THE OTTER.
The otter is the aquatic member of the great weasel family, and plays the same part in lakes and rivers as his mischievous cousin in the forests. It is found in all parts of the world—on tropical islands throughout South America, and in the cold sea-coasts of Kamtchatka and Alaska. Eleven different varieties are mentioned by naturalists.
One of these, the sea-otter, haunts the rocky shores of the coasts and islands of Behring Sea and the Northern Pacific. Its habits are like those of the seal, and its soft, glossy black fur is very much prized, especially in China, where a trimming of otter fur is worn by high officials as a mark of rank.
The sea-otter is a very fond mother, and will fight vigorously in defense of its baby. If attacked when on shore, it will seize the baby in its mouth as a cat would seize a kitten, and scurry into the water as fast as possible, for once among the dashing waves it is safe, and will gambol and frolic gleefully with its rescued offspring. The sea-otter often sleeps on its back on the surface of the sea, and hunters mention having seen the baby lying on the breast of its sleeping mother, closely infolded by her fore-paws, while the waves formed a rocking, tossing cradle.
The sea-otter is the largest member of its family, but the prettiest and most playful of the tribe is the fish-otter, which is pictured in the accompanying engraving feeding its little ones with a fresh fish just caught in the pool by this most skillful of fishers. This otter is from two to three feet long, with a thick furry tail twelve to sixteen inches in length. It has very short legs, and stands not more than a foot high. Its paws are webbed for swimming, as its natural home is the water, but on land it can travel over the ground with great rapidity. It has small, prominent eyes, and little round ears, which are almost hidden in its soft brown fur.
The fish-otter is like a school-boy in its fondness for sliding down hill. Wherever there are bands of otters, slides are found worn on the slopes leading down to the shores of ponds and rivers, in the snow in the winter, and in the soft mud in the summer. Troops of otters have often been seen amusing themselves in this odd fashion. They slide lying on the ground, with the fore-feet bent backward, and push themselves forward with the hind-feet. When the slide is well worn and slippery, these funny little beasts go down with great velocity, and seem to take as much pleasure in their frolicsome antics as if they were a crowd of boys and girls.
The fish-otter lives around fresh-water lakes and rivers in Canada, in certain localities of South America, and in many wild portions of the United States and Europe. It is a famous fisherman. It can dive and stay under water a long time, and it swims so swiftly and so silently that even the quick-darting fish can rarely escape its sharp little teeth. If its prey be small, the otter lifts its head above the surface of the water, and easily bites off the choice morsels, but if the capture be a salmon or a good-sized trout, the otter swims ashore with it, and makes a leisurely repast on the grassy bank. Only the delicate parts of the fish are eaten by this dainty fisherman. When fish are not plenty, it will often attack ducks and other water-birds, like a weasel, sucking only the blood. The keeper of a park near Stuttgart at one time missed many beautiful ducks from a rare collection which had been domiciled on the banks of a water-course. All efforts to discover the thief were in vain. Night after night the keeper stood guard, gun in hand, and in spite of constant cries of alarm from the nests along the shore, no foe could be discovered. At length the keeper saw a dark object appear suddenly above the water. He fired, but saw nothing more. Taking a boat, he rowed over to the spot where the object had disappeared, and with a boat-hook drew to the surface a soft mass, which proved to be a large otter, mortally wounded. From that time the ducks were left undisturbed.
The nest of the fish-otter is a very snug hiding-place. The entrance is through a hole in the bank about three feet under water. From this hole an excavated passageway leads up four or five feet, and ends in a little chamber warmly lined with moss and soft grasses. From this chamber a small tunnel goes to the top of the ground above, thus securing ventilation and plenty of fresh air. In this snug chamber the little otters are born. For the first ten days they are blind, but when their eyes are once open, they grow rapidly, and in about two months are lively and strong enough to accompany their mother on her fishing excursions.
Young otters are sometimes taken from the nest and brought up on bread and milk. They make the most affectionate pets imaginable. A story is told of a lady who had a pet otter that was so attached to its mistress as to follow her everywhere. It would frolic with her in the most amusing fashion, climbing up on to her shoulder, and rubbing its soft fur against her cheek. If it was sleepy, it would climb up her dress and curl up in her lap like a pet cat; and although its mistress's clothing always bore the marks of its sharp little teeth and claws, it remained for a long time a favored pet in the household.
Tame otters are often taught to catch fish for their masters, and many instances are recorded where pet otters have been valued by hunters as highly as their dogs, and have rendered quite as valuable service in supplying the table with dainties.
The Chinese make great use of the otter as a fisherman, and train it so skillfully for this purpose that it will mind the commands of its master as quickly as a well-trained dog.
The fish-otter was well known to the ancient Greeks and Romans, and was the subject of many wonderful fables and superstitions in olden times.
[A WHOLE WEEK.]
BY HONOR MORE.
"Oh, mother! not for a whole week!" Patty's brown eyes were wide with doubt and surprise.
"Why, child, you just said never, and a week's a good deal short of that," answered busy little Mrs. Keniston, tucking another stick into the fire, with an odd little gleam, either from the fire-light or some inward amusement, dancing round the corners of her mouth. She was used to Patty's nevers, and a little tired of them.
Patty went to the window, and drummed on the pane, and stared rather forlornly into the small yard, where red-haired Job Twitchett was jumping up and down, jerking the handle of the old blue pump. He stuck out his tongue at her and winked one eye, but she was too abstracted to notice this customary beginning of hostilities. It was all very well to quarrel with Matty Monroe, and vow never to speak to her again (Matty was real mean to stay away from the spring, just because Kez King had said she might drop in that afternoon; she had no business to break her promise, and she had promised Patty, certain sure, that she would come and bring Rosinella and the tea set with her), but to be forbidden to speak to her for a week was quite another thing. Why, Sir Leon was to have married Rosinella before the week was out!
There was a great commotion in the yard. Job was setting Pug at Tabby. "Hi! look at yer old cat!" he shouted, starting a war-dance on the platform of the clothes-drier, and pointing derisively to poor pussy, who stood on the wood-shed roof, with her tail the size of a hearth-brush. But even this attack on her favorite could not dispel Patty's melancholy. She just glanced out to see that Tabby was really out of reach, and then went slowly up stairs to her little room in the attic to find Sir Leon.
Sir Leon was a doll. He was a very splendid doll, with brown eyes and hair, a black velvet cap with a long white feather, a silken cloak, and slashed trousers reaching only to the knee, like a knight of olden times. He even had long gray stockings, and—crowning glory!—a pair of top-boots made of chamois leather. Cousin Evelyn had dressed him for Patty's birthday, and Cousin Evelyn came from New York, and could do anything.
Patty picked him up, and looked fiercely in his amiable waxen countenance.
"I don't care a snap for your whiskers!" she exclaimed, hotly, giving him a vicious little shake. "I don't believe but what Cousin Evelyn just stuck 'em on herself; and it's my opinion you were made for a girl, Sir Leon de Montmorenci."
And at the thought of that dreadful possibility, and Matty Monroe's faithlessness, she sat down on the boot-box and cried.
Next morning Mrs. Keniston was rolling out pie-crust in the kitchen, when Patty entered slowly, with a kind of dubious brightness in her face, and curled up in a big chair by the table, with her head on her hand. A pencil and some paper projected from her apron pocket.
"Well, Patty," said Mrs. Keniston, cheerily, "what kind of turn-overs shall it be?"
"Mamma," responded Patty, soberly, "did you ever have any love-letters?"
Mrs. Keniston paused, with rolling-pin upraised in astonishment.
"No. Yes. Of course. What ever put it into your head to ask such questions, child? There, take that, and go and get your little pie board, and roll it out smoothly, and I'll let you bake some dolly's pies. Don't worry your silly head about love-letters yet awhile, my dear."
"But did you?" persisted Patty. "Because I want to write one—at least Sir Leon does—and we don't know how to begin. How did yours begin?"
"I think my first began, 'My dear Miss Holliwell,'" said Mrs. Keniston, laughing. "Ask papa. He'll know."
"Did it?" inquired Patty, rather doubtfully. "Why, when Mr. Cope wrote to you to borrow that book, he began, 'My dear Mrs. Keniston,' and his couldn't be a love-letter, you know, because you're married to papa, and he's engaged to Miss Dover. I don't think that sounds lovery enough."
However, she took out her pencil, and began to write, spelling over each word noiselessly to herself as she put it down.
"Who is your letter to, Patty?" asked her mother at last, as she folded it up with a sigh of relief, and wrote an address on the back.
"Why," said Patty, rather falteringly, "it's from Sir Leon to Rosinella. That isn't the same as if I wrote to Matty, is it? Because, you know, Sir Leon's a man, and I'm not, and Matty—well, Matty isn't Rosinella. Matty never was Queen of Beauty at a tournament the way Rosinella was when we had one in the orchard the day after Cousin Evelyn told us Ivanhoe. And it isn't Matty's trousseau we're making; it's Rosinella's. And Rosinella has golden hair, and Matty has auburn. And—I may send it, mayn't I?"
"Yes, indeed, you may," said Mrs. Keniston, laughing much more than was necessary, Patty thought. "May I see it?"
Patty handed it across the table, with a glance of mingled pride and apprehension, and this is what Mrs. Keniston read:
"My dear Miss Rosinella, Aingle of my Life,—I do miss you very much indeed and o how I wish we could see each other before wensday which is such a long way of but I supose we cant becourse Patty Kenistons mother says she mussnt speak to Matty Monroe till then becourse they quareled. I hope they will never quarel again dont you?
"Patty Keniston says she wont. She has been very lonely without Matty and wonders if she has finished your wedding dress which she hopes she has becourse she wants us to be marryed wensday anyhow in her dollshouse. She is going to have a reall frosted wedding cake for us and hopes Matty will bring over some rasberry vinneger for wine to drink helths with the way they allways used to do you know. O how I do want to see you and be marryed. Anser this soon and write a long letter for I am dying to hear from you my own presious Rosinella.
"Ever your loving knite
"Sir Leon der Montmorensy."
Mrs. Keniston laughed until she cried, and had to wipe her tears with her apron; but all she said, when she gave back the letter, was, "Oh, Patty! Patty! of all the children—"
Of course the postman was late next morning; but when he came, he was in remarkably good-humor, and wore a smile that creased his whole countenance as Patty danced up to him, asking, excitedly, "A letter for me? a letter for me?"
But he only chuckled, and shook his head for answer, and then said, slowly, "Wa'al, no, little gal; I'm sorry ter disapp'int yer, but ther' ain't," adding, with a twinkle, "Does anybody by the name of Montmorenci live hereabouts?"
"Oh, it's my letter! it's my letter!" screamed Patty. "Do give it to me, Mr. Skinner."
"Couldn't posserbly, little gal. 'Tain't yours, yer see. It's d'rected ter 'Sir Leon de Montmorenci, Knight.' That ain't your name, ye know," said Mr. Skinner, producing a tiny envelope.
"Oh yes, it is! I mean, it's my doll's!" shouted Patty; and seizing the precious letter, she ran into the house with it, and left Mr. Skinner still chuckling to himself with a hearty enjoyment of the little girl's delight.
Here is the letter:
"My dear Sir Leon,—Many thanks for your kind letter. I am quite ready to be married. Matty made my wedding dress yesterday. It is of white satin a piece left over from her Mothers and trimmed with white lace. I have a lovely vail. Matty says she will bring the raspberry vinegar" ("She's spelled it different from what I did," thought Patty; "guess she asked Lida") "and some crullers. And now I have an idear. Let us have a tellegraph. You ask Patty Keniston to come to the gate post at nine to-morrow and Matty will meet her with her end of the string. I think it is nice to live next door. Tell Patty Matty won't speak to her so she needent be afraid to come. I think your letter was lovely. I cannot make one half so nice but then your the gentleman and Im the lady so anyway it wouldent be propper. I love you. Tell Patty to be sure and come. Ever your faithfull ladilove,
"Rosinella Saint Hilaire."
"How splendid!" said Patty. "We can write all the time, then. I may, mayn't I, mother?"
Mrs. Keniston nodded. She was trying on a dress, and her mouth was full of pins.
And after that it wasn't hard at all. The telegraph was such a blessing! But still, when the week came to an end, Patty and Matty flew into each other's arms as if they had been separated for a year.
"Oh, Matty!" said Patty, and "Oh, Patty!" said Matty, and "Hi!" said Job Twitchett, bobbing his head over the fence, "yer'll fight agen in a fortnit."
"Go away, you bad boy," said Patty, facing him fiercely. "We shall NEVER fight again!"
And though Job repeated "Hi!" and snapped his fingers, they didn't—for a whole month.