The Possum i6i 



the summer grapes. The skin is black and 

 shining. Pulp there is none, but when ripe 

 the twin seeds seem to swim in sweetish odd- 

 flavored juice. The vines love a moist situ- 

 ation, so take possession of the banks along 

 wet-weather streams, pond edges, and low 

 overflown flats beside the creeks. They grow 

 also in swales if once they can manage to 

 overtop other growths. They have not the 

 summer grape's facile habit of creeping from 

 shade into the fullest sunshine, no matter what 

 stands in the way. 



Winter grapes hang on a long time — until 

 March unless they are pecked away. Some- 

 times they even dry up in the bunch. Foxes 

 love them so well, they haunt the ground 

 underneath, nosing about for the scattered ber- 

 ries the luckier birds have flung down. Brer 

 Fox is by no means opposed to mixing his 

 grapes with all the birds he can catch. Indeed 

 some say it is the chance of bird-catching that 

 brings him to the grape-tree, and that the nos- 

 ing in the leaves is merely a blind. Brer Fox 

 is beyond question a strategist, still he must be 

 granted his natural appetites. One fox at 

 least, captive and far from content, showed 

 every mark of delight when a choice handful 

 of coon grapes was flung into his cage. 



Possums may be depended on to know and 

 choose the best feeding-ground. Hunting-luck 



