THE PERSIMMONS 173 



autumn. Strolling through the woods he notes among 

 other unfamiliar trees a tall shaft covered with black bark, 

 deeply checked into squarish plates. The handsome round 

 head, held well aloft, bears a shock of angular twigs and 

 among the glossy, orange-red leaves hang fruits the size 

 and shape of his Northern crabapples. The rich orange- 

 red makes it extremely attractive, and the enthusiasm 

 with which the entire population regards the approaching 

 persimmon harvest focuses his interest likewise upon this 

 unknown Southern fruit. He is eager to taste it without 

 delay, and usually there is no one to object. Forthwith he 

 climbs the tree, or beats a branch with a long pole until a- 

 good specimen is obtained. Its thin skin covers the mel- 

 low flesh — but the first bite is not followed by a second. 

 The fruit is so puckery that it almost strangles one. 



But after the frosts and well on into the winter the per- 

 simmons grow more sweet, juicy, and delicious, and lose all 

 their bitterness and astringency. To find a few of these 

 sugary morsels in the depths of the woods at the end of a 

 long day's hunting is a reward that offsets all disappoint- 

 ments of an empty bag. No fruit could be more utterly 

 satisfying to a dry-mouthed, leg-w^eary, hungry boy. 



The opossum is the chief competitor of the local negro 

 in harvesting the persimmon crop. Individual trees differ 

 in the excellence of their fruit. These special trees are 

 "spotted" months before the crop is fit to eat. It would 

 seem as if the opossums camp under the best persimmon 

 trees and take an imfair advantage, because they are 

 nocturnal beasts and have nothing to do but watch and 

 wait. One thing solaces the negro, when he sees the harvest 

 diminish through the unusual industry and appetite of his 

 bright-eyed, rat-tailed rival. He knows what brush-pile 



