It was full of the moon at the seashore, and the young field corn close by was ripe; each pearly kernel almost bursting with its milky-sweet contents. What a time for a corn roast or frolic; so thought all the boys along that particular strip of beach, which shelved its way down from a dense forest of spruce and hemlock to the edge of the water. There were others, the furry things, the four-footed people of the woods, who knew just as well as the boys what good times were to be had at that particular season, and they made their plans accordingly. The boys had visited the beach that same night, roasted their corn and oysters, and left long before. The shore was apparently quite deserted. The ebbing tide was stealing out softly, scraping and rasping upon the little round pebbles, sending little golden shells tinkling musically against each other, as the water lapped and filtered through them. Overhead shone the great yellow moon, making a wide silvery path straight out across the water. One wondered where the road ended. Back from the beach in the dark woods, plenty of life was now stirring, for the nocturnal prowlers were waking up, though the small windows of the scattered farmhouses were dark and still. Above the noise of the ebb tide the katy-dids were heard contradicting each other tirelessly, hoarsely, "katy-did, katy-didn't." Crickets shrilled in the long, coarse beach grass; a distant screech-owl set up an occasional shivery wail. Then, from amid the thickets of scrub oak and barberry bushes, came another call--an unusual cry, not often heard, which began with a tremulous whimper, ceased, then went on; and was finally taken up and answered by another similar whimpering cry, and still another, from different parts of the woods. The first call had been given forth by an old hermit racoon, or a "little brother of the bear." He was something of a leader, and was sending out a summons for all his relatives to join him in a moonlight frolic. The old hermit scrambled hastily down from his home tree, which happened to be the deserted nest of a great owl. Plainly the old hermit would soon outgrow this borrowed home, for when sweet corn is in the milk, and the little salt wild oysters are plentiful down on the beach, then the racoon became so very fat that he could barely waddle. Of course he felt obliged to fatten himself in late summer, for already he was making ready for his all-winter's sleep and his long, long season of fasting. Having reached the ground, the hermit sent out another call--the rallying cry of his tribe; for dearly the racoon loves to feast and frolic in company and was becoming impatient to start off. The only reason, I suspect, why the old hermit lived absolutely alone, at this time, was merely because there was absolutely not an inch of spare room for another racoon in the nest.