AMONG THE MUSKRAt LODGES 



the most distant tepee or the higher 

 bank beyond the bog edge, where are 

 their summer burrows. 



Nor need they trouble their minds the 

 winter through about provisions. Some 

 curious skater or perhaps a would-be fur 

 dealer has been along at one end of the 

 bog and broken into a number of houses 

 and scattered others all to bits. A long 

 thaw enabled him to do this, else the 

 winter had kept them so safe from van- 

 dals that only a heavy ax or pick would 

 give entrance. Among the ruins that 

 this human earthquake caused are fat 

 roots of the yellow pond lily, the spatter 

 dock, as long as my arm. It looks as if 

 some of the houses were half built of 

 these petrified reptiles broken in chunks, 

 scaly looking remnants of a previous 

 geological age. These are the muskrat's 

 bread, or perhaps we might better say his 

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