of "the critter" suggested to him, instantly, that, in deep drifts, he could catch one that would outrun him on hard ground; and, grabbing the first stick from the woodpile, he "after him." The snow "felt ugly up round above his knees," and it was heavy running, though he thought he was helped some by having no trowsers; but he gained on the animal, overtook, and "got a lick at him." Whether he had dropped dead or was stopping to spring back, he did not know, but there was the black lump still as death, on the snow before him. It wasn't a pleasant place to stop and think, though it was awk'ard putting a hand out to take hold of a wild varmint in the dark; but he caught sight of something like a tail, made a plunge at it, and "had hi," safe off the ground. It turned out to be a 'possum (an animal, as you know, that always drops and pretends to be dead when it is close-pressed), and Bell carried him back to the house, put a string round his neck, tied him to the door-post, and went to bed—first raking open the coals a little, of course, and getting on a dry shirt.
Installed behind the table, in the box that Buchanan Read's bust came over in (an apartment with an association at his disposal, of course), the 'possum is now "one of us"—a daily visit to him being, for our little people, among the periodicities of the morning. It is a little tantalizing, perhaps, to see "good society" (the hen-roost
