ught or driven away from
a favorite stream, another otter speedily finds the spot in some of his
winter wanderings after better fishing, and, knowing well from the signs
that others of his race have paid the sad penalty for heedlessness, he
settles down there with greater watchfulness, and enjoys his fisherman's
luck.

In the spring he brings a mate to share his rich living. Soon a family
of young otters go a-fishing in the best pools and explore the stream
for miles up and down. But so shy and wild and quick to hide are they
that the trout fishermen who follow the river, and the ice fishermen
who set their tilt-ups in the pond below, and the children who gather
cowslips in the spring have no suspicion that the original proprietors
of the stream are still 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 not see him again, though I
watched up and down stream breathlessly for him to reappear.

I had never seen such