224 THE STORY OF THE TRAPPER 



footsteps down the browned hillside to the soggy bot 

 tom of a slough. 



A covey of teals very young, or they would not be 

 so bold flackers up, wings about with a clatter, then 

 settles again a space farther ahead when the ducks see 

 that the intruder remains so still. The man parts the 

 flags, sits down on a log motionless as the log itself 

 and watches! Something else had taken alarm from 

 the crunch of the hunter s moccasins through the dry 

 reeds; for a wriggling trail is there, showing where a 

 creature has dived below and is running among the wet 

 under-tangle. Not far off on another log deep in the 

 shade of the highest flags solemnly perches a small 

 prairie-owl. It is almost the russet shade of the dead 

 log. It hunches up and blinks stupidly at all this 

 noise in the swamp. 



&quot; Oho,&quot; thinks the trapper, &quot; so I ve disturbed a 

 still hunt,&quot; and he sits if anything stiller than ever, 

 only stooping to lay his gun down and pick up a stone. 



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 whisky-jack 

 calls out officious note from a topmost bough, as much 

 as to say: &quot;It s all right! Me me! I m always 

 there! I ve investigated! it s all right! he s quite 

 harmless!&quot; And away goes the jay on business of 

 state among the gopher mounds. 



Then the interrupted activity of the swamp is re 

 sumed, scolding 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 



