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tens, then is off, with arrowy rush, down the 

 path to the woods. 



Daddy raises a mellow shout, the signal 

 of assembly to his stout young followers, 

 who tumble out, leaping, singing, "patting 

 Juba," as though they had not been gather- 

 ing corn all day. When he offers them 

 each a torch, they set up a great crying-out, 

 and toss them instantly in a handy fence cor- 

 ner. " We not er gwine huntin' ghos'es 

 an' de's 'nough moonshine fer coon er pos- 

 sum," says the boldest malcontent, running 

 away after the dogs. 



Now the rest step sturdily out. Daddy, 

 leading, looks up at the pale stars. There 

 he reads the hours. It is nine o* the clock, 

 so dewy-damp the scent must lie and hold, 

 even in sedge and weeds. The open is 

 bright as the morning. It will be two hours, 

 though, ere the moon stands straight enough 

 to light the wooded hill-sides leading up from 

 the creek. A rolling who-whoop comes 

 over his lips. You hear a youngster say, 

 "Dat's it, Daddy! holler possum." The 

 next minute all have fetched a compass, 

 head straight for the old field. 



Grapes abound there, persimmons hang 

 sweet and plenty. Master Graycoat most 

 like is afeast in it, with all his sisters, cous- 



