes he is the best, with high ambitions in
his breast; he is the farmer’s truest friend, because he daily puts an
end to mice and other beasts which prey upon that farmer’s crops and
hay. He is most happy when he feasts on gophers and such measly beasts;
and, being six or eight feet high, when stood on end, you can’t deny
that forty bullsnakes on a farm are bound to do the vermin harm. The
bullsnake never hurts a thing; he doesn’t bite, he doesn’t sting, or
wrap you in his slimy folds, and squeeze you till he busts all holds. As
harmless as a bale of hay, he does his useful work all day, and when at
night he goes to rest, he’s killed off many a wretched pest. And yet the
farmers always take a chance to kill this grand old snake. They’ll chase
three miles or more to end the labors of their truest friend. They’ll
hobble forth from beds of pain to hack a bullsnake’s form in twain, and
leave him mangled, torn and raw—which shows there ought to be a law.
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