Down through the marsh they trotted. Some waded into the mud to catch frogs, while others chased mud turtles over the shore. Some hunted for berries and others nosed for acorns under the oaks.
It was beautiful there in the woods at night. When the stars twinkled overhead and the soft wind rustled in the tree-tops the little ones frisked and frolicked.
They hid under the shadowy bushes or jumped hither and thither to snap at the fluttering moths.
But on stormy evenings they plodded on in the rain, their wet fur drooping. With their noses close to the ground they hunted till they found a few mouthfuls to eat. Then they went back to the cosy hollow for a longer nap, after licking their pink hands and washing their faces, just as kittens do.
One night, in autumn, the old mother opossum felt the nip of frost in the air. Then she knew that the persimmons were ready to be eaten. Away through the woods she hurried, with the young ones trotting after her.
She led the way past the marsh and over the hill to a thicket of trees tangled with wild grapevines. There on the branches the round persimmons were shining yellow in the moonlight.
Up the trees eleven of the babies scrambled hungrily, and, hanging by their tails, stuffed the fruit into their wide mouths. Ah! But wasn’t it delicious! Better than anything they had ever tasted before in all their short lives.
Then the biggest baby, who had stopped to gobble ripe grapes, heard them munching so greedily. One look sent him hurrying after the others. He was sorry enough that he had wasted any time eating wild grapes.
Night after night, till the little persimmons were gone, the opossums hurried away to the thicket, and ate and ate till they could eat no longer. They grew so fat that they puffed and panted when trotting home again in the gray light of the frosty dawn.