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.