THe Muskrats ave GWuilding 
We have had a series of long, heavy rains, and water 
is standing over the swampy meadow. It is a dreary 
stretch, this wet, sedgy land in the cold twilight, 
drearier than any part of the woods or the upland 
pastures. They are empty, but the meadow is flat 
and wet, naked and all unsheltered. And a Novem- 
ber night is falling. 
The darkness deepens. A raw wind is rising. At 
nine o'clock the moon swings round and full to the 
crest of the ridge, and pours softly over. I button the 
heavy ulster close, and in my rubber boots go down 
to the river and follow it out to the middle of the 
meadow, where it meets the main ditch at the sharp 
turn toward the swamp. Here at the bend, behind a 
clump of black alders, I sit quietly down and wait. 
I 
