170 TRAPPING UP LITTLE OTTER 



have been when it came to push aside the clumsy 

 old pit saw and its two attendants, the name of one 

 of whom, the pitman, was fitly appropriated by 

 one of its parts! 



We were not looking at the mill all this while 

 without more than half an eye to the pond, nor 

 without some disappointment. There it lay, clear 

 and bright in the April sun, but sorely disfigured 

 by the dead, drowned trees that stood around and 

 knee-deep in it, and among which its upper end 

 was lost, for it was an artificial pond, made by 

 throwing a dam across a wooded dell, and so of 

 course killing all the flooded trees. Some were 

 evergreens and some deciduous, and all were ugly 

 in dead nakedness. Beyond, we could hear the 

 brook brawling its way down the mountain, a 

 stream once populous with trout and not yet 

 quite fishless, so a kingfisher proclaimed, mapping 

 an aerial tracing of its course, with continuous 

 clatter. Some bunches of driftweed lodged among 

 tree trunks that might be debris of ruined muskrat 

 houses, and a modest display of sign on a floating 

 log gave evidence of the presence of muskrats. A 

 clumsy scow with a broken trap and a tally stick 

 lying in the bottom, grounded on the bank near the 

 bulkhead of the flume, showed a rival at hand. 



Pulling our boats into the water, we began ex- 

 ploring the pond, keeping an eye out for a good 

 place for a camp. The shores were low and damp, 



