on inspection, proves to be a possum, scalded, 

 scraped, and cleaned for roasting, suspended 

 there, out of the reach of dogs and covetous 

 neighbors, for the extra flavor of a freezing. 

 Now stuff it and roast it, and I will swap my 

 Thanksgiving turkey for it as quickly as will 

 Uncle Jethro himself. 



Though the possum is toothsome, he is such 

 a tame, lumbering dolt that few real sportsmen 

 care for the sorry joy of killing him. Innumer- 

 able stories have been told of the excitement of 

 possum -hunting ; but after many winters, well 

 sprinkled with moonlight tramps and possums, 

 I can liken the sport to nothing more thrilling 

 than a straw-ride or a quilting-party. 



There^ is the exhilarating tramp through the 

 keen, still night, and if possum-hunting will take 

 one out to the woods for such tramps, then it 

 is quite worth while. 



No one could hunt possums except at night. 

 It would be unendurably dull by daylight. The 

 moon and the dark lend a wonderful largeness 

 to the woods, transforming the familiar day- 

 scenes into strange, wild regions through which 

 it is an adventure merely to walk. There is 



[8] 



