Four little two-character sketches--closer in form to the nightclub-revue sort than most--in which Skunk complacently bottles skunk perfume (which Possum winkingly dubs ""Fragrance of the Woods""); endures Possum's preference for a photograph of himself over an imaginatively-painted likeness (""Some people like pictures. . . and some like portraits. That's just the way the world is""); extolls the virtues of writing music ("". . . just making lines and dots on a piece of paper"") without being able to read it; and gives up the items in his picnic lunch . . . to get--surprise!--just as good in return. Except for evincing some ability to draw expressive animals, the illustrations are as inconsequential as the text.