230 THE STORY OF THE TRAPPER 



Going back to the bank, the trapper skirts through 

 the crush of brittle rushes round the swamp. Coming 

 sharply on deeper water, a dank, stagnant bayou, 

 heavy with the smell of furry life, the trapper pushes 

 aside the flags, peers out and sees what resembles a 

 prairie-dog town on water such a number of wattled 

 houses that they had shut in the water as with a dam. 

 Too many flags and willows lie over the colony for a 

 glimpse of the tell-tale wriggling trail across the 

 water; but from the wet tangle of grass and moss comes 

 an oozy pattering. 



If it were winter, the trapper could proceed as he 

 would against a beaver colony, staking up the outlet 

 from the swamp, trenching the ice round the different 

 houses, breaking open the roofs and penning up any 

 fugitives in their own bank burrows till he and his dog 

 and a spear could clear out the gallery. But in win 

 ter there is more important work than hunting musk- 

 rat. Musk-rat-trapping is for odd days before the regu 

 lar hunt. 



Opening the sack which he usually carries on his 

 back, the trapper draws out three dozen small traps 

 no larger than a rat or mouse trap. Some of these 

 he places across the runways without any bait; for the 

 musk-rat must pass this way. Some he smears with 

 strong-smelling pomatum. Some he baits with carrot 

 or apple. Others he does not bait at all, simply laying 

 them on old logs where he knows the owlets roost by 

 day. But each of the traps bait or no bait he at 

 taches to a stake driven into the water so that the 

 prisoner will be held under when he plunges to es 

 cape till h\ is drowned. Otherwise, he would gnaw 

 his foot free of the trap and disappear in a burrow. 



