The Possum 155 



wise, it went toward the old fields and the 

 strip of tangle, possum was the word. And 

 then the dogs were glad — so glad they leaped 

 and fawned upon their masters, then set off 

 running full tilt, and barking in little short 

 happy yelps as they ran. Wrong's bark was 

 his worst point. It was shrill, almost whin- 

 ing. Damsel had a bell note. Music a loud 

 half-roaring voice, not the least bit musical, 

 but dependably honest. 



Luck is best under a growing moon. At 

 least every experienced black possum-hunter 

 firmly believes so. That is not strange con- 

 sidering he also believes that life and death, 

 and blight and growth, the turn of the seasons, 

 wind, sunshine, and rain, all depend upon lunar 

 influence. He explains that as the moon 

 waxes or wanes so does the scent of the wild 

 creatures. Naturally a growing scent leaves 

 a trail quickly found and easily followed. If 

 there is a color of reason behind his belief, it 

 is easy to understand why November hunts 

 are so fruitful. The Hunter's Moon shines 

 then, red and fiery at the rising, later a shield 

 or a sickle of burnished silver swimming slow 

 across a violet velvet sea. It rises earlier than 

 any other moon of the year. The light of it 

 makes bright the fields and woods when it is 

 even a little way up the sky. But the thickets 

 are densely dark. Torchlight is needed there 



