18 THE LIFE STORY OF AN OTTER 



trout, and at times cast a glance at the belt 

 of timber beyond, as if attracted by the crim- 

 son blossom of the elms. Not only did the 

 flowering of forest tree tell of the passing of 

 winter, but green shoots of flag and reed shyly 

 whispered the same story, and wild daffodils in 

 glade and dell proclaimed it. A gold-crest in 

 the tall fir had begun laying her tiny freckled 

 eggs ; a throstle on the lone poplar by the pool 

 sang to his mate guarding her turquoise treasures 

 by the river's bank, while the ravens up the face 

 of the cliff were already busy feeding their young. 

 Day by day, as the sun grew stronger and the 

 west wind blew, the sycamores unfolded their 

 fresh green leaves, and soon, the woodland over, 

 all the buds, responsive to the quickened under- 

 world, opened to greet the spring. 



At the close of a hot day, when every furry 

 wildling had felt its coat a burden, and longed 

 for sundown and the drinking-place, the otter, 

 who had been gradually extending her nocturnal 

 rambles, took the cubs three miles down the 

 river to a point where a part of the water is 

 diverted into a tranquil mill-stream. Along its 

 bank she brought them to the gate leading to 

 the mill-yard, where all three stood and listened 

 momentarily to the croaking of the frogs in the 



