BUTTERFLIES OF MT. HOOD 165 



and even goes so far as to build himself a slide, 

 or chute, for the fun of diving down it into the 

 water. 



That is as much as we children used to do, 

 and more, for we had, ready-made for us. Grand- 

 father's two big slanting cellar-doors, down 

 which we slid, and slid, and slid, till the wood 

 was scoured all white and slippery with the slid- 

 ing. The otter loves to slide. Up he climbs on 

 the bank, then down he goes splash into the 

 stream. Up he climbs, down he goes — time 

 after time, day after day. A writer in one of our 

 recent magazines tells of an otter in the New 

 York Zoological Park that dived about his tank 

 balancing a stone on the top of his head. 



How much of a necessity to the otter is his play, 

 one would like to know — what he would give 

 up for it, and how he would fare, deprived of it. 

 In the case of Pups, my neighbor's beautiful 

 young collie, play seems more needful than food. 

 There are no children, no one, to play with him 

 there, so that the sight of my small boys sets 

 him almost frantic. 



His efforts to induce a hen or rooster to play 

 with him are pathetic. The hen cannot under- 



