AL FOSS OM HONT 
to “shine his eye,” but the tree was tall, 
the limbs large and the leaves not all 
off, and he failed in his effort. 
“Come on wid de ax, boy, an’ les cut 
dis tree down.” 
The axes were plied, one on each side of 
the tree, by the light of the torch, the 
white chips pattering down on the dry 
leaves and the strokes echoing through 
the lonely woods. 
“Tom!” shouted Creed to his young 
son, “take dem dorgs and de lantern fur- 
der up on de hill.” 
“We’s all right, daddy, de tree ain’t gwy 
toch us,” replied Tom, confidently. 
Crash! went the tree. The lantern was 
extinguished. Tom was squirming around 
under the topmost twigs, and the hounds 
were howling. Creed rushed up to rescue 
his careless offspring; but now Tom was 
out all right and grinning as if it were the 
joke of his life. 
“You lil fool!” exclaimed the irate and 
disgusted father, “ef dat tree hadn’t gin 
you sich a thrashin’ you’d a got it fum 
me! An’ de possum done got away, too!” 
The dogs circled around trying to get 
the trail off. Creed was examining the 
tree closely. 
“Huh.” said he to himself, “dis here 
Mister Ileff’s “‘line’’ tree; hope he won’t 
fin’ out who cut it.” 
But the dogs have found the trail, and 
Wilh. CREED: gI 
forgetting Mister Ileff and his line tree, 
we press after them. A quarter-miie run 
and the ’possum is treed again. Another 
big tree, too tall to climb and too thick 
to “shine his eye.” 
“T believe dat’s a sperrit,” pronounced 
Creed, solemnly, and the little darkies with 
ashy faces lined up behind their sire 
“Look at dem dorgs how droopy dey is— 
look like dey been conjerd. Les git 
away fum heah an’ go home; I don’t like 
to fool wid sperrits.”’ 
“Oh, no, Creed,that will never do in the 
world. Cut the tree down and let us see 
what it is.” 
The trunk vibrates beneath the sturdy 
strokes of the axmen, trembles, and top- 
ples over. The dogs rush into the mass 
of leaves and branches; some angry growls 
and shakings follow, and Creed rescues 
the animal and holds it up in the light— 
a little ~possum about the size of a half- 
grown kitten. 
“Huh,” says Creed, “Taint much more’n 
a sperrit arter all; I might a knowed a 
big ‘possum warn’t gwyn clim’ a big tree 
like dis, anyway.”’ 
But Creed is happy, for “young ’possum 
am berry, berry fine,” and is fully worth. 
in his opinion, an hour’s hard work and 
2 good white-oak trees—one of them a 
chine “tree at that. 

FROM A PHOTO KINDLY LOANED BY T. J. WERLEY, MARION C. 
HEAD OF AN ENGLISH STAG. 

FROM A PHOTO KINDLY LOANED BY STANLEY WATERLOO 
“TOCKED! UP!’ 
