The Possum 167 



Wrong ran leaping, catching the scent in air, 

 barking as he ran, his eyes glinting green fire. 

 When at last he treed, either at the nest, or 

 away from it, he was the very moral of quiver- 

 ing eagerness until he saw the axes out and 

 somebody building a fire. Then he lay down 

 sedately, put his nose between his fore paws, 

 but kept his eyes fast upon the tree. 



When the coon was shaken out, or the tree 

 came crashing down. Wrong was upon his foe 

 in the twinkling of an eye. Coons are hard 

 and bitter fighters, turning upon their backs as 

 they touch the earth, and striking out furiously 

 with teeth and claws. But no matter how big 

 and savage the coon, nor what a master of 

 fence he showed himself. Wrong never let him 

 get away. Wrong had both the wit and the 

 art to nip Brer Coon betwixt ear and shoulder, 

 whirl him over and finish him with a quick 

 crunch at the back of the neck. Sometimes 

 when a nest tree came down and a whole coon 

 colony was chopped out of the snug, grass- 

 li ned woody chamber in which they had thought 

 to sleep away part of the winter. Wrong had 

 to choose betwixt old coons and young, and 

 always chose those who would put up the best 

 fight. 



Coons hibernate but slightly, sleeping com- 

 monly from the winter solstice to about 

 Ground-hog Day — which is the second of 



