AFTER THE 'POSSUM. 221 



last time I had been among the trees after dark, 

 with gun in hand, which was at the South, away 

 down in Mississippi, just after the war. 



It was a lazy time, those November days. Large 

 flocks of swans filled the air above, with their flute- 

 like notes, and thousands of sand-hill cranes circled 

 far up toward the sun, their bodies looking like dis- 

 tant bees, as from dizzy heights they croaked their 

 approbation of the rich crops beneath them. Ducks 

 passed like charges of grape shot, sending back shrill 

 whistles from their wings, as they dived down into the 

 standing corn. 



As night came on, the moon went up in a great 

 rush of light, like the reflector of a railroad train 

 mounting the sky. Soon every shadow is driven 

 from the woods, and then the horns are tooted, the 

 dogs howl, and away go gangs of woolly heads, old 

 and young, in pursuit of Messrs. 'Possum and 'Coon, 

 In vain the sly tree-fox doubles around stumps, and 

 leTiving tempting persimmon and oaks full of plump- 

 est acorns, at the warning noise, seeks refuge among 

 huge cypresses. On go the hunters — big dogs, little 

 dogs, bear-teasers, and deer-hounds, sprinkled with 

 darkeys — crashing through cane and underbrush, the 

 human portion of the party laughing and yelling as 

 if a tempest had stolen them ages ago from Babel, 

 and just discharged them in pursuit of that particu- 

 lar 'coon. 



The voice of the Professor suddenly called me back 

 to the present, and I found myself chilled by the wet 

 grass, as if my body had been wandering with the 



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