on the spot, jealously watching and resenting every intrusion.

Occasionally the wood choppers cross an unknown trail in the
snow, a heavy trail, with long, sliding, down-hill plunges which
look as if a log had been dragged along. But they too go their
way, wondering a bit at the queer things that live in the woods,
but not understanding the plain records that the queer things
leave behind them. Did they but follow far enough they would find
the end of the trail in open water, and on the ice beyond the
signs of Keeonekh's fishing.

I remember one otter family whose den I found, when a boy, on a
stream between two ponds within three miles of the town house.
Yet the oldest hunter could barely remember the time when the
last otter had been caught or seen in the county.

I was sitting very still in the bushes on the bank, one day in
spring, watching for a wood duck. Wood duck lived there, but the
cover was so thick that I could never surprise them. They always
heard me coming and were off, giving me only vanishing glimpses
among the trees, or else quietly hiding until I went by. So the
only way to see them--a beautiful sight they were--was to sit
still in hiding, for hours if need be, until they came gliding
by, all unconscious of the watcher.

As I waited a large animal came swiftly up stream, just his head
visible, with a long tail trailing behind. He was swimming
powerfully, steadily, straight as a string; but, as I noted with
wonder, he made no ripple whatever, sliding through the water as
if greased from nose to tail. Just above me he dived, and I did