THE HISTOBY OF AN OLD FKIEND. 205 



before, who immediately, amid the laughter of my 

 unsympathizing friend, scampered to the shore, where 

 the ice had left an open margin of water, and dived 

 beyond pursuit. 



This bold burglary on our part evidently caused much 

 alarm and uncertainty in the mind of the proprietor of 

 the house. For the next morning, when I returned with 

 an eel-spear, intent on warlike deeds, I found that, after 

 putting a few armfuls of mud on the broken dome, his 

 ratship had changed his mind, and, leaving the house 

 altogether, had made his exodus to a safer land, under 

 the waters of a neighboring stream, to which I followed 

 his trail, and where I trust he still lives, undisturbed by 

 marauding boys. 



The Muskrat is no noisy roisterer. His ways are 

 gentleness, and he only frequents the most placid scenes. 

 He abhors the noisy rapids of the river, the clank of the 

 wheel, or the fashionable highway, but where the stream 

 has the softest tone, where the birch droops lowest, 

 where the leaves in autumn lay in yellow and crimson 

 wreaths upon the eddy, and the fish-hawk from his emi- 

 nence can scarcely see the perch that turns his golden 

 bars to the sunlight, so hid in foliage moves the water, 

 there my friend finds a favorite bank, and may be seen, 

 even in the day-time, plying his busy feet, or mounting 

 some stone or slanting root to view the disrobing year. 



To this unfrequented place, when troubled by the cares 

 that oppress, or those greater cares that may oppress, I 

 often come to hold counsel with my friend. I hear the 



