It was such a broken trail that I thought the 

 dog must be running. She could get no farther 

 than the top of the slope. Over the fence, under 

 it, and out far and wide she would go, but never 

 a sniff of the lost scent. 



Then came a light snow, and on the white, 

 page of the hillside in his own hand was written 

 the story of a large possum, who had been along 

 the stream at the head of the pond, had gone 

 up the hill to a fallen pine, out along this by 

 way of the thick top to the fence-post, and down 

 the rails. 



The writing was plain in the sticky snow, and 

 so was the mystery of the broken trail. I hur- 

 ried along the fence and saw ahead that a sag- 

 ging post leaned in against one of the large 

 chestnut-oaks. Instinctively I knew that my 

 possum was in that tree. 



Sure enough, the snow was brushed from the 

 post ; there were signs on the trunk, and down 

 between the twin boles was the hole, smooth, 

 clean, and possumy. The crafty old fellow had 

 squeezed hard to get in and had left a hair or 

 two on the rim of his entrance. 



[212] 



