THE TRIALS OF PETER POSSUM
Peter Possum was in great trouble, for he had lost his mate. No
wonder that he felt strangely lonely and sad. Most of the opossum
tribe are noted for their love of family and companionship. Peter
had been born and reared in the South, right in the heart of a great
cypress swamp, an ideal spot for the home of any possum. Dark and
lonely was the swamp jungle, with its tall pines and giant gum and
cypress trees, beneath which lay trackless thickets of thorn and
holly, while trailing in long, snaky lengths over all, grew matted
bamboo vines and hanging mosses which looked like long grey beards.
Months before, Peter and his mate had built for themselves a deep,
new nest down in the hollow heart of a giant cypress tree. And now
what worried Peter most of all was that, wherever Mrs. Possum now
might be, she had carried away their eleven little possum babies with
her in her velvet-lined pouch or pocket which she wore for that
especial purpose in her side.
Not until all the little possums were large enough to be trusted
outside alone would their fond mother allow them to leave this
velvet-lined pouch. The little possums, when she went away, were
just about the size of mice, with sharp, pink noses, tiny wriggling
tails, bits of beady, black eyes, and the softest, mole-like fur
coats. Little helpless things they were. No wonder, then, that
Peter was full of anxiety and almost dazed over the mysterious
disappearance of all his family. Vainly he searched for them all
through the swamp in their usual haunts, but no trace could he
discover of Mrs. Possum and her pocketful of little possums.
It had been two whole nights now since Mrs. Possum had been away from
the home nest. As Mrs. Possum had a habit of going off alone
occasionally, Peter had not thought much about it the first night she
was away, for, to tell the truth, that same night he had taken a
secret trip into the far end of the swamp, just to see if a certain
gnarled, old persimmon tree which he happened to remember was going
to bear fruit that year.
So off Peter had started, all by himself. It was very pleasant to
stroll through the swamp on a moonlight night, and really Peter
travelled much farther than he had intended. Suddenly, right in the
direction of his home tree, he heard a horrible din which actually
made his long, wavy grey fur rise right up from his fat back.
"Wow-wow-ooo-oo-o!" It was the hounds, they were out in full cry;
they were scouring the swamp for possums or racoons. Peter was
thankful now that he was not at home. Surely, he thought, Mrs.
Possum, whom he had left at home with the eleven little possums,
would have tact enough not to show even the tip of her sharp snout
outside the nest while the hounds were about. But in spite of all
this, Peter was uneasy about his family; so, without even finding out
if the old persimmon tree would bear fruit that season, he made a
bee-line for home.
"Wow-oow, ow, ow, ooo!" Again the hounds bayed, and close at hand
this time. Peter laid his small black ears tight to his head, as he
streaked in and out of the tangled jungles, looking like a glint of
something silvery when the moonbeams struck against his grey fur
coat. Suddenly the hounds leaped right out in plain sight of Peter.
Instantly he had spied them--three yellow terrors with their long
flappy ears, eager, dribbling jaws, and red, bleary eyes, which could
spy out a coon or possum, no matter how tall a tree he had climbed
into to hide.
This happened to be a lucky night for Peter, and he managed to save
his grey pelt, reaching his home tree before the moon went down.
He began to hitch and claw his way up the tree, not too hurriedly,
because Peter was very fat. A fat possum cannot climb a large tree
trunk very fast; that is why a possum, if he is big and fat, will
usually select a small tree when he wishes to climb out of danger
very quickly. When Peter got up to the entrance of the nest, the
grey, furry face of Mrs. Possum, with its round gentle eyes, was not
there to greet him as usual. When he climbed down deep into the
nest, no soft warm body was there to break his fall, and no gentle
welcoming growl did he hear; the nest was cold and empty.
At first, Peter fancied that she had simply gone out of the nest to
get a breath of fresh air, and perhaps allow the little possums to
get a view of the swamp by moonlight, so he didn't worry so very much
about her absence. Instead, he just rolled himself up and took a
nap, expecting any minute to be awakened by the coming of his mate,
when she rolled heavily down into the nest. At daybreak Peter awoke
and still Mrs. Possum had not returned. Now Peter, in his funny
possum way, was fond of his family, so instead of sleeping all that
day, as he usually did, he started out to look for them. First, he
took a peep away down below from the edge of the nest; everything was
already beginning to wake up for the day. Peter watched his hated
neighbours, two old black buzzards, start off, and actually dodged
quickly back into the nest as their great shabby, rag-like wings
swept close to his grey coat. Once, when the buzzard family were
away, and there were eggs in their nest, Peter and his mate were
foolish enough to visit their untidy home, to which the old birds
returned before Peter and his mate could get away, and then one
horrid old buzzard, with a twist of its ugly, skinny neck had
"unswallowed" its breakfast upon Peter's fine fur coat. Such is the
disgusting habit of all the buzzard tribe, and one such experience
was enough for Peter; he never went near the buzzards again.
After the scavenger birds had disappeared from sight, Peter climbed
high up into the top of his tree, where he could look far across the
swamp. He saw away off beyond the swamp, the plantations, stretching
as far as the eye could reach, and criss-crossing them in all
directions the deep irrigation ditches, where one might wander for
miles, and become lost as in a city of many streets.
Finally Peter went back into the nest again; there he slept all day,
expecting to hear the welcome scratching of Mrs. Possum's claws upon
the tree trunk any moment. But in vain; she did not come. Had she
been caught by the hounds?
At sunset Peter watched the buzzards come sailing back home for the
night and settle themselves in their soiled feathers, looking just
like two black bundles of rags clinging among the tufted pines. Then
the whip-poor-wills away down close to the ground, hidden among the
thorn tangles, began their lonely calls. And at last, unable to bear
the loneliness a minute longer, Peter slid hastily down the tree into
the shadows. Soon the moon, which was now big and yellow, came
peeping through the dark pines, lighting up the dark places and
finally, to his great joy, Peter actually stumbled upon the trail of
his lost mate.
Poor thing! She had not been able to travel very fast because she
carried the eleven little possums in her pouch, so it was easy to
follow her tracks, as her heavy body had left certain deep
impressions in the soft moss. He discovered many places where she
had stopped to rest--deep, round hollows; perhaps she had lain low to
keep away from the hounds. Peter followed her trail patiently, and
at last he came to the edge of the plantations crossed by the maze of
ditches, almost as deep as two men are high. Then Peter's troubles
and trials began at the first ditch. He found where his mate had
entered a ditch, gone over it for a long distance, then turned off
uncertainly into still another ditch, finally coming back again to
the very place she had started from. Oh, it was a very easy matter
indeed to lose one's way in the perplexing ditches, and so all the
next day Peter travelled hopefully up and down them, searching
everywhere for his lost family. There was not much to eat in the
ditches, although, when very hard pressed by hunger, an opossum will
eat anything. Opossums, you know, are really _night scavengers_.
But you may be certain that the unpleasant old buzzards who float all
day over the plantations, watching the ditches, had left little which
a possum might care to eat.
Next day Peter climbed out of the ditches and hid himself in a very
thick holly tree, trusting that its prickly leaves would conceal him
while he rested. When twilight came, again he took up his search in
the ditches. Bravely poor Peter searched them night after night.
Occasionally he came across a trap which some negro labourer had
placed in the mouth of a ditch, hoping to catch a coon. But Peter
managed to keep his feet out of them.
Up and down, up and down, wearily searched the faithful Peter,
occasionally filled with great hope, for the scent which he followed
would appear quite fresh and near, but the next moment he lost all
clue again. At last, in spite of himself, Peter had almost made up
his mind to the terrible thought that his little grey-coated mate had
been trapped, or perhaps she had become bewildered and lost her way
in some deep, dark hole, finally perishing of hunger. Of course the
little possums weighed her down heavily, so she could never climb up
out of the ditches.
Peter very sadly and reluctantly made up his mind to give up his vain
search and go back to the swamps again. But they say "'Tis always
darkest before dawn," and that very night, when he was about to give
up, he struck into an unusually deep ditch. A stray moonbeam
filtered down into the dark hole, lighting up the path ahead for some
distance. Then, all of a sudden, Peter thought he saw something
moving toward him; perhaps it was a coon, for dearly the coons love
to roam through the broom-corn ditches when the young corn is in the
milk. The longer Peter looked at the thing coming toward him,
however, the less did it appear like a coon, and somehow, it seemed
strangely familiar to him--the heavy swaying, waddling body; and the
next moment Peter saw, where the moonlight struck it, the thing was
all _silvery grey_. The reason Peter did not recognise his little
mate in the first place, for indeed it was Mrs. Possum herself, was
just this:
It seems that the eleven little possum babies had been gone so long,
they had now quite outgrown their mother's pocket, and so she had let
them all climb out upon her broad, silvery back. And in order to
keep them together safely, she showed each little possum that by
curling its tail tight around her own long, muscular one, which she
carried over her back, it might ride in safety. In this fashion Mrs.
Possum herself waddled hopefully up and down the long, maze-like
ditches, vainly looking for an outlet.
"Grr-r-r-r," rumbled the delighted Peter, recognising his mate, and
greeting her in his queer possum way by rubbing his black nose fondly
against Mrs. Possum's black, pointed snout. Then Peter and his mate
with the eleven little possum children still clinging to her back
turned about, and Peter found the right road at last, which led them
all straight back to the swamp.
Back in the jungles they found themselves after a long, weary
journey. They were very happy to be once more among their jolly
neighbours, the racoons, sniffing again the sweet scented woods, the
yellow jasmine flowers, listening again to catch the soft, sweet
notes of their friends, the mocking-birds, who sang their beautiful
trills in the moonlight. Peter and his mate were even glad to see
their unpleasant neighbours again, the buzzards, who actually craned
their skinny necks curiously, watching the return of Mrs. Possum and
her large family as she climbed back into the cypress tree.
The persimmons on the old, gnarled persimmon tree are growing plumper
and riper; it needs but a light touch of Jack Frost to make them
tasty. Then Peter Possum and his mate, with the eleven possum
babies, who by that time will be able to travel alone, are planning
to have a grand feast, far away from the dreaded plantation ditches,
right in the safe shelter of their dear old swamp.