216 THE VIRGINIAN OPOSSUM. 



never is a negro happier than when he shoulders his 

 axe at night, and whistles up the curs, who call him 

 master, to have a 'possum-hunt. Fine nights, when the 

 moon shines, are generally chosen. The dog or dogs 

 try round the cornfields, and rarely go far before they 

 find the trail of one, which they presently force to 

 climb a tree. A torch is then lit, by the light of 

 which the beast is discovered, and the axe plied. Blow 

 after blow falls on the devoted tree, which, whether a 

 century old or merely a sapling, soon falls, and with it 

 the game. 



The dogs, who, whilst the tree has been being felled, 

 have kept their eyes upon the animal, ncdl it as it 

 touches the ground, where, finding escape hopeless, it 

 simulates death, and this between the cunningf nePToes 

 and their dogs is converted into a real one. 



