Occasionally we see the big ’possum. I am not quite sure where he lives, though I know two or three likely spots; but now and then he comes right out into the open, and we both see and hear him. One moonlight night he was feeding on the cedar berries not ten yards from the verandah, and even if his clawing and crunching of the berries had not betrayed him, he was quite visible as he hung on the swaying bough amongst the fern-like leaves, while every now and then as he moved I could see his big eyes shining brightly in the moonlight. [Illustration: _Then there are Owls_] Then there are owls--three or four sorts of them--which drift in absolute silence from place to place. On moonlit nights a sudden shadow floats on the ground before you, and if you look up quickly enough you will see a white form settling silently on a branch or post. If you keep very still and watch patiently you may see him dart down to catch some flying insect, or make a sudden swoop at a mouse in the grass below. How they see their prey is always one of the wonders of nature to me, but apparently they never miss. I like the names of my owls--the delicate owl, the masked owl and the Boobook owl--the last so named from his familiar double note “Boo-book.” The old mopoke, who for many years got the credit for the boo-book owl’s note, lives in the wilderness, too. Like most of the nocturnal creatures, he likes the tall redgum which stands beside my gate, and he sits there for an hour at a time constantly uttering his soft mysterious note, “Oom, oom, oom.” Sometimes he comes closer, on to the fence, or even on to the verandah post itself. In the daytime he sits silently for ages in what must be a most uncomfortable position, pretending to be a branch of the tree, but at night he gives himself away by his “Oom, oom, oom,” for even the dullest human knows that trees don’t say “Oom, oom, oom.” Still, he is clever at catching his food, and the nocturnal insects find him as formidable as the owls.