302 THE FOOD OF OTTERS 



and, especially in night hunts, the romantic character of his 

 chase, entitle him to a royal rank of venerie far before the 

 cowardly, savage, and stupid wolf or Sir Tristrem de Lion's 

 and Dame Juliana Berners's draggle-scutted, furrow-skulk- 

 ing " King of Beasts " the hare. . . . 



'One morning, after having been out in the forest all 

 night to wait for roe in the two twilights, I came down 

 to cross at the pool of Cluag. There was a broken and 

 dangerous ford at its throat, passable only when the water 

 was low. I observed the track of otters across the little 

 sandy bank, which swelled out on the east side of the ford, 

 and that they were going up the stream, and none descending. 



' In ascending a river, if the banks will admit, the otter 

 invariably leaves the water at the rapids and takes the shore 

 to the next pool ; so that, if there is an otter on the stream, 

 his up-track is sure to be found at these places. In return- 

 ing, however, he will often float down the rapids with the 

 current. The prints which I had found on the sand had 

 been made during the night. There was a chance that the 

 otters had not returned, and I climbed into the oak over 

 the pool to see what might come down. Enveloped in the 

 screen of leaves which the brightness of the surrounding sun 

 made more obscure within, I had a view up the rapid above 

 and into the pool beyond. I had sat in the oak for about 

 half an hour, with my eyes fixed on the stream and my back 

 against the elastic branch by which I was supported, and 

 rocked into a sort of dreamy repose, when I was roused by a 

 flash in the upper pool, a ripple on its surface, then a running 

 swirl and something that leaped and plunged and disappeared. 

 I watched without motion for some moments, but nothing 

 came up, and I began to doubt that it was only one of those 

 large, lazy salmon which neither the wing of peacock or bird 

 of paradise or any other delusion in gold or silver can tempt 

 to the surface, but which, after refusing all that art can offer, 

 comes weltering up from the bottom and throws himself splash 

 over your line. 



' Just as I was thinking how often he had treated me with 



