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slim tree crashes to earth, with two seem- 

 ing-dead creatures still fast in its top. See 

 the long, bare tails, each coiled snug about 

 a limb. Not a quiver, not the turning of a 

 hair, though Damsel darts at one to give it 

 an angry shake. Daddy rescues it, his fel- 

 lows the while making the night-world ring 

 with shouting. A far hill catches the sound, 

 flings it back a mocking echo. 

 Somebody begins to chant, 



"Oh! Mister Possum, ye think ye's mighty soon, 

 But ye sho' ter git cotched by de light er de 

 moon." 



Daddy sniffs at the singer. " Better be 

 savin' dat breff ter hole 'im. Take dis yere 

 stickful, boy, an' go gilpin' 'long home." At 

 the word you see that he has split a stout 

 stick, six feet long, a little way at either end, 

 put the tail of a possum in each cleft, and 

 is balancing it across the chanter's shoul- 

 der, little as that person likes it. He opens 

 a remonstrant mouth, but is waved away. 

 Daddy is autocratic disobedience means 

 no more hunting with Music and Damsel. 

 Hark! they have found again Music this 

 time in the lead. But how queerly they 

 run giving tongue faint and uncertainly 

 a perplexed note, as though saying, "We 

 fear to follow our noses." 



