THE HISTORY OF AN OLD FEIEND. 203 



wait hours for another shot, and though the pond is full 

 of them, you will never see one. Once in a while an old 

 sentinel will float to the surface, and the point of his 

 nose, about the size of a chesnut, will be exposed while 

 he breathes and takes a view, and after a moment of 

 watchfalness, it will be so quietly withdrawn that even 

 if you see it you will not suspect it to be one of your 

 prey. 



A long time ago — I remember the woods and waters 

 were very bright in color then, for I was. a boy — there 

 lived one bachelor Muskrat in a small pond not far 

 from my home. After watching him some evenings, I 

 set a trap to catch him, baited with a rosy Spitzenberg. 

 Early in the morning I was at the pond ; the trap was 

 sprung, and peering into it through a small hole bored 

 in the end, I saw crouched in the corner an animal with 

 long whiskers and bright eyes, that appeared to my 

 happy vision as big as a polar bear, but by the musky 

 smell I knew it was my friend the Muskrat. If the 

 woods and waters were bright the night before, they 

 glowed with fire now, and the sun rose in the east. I 

 carried my prize home in the trap, and tying a string to 

 his leg, after getting somewhat bitten in the operation, 

 secured him in the shed, and tried to tame him, but 

 quite unsuccessfully. He refused to eat apples or cake, 

 though always ready for a piece of my finger. When I 

 could watch my captive no longer, I went to bed to 

 dream of him, while he, cutting the string with his sharp 

 incisors, gnawed a hole in the doof of the shed, and made 



