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.