168 WILD LIFE AND THE CAMERA 



muddy waters of the Passaic River. In this tree 

 was his regular nest. A comfortable one it was, 

 too quantities of dead dry leaves placed in a hole 

 in the trunk about ten feet from the ground. The 

 hole faced towards the south, so that when the sun 

 shone he had the benefit of its warmth. Curled up 

 in this hole, covered with leaves, some muskrat fur 

 and chicken feathers (whence came those feathers, 

 Mr. 'Possum ?), he had spent all last winter. 

 When all around him was wrapped in winter's 

 white winding-sheet, the snow had piled up over 

 the entrance of his home, but the warmth of his 

 body had melted it away and left his doorway 

 clear. 



Now it was autumn, late November, and all was 

 cold and dreary. The leaves, with which the 

 ground was so thickly strewn, rustled loudly as he 

 shuffled along towards his gum tree. Arriving 

 there he stopped, for a suspicious odour greeted him, 

 the unmistakable proof that but recently another 

 'possum had been there. The invisible trail led up 

 the tree. Worse and worse ! Bad enough to have 

 anyone come to his tree, but to climb up looked 

 suspiciously as though the stranger had pre-empted 

 his own home. Now came the question : What 

 could he do if this stranger happened to |be larger 

 than he was ? Would he have to give up his home, 

 and that, too, without a struggle ? Or should he 

 try to coax him out ? Better first investigate. So 

 up the tree he went, after the slow, clumsy method 

 of his kind, until he reached his doorstep, and then 

 well, he slid down again, just a few feet, and all 

 because a long-pointed nose protruded from the 



