is the last of the fruits. Long before November 

 the apples are gathered— even the "grindstones " 

 are buried by this time ; the berries, too, have 

 disappeared, except for such seedy, juiceless 

 things as hang to the cedar, the dogwood, and 

 greenbrier ; and the birds have finished the scat- 

 tered, hidden clusters of racy chicken-grapes. 

 The persimmons still hold on ; but these are not 

 for long, unless you keep guard over the trees, 

 for they are marked : the possums have counted 

 every persimmon. 



You will often wonder why you find so few 

 persimmons upon the ground after a windy, 

 frosty night. Had you happened under the 

 trees just before daybreak, you would have seen 

 a possum climbing about in the highest branches, 

 where the frost had most keenly nipped the fruit. 

 You would probably have seen two or three up 

 the trees, if persimmons were scai'ce and possui^s 

 plentiful in the neighborhood, swinging from 

 the limbs by their long prehensile tails, and 

 reaching out to the ends of the twigs to gather 

 in the soft, sugary globes. Should the wind be 

 high and the fruit dead ripe, you need not look 

 into the trees for the marauders ; they will be 



[6] 



