gh, and had been made perfectly smooth by much sliding and
wetting-down. An otter would appear at the top of the bank, throw
himself forward on his belly and shoot downward like a flash, diving
deep under water and reappearing some distance out from the foot of the
slide. And all this with marvelous stillness, as if the very woods had
ears and were listening to betray the shy creatures at their fun. For it
was fun, pure and simple, and fun with no end of tingle and excitement
in it, especially when one tried to catch the other and shot into the
water at his very heels.

This slide was in perfect condition, and the otters were careful not to
roughen it. They never scrambled up over it, but went round the point
and climbed from the other side, or else went up parallel to the slide,
some distance away, where the ascent was easier and where there was no
danger of rolling stones or sticks upon the coasting ground to spoil its
smoothness.

In winter the snow makes better coasting than the clay. Moreover it soon
grows hard and icy from the freezing of the water left by the otter's
body, and after a few days the slide is as smooth as glass. Then
coasting is perfect, and every otter, old and young, has his favorite
slide and spends part of every pleasant day enjoying the fun.

When traveling through the woods in deep snow, Keeonekh makes use of his
sliding habit to help him along, especially on down grades. He runs a
little way and throws himself forward on his belly, sliding through the
snow for several feet before he runs again. So his progress is a series
of slides, much as one hurries along in slippery weather.

I have spoken of the silver bubbles that first drew my attention to
the fishing otters one day in the wilderness. From the few rare
opportunities that I have had to watch them, I think that the bubbles
are seen only after Keeonekh slides swiftly into the stream. The air
clings to the hairs of his rough outer coat and is brushed from them as
he passes through the water. One who watches him thus, shooting down
the long slide belly-bump into the black winter pool, with a string
of silver bubbles breaking and tinkling above him, is apt to know the
hunter's change of heart from the touch of Nature which makes us all
kin. Thereafter he eschews trapping--at least you will not find his
number-three trap at the foot of Keeonekh's slide any more, to turn the
shy creature's happiness into tragedy--and he sends a hearty good-