174 TRAPPING UP LITTLE OTTER 



When we got there, there was pleasant seclu- 

 sion at the upper end of the pond, paled hi by the 

 ragged gray trees, where the shallow water was 

 fretted by the ripples of the incoming brook, whose 

 silvern babble came from the mountain dell along 

 with the boisterous cackle of a log-cock. Some tiny 

 minnows, which it pleased us to believe were trout, 

 flashed to and fro across the golden-barred bottom, 

 as the basking frogs cut short their lazy croaking 

 and splashed into the water at our approach. 



There was no resisting the spell of the indolent 

 atmosphere that the April sun distilled, and step- 

 ping ashore we went back out of the desolation of 

 drowned trees to living woods and loafed our fill 

 on moss-cushioned logs. When the day and what 

 we called its work were done, and the long shadows 

 widened into twilight, we climbed in at our win- 

 dow, nailed up the boards behind us, illuminated 

 our quarters with a couple of the sawyer's dips, 

 "one to see the other by," Joe said, and lighted a 

 fire on the hearth. After enduring a half-hour of 

 smoky torment, we were rewarded with a bed of 

 coals, over which we roasted some choice quarters 

 of the most carefully dressed muskrats, or frizzled 

 slices of salt pork, and if inclined to extreme luxury, 

 toasted our brown bread. With sharp-set appetites 

 and raw onions for sauce, we would not have ex- 

 changed our supper for the President's. 



After it the pipes and quiet enjoyment of smoke 



