The Possum 169 



in the middle of the fire, cdvfered first with 

 embers, then with blazing brahds that would 

 shortly be coals, and left for half an hoUr, 

 men and dogs the while lying supine upoh 

 the leaves, feet to the fire, the mfen telling 

 ghost tales, or hunting stories, or the signs 

 and wonders of witch-work. Joe listened 

 drowsily, watching the moonshine creep, the 

 fireshine flicker, until his eyelids shut of their 

 own v^eight. And then he knew nothing 

 more until Dan hauled him up standing, thrust 

 something hot into his hands, and said loudly : 

 " Wake up, ole son ! Eberybody else done 

 eat er hot tater — eben ter de dawgs." 



Going home through the gray small hours 

 with cocks crowing all about, the hunters 

 often sang. Daddy Jim never sang out loud 

 but droned a low deep under-chord. Most 

 of the songs were but snatches. Dan said 

 Daddy Jim knew every song that ever was 

 made for a night hunt but wanted to keep 

 them all to himself. Little Mose also knew 

 songs, and many tales of the animals, but he 

 had a fitful memory — it was not once a 

 month he could sing anything or tell anything 

 straight through. If Joe lives to be a hun- 

 dred he will never forget one especial night 

 hunt, all mist and moonshine, when Little 

 Mose found his memory, and sang without 

 a break, this true and proper coon song. 



