come yet. Blow yo' horn for dem, Mr. Clarke. Yo' boys, catch up dese dogs." So then Mr. Clarke's horn boomed out, and the darkie boys held each a dog, lest the tree should fall on them, and the chips flew merrily as the axe was laid on to the trunk with a will, and I recalled the old saying of " a 'possum up a gum-tree," though this one was up a locust-tree.

Down came the tree with a crash, just as Harris and Ned, who had been answering Mr. Clarke's horn with constant yelling, came on the scene. Then the dogs were let go; we all rushed in, peered about through the foliage of the fallen tree, but not a sight of a living creature could we see.

"I could swear I heard him fall," said Willy Williams.

"Is he playing 'possum under hyar?" 'No, de dogs done find him ef he was.' "Dar, de dogs is on him! He's off again! "the boys exclaimed as the hounds took up the chorus again and rushed off down through the woods.

He's no gwine to run far dis time," said my host as we started off once more in pursuit of the music.

And so it proved, for a very short chase brought us again up to where the quarry had taken refuge, in quite a small tree

this time.

"Done got de ole 'possum dis un time," said all the darkies, fairly dancing with delight, as all, dogs and men, surrounded the sapling, and by the light of the lantern we tried to make out something like a creature's shape up in the tree.

"Let me go up and shake him out," said Willy Williams.

66

Yis," said old man oracle approvingly. "Let Marse Willy go up, shake him out." Mr. Clarke offered no opposition. So the young man shinned up the slender stem, and shook away. No result!

"He done gone twis' his tail roun' 'bout de bough, I s'pose."

"Give me up the lantern," said the climber, reaching a long arm downwards. "I see him," he said, handing the lantern back, after a good look. "He's right up on top."

Up he went again while we all stood round in breathless excitement, till the sapling began to bend with his weight. More and more it bent, till there was a crash, and down fell the hunter with a thud and a crackling of twigs, for he had brought down a branch with him to the ground. In a moment he was on his feet

the scruff of the neck a little pig-faced creature with snarling jaws, and in the other a branch, round which the creature's tail was tightly twisted.

Then such a yell of delight went up from darkie and white throats alike as if we had captured a white elephant at the very least. What a pandemonium we must have made of those solemn sombre woods, to be sure; and what a hero Willy Williams was in the eyes of all! The 'possum was but about three parts grown, it is true; but it was a feat of clever, plucky huntsmanship that he had done; and what I regarded as no small mercy was that the loaded revolver in his pocket had not gone off in the fall.

However, there we were with our little live 'possum twinkling its eyes and showing its teeth at us a few more teeth, as it seemed, each time that a dog made a spring up at it. What was to be done with it? The darkies danced around and derided it. But old man Higgins was more silent and more businesslike. He cut down a long stick with his big knife and cleft the end of it. Into the cleft was inserted the end of poor little 'possum's tail. Whereupon he wound the rest of his tail lovingly round the stick and, clasping it round with his little arms, was borne along by Willy Williams-like a captive king in the triumph of a Roman emperor.

After a while, by dint of much blowing of sonorous cow-horn and Tartarean yelling, Mr. Clarke succeeded in distracting the attention of his pack from the captured 'possum, and inducing them to direct their energies to a quest for new quarry. The hounds occasionally struck upon a fresh trail one of which led us right through a corn-field whose " shucks," as we swayed through them, deluged us with dew-drippings. Opinions were divided as to whether these diverse trails were 'coon, 'possum, or rabbit; but as they led to no 66 treeings to no result beyond much baying of the hounds, blowing of the cow-horn, and yelling of Mr. Clarke the question of their origin must remain among those many problems which, humanly speaking, are insoluble.

At length hounds and hunters seemed alike wearied out, and a suggestion emanated from the oracle, "dat we should go up to yon old, disused darkie cabin, dat we should steal some corn by the way, dat we should there light a fire and roast and eat the corn, and dat after a couple of hours of rest we should sally forth again,

"Don't take any of dis hyar corn," said the oracle. "Dis hyar is poor man's corn.' So we went into another field, of a man comparatively opulent, and broke off a great ear, or pod, apiece from the standing corn. Then in the cabin we lighted a fire of dry wood found lying around. The corn was thrown on the fire to cook in its "shuck," or outer sheathing. We found some apples on some trees hard by the cabin, and munched them while the corn was cooking. With yells of delight the darkies bent over the fire and pulled out the corn as it seemed sufficiently roasted. Then each, pulling off the shuck of his ear of corn, chawed away at it approvingly. The stick with the 'possum at its top was stuck into a cleft in the logs of the cabin, and the little beast clung there, alternately snarling and looking appealingly from one to the other as if to ask what it had done to merit such treatment. Then Willy Williams produced his revolver. A proposal that the 'possum should be the target was pretty unanimously negatived, and we practised, instead, at an apple stuck into a corner of the logs. Then gradually the men began to fall off to sleep. Willy Williams pillowed his head upon a sleeping hound, which seemed to be quite agreeable the two hunting natures being in full accord. And the last thing I remember of the strange scene on which the flickering firelight was expiring was watching Harris telling Ned some of the old darkie folk-lore stories of the animals, and of "Miss Meadows and de gals," almost word for word as we read them in the

pages of "Uncle Remus." "Brer rabbit" became, in Harris's mouth, "de ole har'," and the affectionate title of "brer," accorded to the bear, the terrapin, and the turkey buzzard, was changed by local idiom into "bo'. In other respects the stories were identical, and Harris told them with much pantomime, imitating the manner in which "brer fox," as "de ole har's" riding-hoss, came "clippity-lippity" down the road.

So I slumbered off, half dreaming of, half hearing, the strange animal-human comedies, until I was awakened with a start by the booming of Mr. Clarke's horn sounding for action. So out we trooped again, stumblingly, stretching our limbs,

"Dat's de ole 'coon dis time, sure; now we're gwine to have a hunt, dat's mighty clear," and with that, Mr. Clarke, old man Higgins, and all of us together, dashed off through the woods at best speed, with no respect for persons this timewe were on an undoubted 'coon even for oracles. Mr. Clarke, with extraordinary energy, still led the way, and the yelling.

now that

not

Say, they haven't lost him!"- this in a voice of deepest despair from Willy Williams as the canine notes were silent a moment.

No, it's all right. The music begins again— they have caught up the trail.

Away we go, clear of the wood now down over a sloping corn-field, crashing down, I fear, much of the " poor man's corn," down into a sort of marshy dingle, then up over the other side, with the perspiration beginning to pour off us, though the night is chilly. We have cut off a corner and are close on the hounds now; they race along the snake-fence of logs dividing the cornfield from the woodland. As they go they jump up towards the fence now and again.

"He done run along de fence dar," says the oracle, somewhat breathless. "Close upon him now!"

But Mr. Clarke is still ahead with the leading hound. Instead of turning into the wood, as we expect, we hear Mr. Clarke's next yell down over the field again.

"He's done gone down de creek. We're gwine ter lose him," says old man Higgins sorrowfully. He has quite forgotten the language of the white man in the excitement of the chase; and, sure enough, on the banks of the creek we all come to a standstill. Mr. Clarke, still yelling, is encouraging his dogs into the water. They plunge about in the stream, but make nothing of it. Then it is that we,

indeed, know the meaning of despair. Is there then no hope? Yes, indeed, by leading the hounds up and down the stream we may strike off the trail again; but the hope is slender. He may have gone up stream, he may have gone down stream, he may have gone a mile, he may have gone a yard he may have gone into a musk-rat or other hole in the bank of the creek. There is but one thing of which you may be certain, "de ole 'coon" will have done just the one thing in all the world which you would least suspect him of thinking of doing. There is no gauging the subtlety of "de ole 'coon."

But hark! what is that? Away back, just, as we said, far from where anybody could have reasonably anticipated such a thing, there is a voice of a hound acknowledging the trail. The other canines cock ears, and at the second whimper dash off. Mr. Clarke yells intermittently. "Back-trail, maybe," observes the ora

cle.

We listen in cruel suspense for the direction of the music. No. Joy! It is no back-trail. Away it leads in quite a new direction, along the low marshy ground. Oh, luckless "ole 'coon," that that vagrant hound should thus by evil fortune have chanced upon your track! Away we go again, floundering heavily through the squashy ground, for half a mile, maybe, when "Treed! Listen! Yes! Treed! We done got him now, John Bull! Come on, and you shall see." John Bull," floundering in a deeper mud-hole than usual, is rather late in arriving. But they've got him. Surely there can be no mistake about it this time. Up in one of those low alders he is, that the dogs are baying around so. Yes, but in which one?

is a certain etiquette about the hunting of the 'coon that he should be allowed to settle matters between himself and the dogs, without human interference.

"Yes, may's well shoot him. He's done give us more'n enough trouble." It is the voice of the oracle. That decides "Marse Willy;" and, taking his revolver out of his pocket, he aims upwards.

"I'm not sure if it is him," says he doubtfully, lowering the pistol again. "Throw the light of the lantern higher, Mr. Clarke."

The next look seems to satisfy him. He says nothing, but takes a quick aim and fires. Then we wait in suspense, expecting the fall of the creature, but nothing happens.

"It isn't him, after all," says Williams a little sulkily, dropping to the ground again.

66

Well, we must just cut all the trees down, then. Hold on to the dogs." The axe falls chop! chop!- twice when behold! not from the tree he is hacking at, but from the very next to it, down drops a darkish body with a thud to the ground. We each loose our dog, with a simultaneous yell. They rush in upon what the lantern's gleam reveals to be a 'coon on its back- their fighting position, all claws and teeth. The dogs close upon him in a body. In a body they recoil, as if they had bitten a porcupine. Then two rush in for the second round. There is a snap, a worry, a yell, a scramble, and — who knows how it all happened in the dark? But the 'coon is off again, with the dogs and Mr. Clarke yelling after him like all the fiends; and all “de ole 'coon has left behind him is a scratch all down the face of one of the puppies and his eye half torn out.

Away through the marshy ground and the clinging golden-rod stems again, straight for the creek this time. And what became of him there nobody except those friends at home to whom the 'coon shall relate the story of this night of stirring incident will ever know. For at the creek we lost him, definitely this time. Maybe he swam down a long way before leaving its shelter, or maybe, as with the cunning of sin he was quite capable of doing, he went back to the woods on his own back-trail. At all events he was a bold sportsman, and had given us a good night's hunt, and I, for one, was not at all sorry that he retained his life and his liberty.

By this time the deep darkness of the night was fading, over the Blue Ridge

mountains, into a slaty gray. It was the first forewarning of the dawn, which in those regions climbs quickly up the mountains with little interval of twilight or halflight. It was time that every well-conducted 'coon should be in bed. There was no more to be done that night. The house is four miles away, and long before reaching it we suspect that we are tired, we are certain that we are hungry. Out of the housekeeper's store-room we hunt up some bread and some lovely blackberry jam, which we wash down with draughts of "sweet" milk. "And so to bed," as Mr. Pepys would say, after a night quite different from any of those recorded in his diary, with the sun, just risen clear above the mountains, staring roundly in our faces.

And what of the poor little 'possum all the while? Well, when I awoke, somewhat late in the day, and came down-stairs, I found all the members of the household gathered together on the porch, inspecting him. Ned was holding him up at arm's length, by the tip of the tail. The 'possum was working itself upwards to try to get at his hand, but by keeping it gently joggling Ned defeated its efforts. As I appeared he began to do the office of showman for the unenlightened Britisher, and became so engrossed in his natural-history oration that he forgot to keep the creature joggling. It clawed hold of the root of its tail with one arm, and, hoisting itself with this, worked its way up, hand over hand, until Ned caught sight of its manœuvres as its nose was just within about an inch of his finger. He dropped it with a yell, in the midst of screams of laughter from the party gathered on the porch.

And what did the silly little 'possum do then? Make a bolt of it, as he might well have done? Not a bit of it. To my surprise he just began "playing 'possum that is to say, 66 shamming dead." There he lay, as if lifeless.

Now," said Ned, "keep quiet all, and we'll see him begin to come to life again." We were silent and motionless for about a minute; and so was the 'possum. Then he very slowly lifted up his head; looked in one direction out of one cunning little twinkling eye; then turned his head right round and looked in the other direction, still keeping his body perfectly still. Then, seeing no sign of movement or danger, he slowly gathered himself up on his short little legs and made off at a slow, rolling, ungainly trot.

Ned let him go about twenty yards and

then started in pursuit. But long before he reached him the 'possum rolled over and lay, deathlike, on the grass.

"Now," said Ned, "see him grin when I tickle him."

So Ned just touched him in the ribs with a little stick, and a shiver went all over his skin, and his lips curled back over his sharp little white teeth in a most unmistakable grin. It was the funniest little comedy imaginable.

I begged hard for the life of our little 'possum, and he was allowed to shuffle off and trot up a neighboring locust-tree, where he sat, wrapt in thought. But an hour or so afterwards I heard a shot, and was told that Ned had been unable to resist the solicitations of his friend Harris, whose darkie soul hungered after the delights of 'possum flesh.

HORACE HUTCHINSON.

From The Swiss Cross. CONCERNING COBWEBS.

EVERY one has noticed the cobwebs which hang upon each shrub and bush, and are strewn in profusion over every plat of grass on a fine morning in autumn; and, seeing, who can have failed to admire? The webs, circular in form, are then strung thick with tiny pearls of dew that glitter in the sun. No lace is so fine. Could any be wrought that would equal them in their filmy delicacy and lightness, it would be worth a prince's ransom. But for such work man's touch is all too coarse. It is possible only to our humble garden spider, known to scientific people by the more imposing name Epeira diadema. These spiders belong to the family .of Arachnide; and the ancients, who were great lovers of beauty, observing their webs, invented the pretty fable of Arachne. Arachne was a maiden who had attained to such expertness in weaving and embroidering that even the nymphs, leaving their groves and fountains, would gather to admire her work. They whispered to each other that Minerva herself must have taught her; but Arachne had grown vain as she grew dexterous, and, overhearing them, denied the implication with high disdain. She would not acknowledge herself inferior even to a goddess, and finally challenged Minerva to a trial of skill, saying: "If beaten I will pay the penalty." Minerva accepted the challenge, and the webs were woven. Arachne's was of wondrous beauty, but