TRAPPING UP LITTLE OTTER 



MUCH talking of old times is one of the signs of old 

 age, as common an accompaniment of it as gray 

 hairs, toothless jaws, dimmed eyes, and stiffened 

 joints, though a far pleasanter one. The weary 

 mind clings more tenaciously to pleasant memories 

 of youth than to fleeting, trivial incidents of yes- 

 terday. The old man longs to live them over again 

 in story, and his tongue would fain be wagging. 

 To that end he must have an audience. Young 

 folks will serve if interested to hear of the days 

 when the woods were populous with game, and the 

 clear, shaded streams swarmed with fish that were 

 not always lost. Better by far is some old com- 

 rade, a good listener, yet breaking in now and then 

 with a reminder of some half-f orgotten incident of 

 the happy, care-free days. An old friend, an old 

 pipe and an open fire happy combination to 

 bring out talk of old times. 



" Do you remember the spring we went to Bur- 

 ton's Pond? " a familiar voice asks out of the cloud 

 of tobacco smoke. Yes, and how we were enticed 

 there by the marvelous tales told of swarms of 

 muskrats, told us by one without regard for truth, 

 when we were looking about for trapping-grounds. 

 We could trap up Little Otter as far as it would 



