TRAPPING UP LITTLE OTTER 177 



came through the crevices of the logs. It shone 

 upon a tranquil, frozen world. The windless woods 

 and crisp, dun herbage, just sprinkled with snow 

 of the storm's finale, glittered as if set with in- 

 numerable gems. 



We crawled out into the sunlight and tried to 

 absorb some of it, apparently with less success 

 than a brave little song sparrow that sang his 

 cheery lay from the top of a fence stake. We were 

 not quite in the mood of singing, though we man- 

 aged to crack some jokes over the night's misery, 

 and counted it a part of the fun of our trip. 



It was dismal work going the rounds of the traps, 

 breaking ice to get to some, resetting in the icy 

 water and getting little for our trouble, as the 

 night's flood raised the water beyond our ordinary 

 calculations. 



A few days later the catch became so light that 

 we decided to leave, and so engaging a team to 

 transport our boats to the head of navigation, we 

 bade farewell to our humble abode and Burton's 

 Pond — a long farewell, for I never saw either 

 again, and both have long since departed this 

 world. We were probably the last tenants of the 

 old house, which not long after went to the wood 

 pile and the sawmill, and when the mill had de- 

 voured all the available woods in its neighborhood 

 it was abandoned, the dam went to ruin and the 

 pond ran away. Where it was a little brook crawls 



