CHAPTER VIII 



THE MUSKRATS ARE BUILDING 



a week of almost 

 broken rain, and the water is stand- 

 ing over the swampy meadow. It 

 is a dreary stretch, this wet, sedgy 

 land in the cold twilight, drearier 

 than any part of the woods or the 

 upland pastures. They are empty ; 

 but the meadow is flat and wet, it is 

 naked and all unsheltered. And a 

 November night is falling. 



The darkness deepens. A raw wind is rising. At 

 nine o'clock the moon swings round and full to the 

 crest of the ridge, and pours softly over. I button 

 my heavy ulster close, and in my rubber boots go 

 down to the stream and follow it out to the middle 

 of the meadow, where it meets the main ditch. There 



