Quite as much at home upon the land as water was old Methuselah. He could remain beneath water a long time, while in between the rank reeds and grasses along-shore ran his wide flattened trails; regular runways they were. You might readily distinguish where the nimble muskrats ran, because their trails were round and hollow, but when the old Tyrant passed, he cut a wide swath. Fully two feet wide was his great shell. It was marked off beautifully in diamonds, each diamond being ringed about with layers or rings in the shell, which, if you were expert enough to read, might have given you a clue to his great age.
His horny legs possessed such wonderful strength that he could readily pin down and hold a large muskrat with one fore leg. Usually, when the muskrat colony came across old Methuselah's fresh trail, they would either leap nimbly over it at a high jump, or back out, making a wide detour to reach their huts, because the water rats always got the worst of it in an encounter with the old Tyrant. Many of them were even forced to swim in lop-sided fashion because of a lost fore paw or hind leg, which had been snapped off by the wicked old turtle.
Nesting time was a pleasant season for Methuselah. Then he would spend more than half his days foraging among the rank, reedy places, and usually he was smart enough to find the old blue heron's nesting place, no matter how skilfully she might conceal it. Once or twice the old birds had come back and actually found the old Tyrant occupying their nest, surrounded by broken egg shells. Of course they fell upon him and thrashed him badly with their great blue wings, but this made no impression upon the diamond armour of the old fellow, although he looked out well to protect his eyes from the heron's lance-like bill—the only thing which he had to fear from them. He just doted upon bird's eggs, but more than eggs did he fancy young, tender fledglings.
Who is it that tells us the tortoise is so slow? Just let one of the larger wild creatures of the forest, something which Methuselah really had cause to fear, get after him, and then you should watch him sprint for the safety of the pond. Putting forth his clumsy, but fearfully strong flippers, with his snaky neck stretching forth to its limit from its wrinkles, his spiky tail held stiff, old Methuselah would start off on a wild, shambling run, hissing back angrily through his black nose-holes as he travelled. His black claws barely touched the earth as he slid over the ground, and it would have taken a very swift runner to keep up with him. Once he reached the water, without pausing to take observations, he would launch himself off into its depths, sinking straight down among the snaky water-weed roots to the bottom of the pond. The pursuer arriving too late at the edge of the water usually went away quite baffled.
Old Ring Neck, the goose, who came each year to Black Pond to rear her wild brood, one season hatched out nine fine goslings, and when the time came she piloted them to the water for their first swimming lesson. All the way the little ones kept up a timorous "peep, peep, peep," which, of course, Methuselah heard plainly enough, for he happened to be right on the edge of the bank sunning himself. Deftly and silently he slid into the water, and from behind a knot of tangled lily roots he watched and laid his plans.
One after another the trusting goslings slipped into the water, their shadows from below looking like floating lily pads, only behind each shadow trailed two pink, webbed feet. Bubbles began to rise from the knot of lily roots below them, but the old goose did not see them; she was too taken up with the young ones. The old Tyrant was making ready to rise.
As soon as the floating shadows of the goslings came just over his hiding place, silently he began to paddle with just one flipper, while his wicked eyes were fixed upon a certain pink foot. Even before the innocent gosling could utter one warning "peep," the old Tyrant had pulled it quickly under water, and borne it off among the matted water-weeds. That day the old goose lost two of her brood in the most mysterious manner. How they had gone, or where, she never found out, and in time Methuselah managed to steal most of her brood, just as he had the young herons. Oh, there was no question about it, the sly old turtle was about the worst Tyrant the pond had ever known.
Now it happened that because the catfish in Black Pond were large and biting unusually well that summer, the two Newton boys, who lived in a lumber camp the other side of the mountain, used often to come there to fish. Frequently they had caught sight of old Methuselah as he lay sunning himself upon the bank, and never in all their lives had they seen such a giant turtle, and they had often spoken about him in the camp.
"You boys better look out for that old turtle," advised one of the lumbermen as the boys were about starting for the pond; "they're ugly customers, them snapping turtles, when you tackle 'em."
"Guess you boys better not go in swimmin'," spoke grandfather from his corner. "I remember a swim I took in Black Pond once when I was a boy, an' say—I left part of one of my toes behind there somewhere; always thought some old snapper got it. We caught a buster there once; managed to hold him, three of us, long enough to cut a date on his shell, but he was so 'tarnal sassy and strong he got away from us. This might be one of his relatives," chuckled the old man.