Clarksville weekly chronicle. (Clarksville, Tenn.) 1873-1890, 1885-11-07
SWEET 'TATERs AND 'PossUM.
Memphis Avalanche.

wine were poured and sparkling, the
soul OF man turns for complete content
ment To know the state of the "tater
crap.D Harvests are over, or but the
cotton and corn yet in the field. The
years work has been figured down to
results. The land is bursting with the
fairness thereof.
The autumn robe of beauty makes
the Jolly world, in her fair fat-and-forty
season of rosy health, mature beauty
and perfect taste, along with the ut
most wealth of display, outshine the
green season of maiden spring.
The brown fields, the amber and
gold and scarlet, the whole gamut of
color from the fame-colored bush TO
the sombrest stubble in wonderful
combination of tint and shade fill the
dullest soul, whether it know it or not,
with its highest sense of the beautiful.
1t is the season when nature has so
subtly compounded mans cup of de-
light that it embraces all there is -of
soul and sense that is necessary to calm
enjoyment, disposed in delicate and
broad contrasts and harmonies-a sea-
son when even the sombre hues OF APP
preaching death rather whisper gently
of resurrection and new life than turn
to thoughts of death.
The dying fall of natures melodies
the sad pipe of birds, the last notes OF
the dying cicada, the cricket's melan-
choly chirp and all the cries OF an IN
sect world that instlnctively feels the
approach of frost and death-only tenn
pers the painful exuberance of JOY and
heightens the autumn ecstasy.
In that season, when contentment
fills the soul and the measure of deli
cious satisfaction is almost full in the
perfect rest of natures season OF rest,
the news that caters is uncommon
good and there's coolies OF 'em" COM
pletes the measure.
The light frosts have come. The
delicate vine has been blackened and
death above announces the esculent
tuber at its best and ready for the resur-
recting digger. Happy now the man
who dwells in the middle southern
country, where simmons, pokeberries
and ground-cherrles are an assurance
of fat 'possum and mild, ripening
frosts, and the esculent root at its best
with that happy adjustment of sugar
and starch between the soggy sweet OF
the extreme south and the dry, sugar
less, mealy OF the north, are conditions
that make life in autumn worth living.
In such season and with such condi-
tons the truly poetic soul sings silently
that touching song which we regard as
the triumph of the poetic art
"Oh, who'll hab 'taters on dare grady?
Oh, who'll hab grady on dare taters?
and grows careless whether a new vol
ume from Tennyson ever appears, or
Robert Browning may be clear or OBJ
scure.
To tell of the poesy and music there
is in the sweet later were too long a
task. No other edible, flesh or vege-
table, brought from earth, air or sea or
running stream, is capable of the wide
range OF gastronomic melody and SYM
phOny, from the plain roast later, yet
busted with the hickory ash, simple as
lays of the forest-dwelling northmen,
the humble melodies Of the negro
cabin or the tender ditties OF the COM
mon people everywhere, to the more
complex combinations and richer har-
monies, including a deeply colored,
sensuous and marvellous variation upon
lobskouse.
OF all the varied and wonderful eff
fects wrought with the esculent tuber
of the south, none compares with later
and 'possum and their concomitants.
1t combines thread of melodic SIM
plicity with rich and complex har-
monte completeness OF gastronomic
effects.
The night is crisply frosty and the
stars are out. The dogs are eager and
the glow of flame and red Goals shines
through the cabin cracks on the forms
of vanishing hunters. Uncle Sam is
provokingly doubtful whether the
wind is ri ght, where the 'possum should
be sought tonight, and mysteriOusly
undecided as the high priest of the
postum should be in order to be sure
Of climax OF admiration when he has
led to success through all environing
doubts and difficulties.
The deepening shades of the forest,
the dying pipe of the autumn insects,
the scream of a yet lingering night
bird, the crisp crackle OF fallen leaves
lust temper with weird suggestion the
eagerness of the chase. Past the lone
chimney of the ruined cabin, towering
solemn and ghostly in the starlight,
over the briar chung fence, out into the
woods. The dogs begin to gather to-
gether and now they are of.
But it is night before-last's 'pOssum
with which we have to do. 1t has
been hanging and taking the Frost
back there at the cabin. 1t doesn't
concern us how the dogs freed and
Uncle Sam declared that "no 'possum
with havin' wuz up a big tree like
dat" 1t is no matter that Uncle Sam
said when the next trail was started,
ode dogs is a maxim fur de 'simmon
patch" 1t is of no consequence how
the deep-mouthed bay, breaking out
at the end of the silent trailing, an
nounced "dat de dogs Is freed" in a
persimmon tree, in a fiat glade in the
center of the dense forest How the
from the dogs, and how another trail
ended in a fallen tree root and yielded
another fat 'possum, are OF no mo-
ment
We turn back with whetted appe-
tites to the supper of baked 'possum
and taters that awaits us at the cabin,
whence the gleam through the cracks
begins to light our returning steps.
The old door creaks on its wooden
hinges.
Aunt Dinah, resplendent in red kerr
chief, lifts ode spldah fun de Goals" A
cool drought of spring water from the
gourd, followed by a temperate swlg
from marse Toms pint ticker, and
de ole man." whose 'possum hunting
DAYS are over draws out the banjo and
"Oh. who'll hab taters on dare grady?
Oh, who'll hab grady on dare taters?"
resounds wierdly, with rude melody
and the Goals glow red and the warm
beams from hickory logs light roof and
ralter and peer into dark corners as
Aunt Dinah serves "de 'possum an ia
ters." and corn dodger and buttermilk
on the clean rough table.
Homer and Virgil have described
viands and meals where heroes en-
ioyed table comforts. Perhaps some
humble Homer may describe in SIM
pile lay a meal of 'possum and taters,
and buttermilk and corn dodger after
Il 'poSsum hunt, but it has never been
done. We merely indicate the theme
and quote the only poetry yet written
that touches the poesy of 1t and the
delight of it and the JOY of it and the
autumn contentment of it:
"Oh, who'll hab taters on dare grady?
Oh, who'll had grady on dare taters?"
RheumatIsm.