AUTUMN 77 
the 'simmon as the nightingale loves the rose. Of a 
dark night he may be found sitting in the tree among 
the ripe fruit. He gets fat on 'simmons, and acquires 
that peculiarly rich and delicate flavor so highly 
appreciated by the negro. All through the hunting 
season you are wakened by the excited bark of the 
'possum dog, accompanied by the wild yells of the 
negroes and an occasional gunshot. The 'possum 
dog, like the poet, is born, not made. You can never 
know what dog will develop genius in this direction, 
excepting that you may be sure it will be one of pure 
mongrel strain. The 'possum dog is no beauty, but 
he is worth his weight in 'possums, which is the same 
as saying he is a very valuable dog. 
There is no denying that fat 'possum is a dish for 
the gods. If you live in the South you will doubtless 
some day bake a fat 'possum, that is to say, you will 
bake it, figuratively speaking, for the actual task 
must be performed by a generous, genial black cook 
who loves 'possum. She bakes it con amore, and with 
sweet potatoes. The memory of one's first 'possum 
dinner lingers like a happy dream. After eating 
it, one does not wonder at or blame the negro for 
spending night after night in the woods — to the 
detriment of his day's work — in hilarious quest 
of the fat 'possum sitting among the persimmons, 
— the fatiguing, happy, and exciting hunt to have 
the sequel of "baked 'possum and sweet taters." 
Baked 'possum is the Christmas goose of the 
epicurean negro, and as the season moves on, the 
voice of the 'possum dog is heard in the woods assist- 
