HITTING THE WRONG TARGET. 73 



darkness was so great that the torch, instead of illumin- 

 ating the space above our heads, only increased the ob- 

 scurity. The negro who accompanied us, having fixed 

 this same torch in the ground, accumulated at about 

 twenty feet distant from the oak an enormous quantity of 

 bushes, twigs, and dead wood ; and having kindled the 

 pile, he sat himself down in such a position that the 

 trunk of the tree rose between him and the blazing mass. 

 At a signal which he gave me, I placed myself by his 

 side, awaiting with anxiety the explanation of these 

 mysterious preparations. The pile flung all around the 

 glare of a crackling, leaping flame ; and our eyes, soon 

 growing accustomed to it, distinguished the boughs of the 

 tree as plainly as if they were outlined upon an illumin- 

 ated horizon. 



" Now," exclaimed the opossum-hunter, " the animal is 

 ours ! Look above you, near that knotty branch which 

 is curved like a bent arm ; do you see a black object 

 moving] What may it be 1 ?" 



And, at the same instant, a rifle-shot brought down at 

 our feet an enormous branch, which the negro picked up, 

 his sides shaking with violent laughter. 



" What a blockhead I am !" cried our hunter, as he re- 

 loaded his gun. 



Paying no attention to the grimaces of his negro, or to 

 the smile which hovered on my lips, he again examined 

 very carefully the branches of the tree. Twice more did 

 he discharge his rifle without result ; but the fourth time, 

 a prolonged howl, similar to that of a pig, uttered by the 

 object which fell in front of us, was followed by a re- 

 sounding hurrah. An enormous opossum was struggling 

 in convulsions of agony ; and the negro, delicately taking 



