THE HISTORY OF AN OLD FRIEND. 135 



materials for a warm bed, that had been occupied not long since. 

 I pulled away the partition that divided the interior, but could see 

 nothing. I put my hand in to feel, and was rewarded with a gripe 

 from an admirable set of incisors that have left their impress on 

 my hand to this day, and pulling out my arm, I pulled out my 

 captive of the night before, who immediately, amid the laughter of 

 my unsympathising friend, scampered to the shore, where the ice 

 had left an open margin of water, and dived beyond pursuit. 



This bold burglary on our part evidently caused alarm and 

 uncertainty in the mind of the proprietor of the house. For the 

 next morning, when I returned with an eel-spear, intent on 

 warlike deeds, I found that, after putting a few armfuls of mud on 

 the broken dome, his ratship had changed his mind, and, leaving 

 the house altogether, had made his exodus to a safer land, under 

 the waters of a neighbouring stream, to which I followed his trail, 

 and where I trust he still lives, undisturbed by marauding boys. 



The Muskrat is no noisy roisterer. His ways are gentleness, 

 and he only frequents the most placid scenes. He abhors the 

 noisy rapids of the river, the clank of the wheel, or the fashionable 

 highway, but where the stream has the softest tone, where the 

 birch droops lowest, where the leaves in autumn lay in yellow and 

 crimson wreaths upon the eddy, and the fish-hawk from his 

 eminence can scarcely see the perch that turns his golden bars to 

 the sunlight, so hid in foliage moves the water, there my friend 

 finds a favourite bank, and may be seen, even in the day-time, 

 plying his busy feet, or mounting some stone or slanting root 

 to view the disrobing year. 



To this unfrequented place, when troubled by the cares that 

 oppress, or those greater cares that may oppress, I often come to 

 hold counsel with my friend. I hear the waters croon, the leaves 

 whisper, the wood-thrush warble his low chant, and I forget 

 to listen to that inner voice complaining. I see the bold plunge 

 of the kingfisher diving for his prey; bright eyes are peering 

 at me from bush and hole, cautiously at first, familiarly afterward ; 

 the leafy vault above me dazzles the eye with a confused motion of 

 waning, glimmering brightness, and catches of sunshine come and 

 go athwart the foam and on the flowers, and I do not see the cold 



