MUSKRATS 227 



is succeeded by the pioneer settlement, and on 

 through all the mutations that culminate in the great 

 city. The Beaver is wise. The Muskrat has the happy 

 faculty of accepting every situation and calling it 

 good. When the sand-pump fills his favourite lagoon, 

 and his few human sympathisers have bidden him 

 good-bye, he comes next night and trails his glossy 

 tail over the fresh mound, crossing and recrossing it 

 in a labyrinth of straight and curved lines, and making 

 the new shores old with the countless indentations 

 of his nimble feet. Like ourselves, he becomes 

 nocturnal in his habits as urban growth advances 

 around him. Should he become inured to a civilisation 

 ancient as that of China he may be as indifferent as a 

 laundryman to the rising and setting of the sun in 

 ordering his hours of labour and repose. 



The after-dark of early autumn, before the crescent 

 moon has left the sky to the vigils of the stars, is the 

 time to commune with the Muskrats. The excuse 

 for being abroad, whether it be gun, fishing-rod, insect 

 net, or botanising case, must be laid aside, for there 

 is something imperious in the all-pervading hush 

 of evening that will not tolerate an interruption. 

 From the boat pushed well into the rushes the clear, 

 smooth lagoon stretches away toward its margins of 

 impenetrable shadow, so still that the mirrored stars 

 do not even tremble. A black dot comes out of the 

 darkness straight across the silent water, leaving 



