288 THE FUR TRADE OF AMERICA 



At first there is nothing but the quacking of the ducks at the 

 far end of the swamp. A lapping of the water against the brittle 

 flags and a water-snake has splashed away to some dark haunt. 

 The whiskey-jack calls out officious note from a topmost bough, as 

 much as to say: "It's all right! Me — me! — I'm always there! 



— I've investigated ! — it's all right ! — he's quite harmless !" And 

 away goes the jay on business of state among the gopher mounds. 



Then the interrupted activity of the swamp is resumed, scold- 

 ing mother ducks reading the riot act to young teals, old geese 

 coming craning and craning their long necks to drink at the water's 

 edge, lizards and water-snakes splashing down the banks, midgets 

 and gnats sunning themselves in clouds during the warmth of the 

 short autumn days, with a feel in the air as of crisp ripeness, drying 

 fruit, the harvest-home of the year. In all the prairie region north 

 and west of Minnesota — the Indian land of "sky-colored water" 



— the sloughs lie on the prairie under a crystal sky that turns pools 

 to silver. On this almost motionless surface are mirrored as if 

 by an etcher's needle the sky above, feathered wind clouds, flag 

 stems, surrounding cliffs, even the flight of birds on wing. As the 

 mountains stand for majesty, the prairies for infinity, so the marsh 

 lands are types of repose. 



But it is not a lifeless repose. Barely has the trapper settled 

 himself when a little sharp black nose pokes up through the water 

 at the fore end of the wriggling trail. A round rat-shaped head 

 follows this twitching proboscis. Then a brownish earth-colored 

 body swims with a wriggling sidelong movement for the log, where 

 roosts the blinking owlet. A little noiseless leap ! and a dripping 

 muskrat with long flat tail and webbed feet scrabbles up the moss- 

 covered tree towards the stupid bird. Another moment, and the 

 owl would have toppled into the water with a pair of sharp teeth 

 clutched to its throat. Then the man shies a well-aimed stone ! 



Splash ! Flop ! The owl is flapping blindly through the flags 

 to another hiding-place, while the wriggle-wriggle of the waters 

 tells where the marsh-rat has darted away under the tangled 



