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predatory rat has burrowed, hunting, perhaps, for 

 eggs. 



The complementary tongue of land which is always 

 formed by the river opposite one of these concave 

 sweeps of exposed bank is no less interesting. Close 

 to the water it is like a sand bar, forming an excellent 

 shelving beach for bathing, and a playground for the 

 sandpipers and the plovers. You may often come upon 

 a flock of these birds on a bar, as your canoe rounds the 

 bend, running back and forth and bobbing their heads 

 up and down. "Tip ups," some boys call them. But 

 back a few feet from the new shelf of the bar, the re- 

 ceding waters have deposited soil and seeds, and last 

 year's deposit is already rank and green with swampy 

 verdure. Then the willows begin. Almost every new 

 tongue of land has its clump of willows, sown by the 

 sweep of the stream on a curve as regular as any 

 topiary artist could lay down, and trimmed to a uniform 

 height. There is one long bend on our river, perhaps 

 four hundred yards in extent, which is not a sharp but a 

 gradual curve. The river was evidently nearly straight 

 at this point a generation or two ago, but something de- 

 flected its current perhaps a tree which fell into the 

 water and piled up a dam of roots and tangled flotsam. 

 The current, swinging out from this new obstruction, 

 ate into the farther bank and gradually channelled a 

 great bend, depositing new land on the eastern side. 

 Along high -water mark on this new land, following the 



