Muskrat 



as in summer, breathing the air as they go. About the only ene- 

 mies that follow them here are the minks and otters who come 

 ostensibly to fish, yet are ever ready to seize any unwary mus- 

 quash that comes their way. 



This state of things seldom lasts for any length of time, how- 

 ever; either the ice sinks from its own weight or a thaw fills the 

 streams again, and in either case the muskrats are forced on 

 short rations of air once more, searching for stray bubbles along 

 the edge of the ice a strange economy in the winter life of a 

 warm-blooded creature. 



Early in the spring they begin to look for air holes under shel- 

 tered banks that gather the sun's heat and reflect it back at mid- 

 day from the bottom, and here they bring their sweet flags and 

 lily roots in order to enjoy them in the free air. The various 

 openings broaden and extend their boundaries, and run together 

 until the ice is reduced to a rapidly diminishing border along each 

 shore. 



While the streams are kept full by the melting snow and 

 spring rains, the muskrats are somewhat restricted in their choice 

 of landing places, and every projecting fence-rail and stump or 

 leaning willow tree is taken advantage of. 



As the water recedes they resort to the tussocks as fast as they 

 are uncovered, and by mid-spring generally have their familiar 

 landing places and byways through the sedge well established. 



But even now, when no longer imprisoned by the ice, they 

 swim oftener under water than on the surface, only rising from 

 time to time to renew their breath. Their families are raised, not 

 in their cabins but in their homes high up in the bank, two or 

 three litters in a season, the youngest seldom more than half 

 grown, before the still water is again skimmed over at night by 

 the new ice of the coming winter. 



In summer, during the heat of the day, muskrats are 

 especially fond of swimming and floating about in the shadow of 

 old willow trees, where the water is deep and cool; sometimes 

 you will see one swimming around in short circles as if trying 

 to catch its own tail, and uttering a curious little whimpering cry, 

 which, although it sounds decidedly unhappy, is, I am inclined 

 to think, a note of contentment, rather than distress. 



It is very seldom heard except when the little animal is 

 alone, and I have never been able to guess at its significance; 



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