114 
VIRGINIAN OPOSSUiM. 
“ Come, men,” says one, “ be lively, let us finish our tasks by four o’clock, 
and after sundown we will have a ’possum hunt.” “ Done,” says another, 
“ and if an old coon comes in the way of my smart dog, Fincher, I be bound 
for it, he will shake de life out of him.” The labourers work with in- 
creased alacrity, their faces are brightened with anticipated enjoyment, 
and ever and anon the old familiar song of “ ’Possum up the gum tree ” 
is hummed, whilst the black driver can scarcely restrain the whole gang 
from breaking out into a loud chorus. 
The parapheimalia belonging to this hunt are neither showy nor expen- 
sive. There are no horses caparisoned with elegant trappings— -no costly 
guns imported to order — no pack of hounds answering to the echoing 
horn ; two or three curs, half hound or terriers, each having his appropri- 
ate name, and each regarded by his owner as the best dog on the plantation, 
are whistled up. They obey the call with alacrity, and their looks and intel- 
ligent actions give evidence that they too are well aware of the pleasure 
that awaits them. One of these humble rustic sportsmen shoulders an 
axe and another a torch, and the whole arrangement for the hunt is com- 
pleted. The glaring torch-light is soon seen dispersing the shadows 
of the forest, and like a jack o’lantern, gleaming along the skirts of the 
distant meadows and copses. Here are no old trails on which the cold- 
nosed hound tries his nose for half an hour to catch the scent. The tongues 
of the curs are by no means silent — ever and anon there is a sudden start 
and an uproarious outbreak : “ A rabbit in a hollow, wait, boys, till I twist 
him out with a hickory.” The rabbit is secured and tied with a string 
around the neck : another start, and the pack runs off for a quarter of a mile, 
at a rapid rate, then double around the cotton fields and among the ponds 
in the pine lands — “ Call off your worthless dog, Jim, my Fincher has too 
mitch sense to bother after a fox.” A loud scream and a whistle brings the 
pack to a halt, and presently they come panting to the call of the black 
huntsman. After some scolding and threatening, and resting a quarter of 
an hour to recover their breath and scent, they are once more hied for- 
wards. Soon a trusty old dog, by an occasional shrill yelp, gives evidence 
that he has struck some trail in the swamp. The pack gradually make 
out the scent on the edges of the pond, and marshes of the rice fields, 
grown up with willows and myrtle bushes {Myrica cerifera). At length the 
mingled notes of shrill and discordant tongues give evidence that the 
game is up. The race, though rapid, is a long one, through the deep swamp, 
crossing the muddy branch into the pine lands, where the dogs come to a 
halt, unite in conclave, and set up an incessant barking at the foot of a 
pine. “A coon, a coon ! din’t I tell you,” says Monday, “ that if Fincher come 
across a coon, he would do he work 1” An additional piece of split light- 
