And there he is still, old Methuselah, the Tyrant of Black Pond, and no one actually knows his age, for 'tis said some turtles have lived a thousand years. But if you ever run across the old Tyrant you may recognise him readily if you have courage and strength enough to turn him over upon his back, for there you will find upon his shell the two dates—1825 and 1913.

CHAPTER VII
MAHUG, THE CHAMPION DIVER

A strange, uncanny scream rang out over the sullen waters of Black Lake one night in June, and, although there was no human being near the desolate spot to hear the awful cry, it was quite scary enough to startle certain of the wild inhabitants all alongshore. There were others among them, however, who were unafraid; they had heard the same cry before and recognised it. They knew that Mahug, the Great King Loon, and his wild mate had arrived at the lake, where each year they came from warmer climes, to build their hidden nest in some secluded spot among the rushes.

This lonely spot had always suited the King Loon so well that, no matter how far off he had wintered, he invariably made for Black Lake during nesting time. Mahug, like all his tribe, was a mighty diver and, for water-fowl, he had very fashionable habits, spending a portion of each year near the salt sea, usually camping upon some desolate island, fishing, swimming, and diving with thousands of other water-fowl, yet never mingling at all familiarly with them, or encouraging acquaintances in a sociable way, because the loon is a very solitary bird. So, when nesting time came, Mahug always went off as far away from the crowd as he possibly could go. Quite frequently he and his mate would fly thousands of miles in order to be exclusive and alone. The old loon was a large, imposing bird, his wing and back feathers of a glossy, metallic black, while his beautiful breast was dazzling, pearly white, the feathers very soft and thick. When Mahug stood erect, at first sight, he appeared to be wearing a dark coat thrown back from a pearl-white waistcoat. His head was beautifully marked, the top of fine, iridescent feathers, the neck ringed about with green and bronze. On the wing, you never would have suspected how very awkward Mahug could be upon his feet. On land he just waddled about in the most ungainly fashion, choosing to fly, usually, rather than walk, because his clumsy webbed feet were not intended for tramping. They were set so far back upon his body that they were of small use to him excepting when he used them for paddles in the water.

Mahug was in his element in water or upon the wing. And my, how the old King could dive! In fact, the loon family are all noted divers, for they not only dive deeper than other birds, but they can also stay under water a long time. So quickly could old Mahug dive, that several times in his life when a hunter had fired at him, even before the bullet touched water, the old King Loon was already deep down in the depths of the lake among the snake-like lily roots, safe.

This June when Mahug and his mate reached the shores of Black Lake, he sent his great cry of triumph abroad, for he was glad to be there. Then he and his mate nested low among the sedges and rested for the night, but the very next morning, even before the fog lifted from the lake, both set about their nest building. Right upon the ground they built it, and not very carefully, I am afraid, their main idea being to conceal it cleverly behind a thick curtain of reeds and matted water-weeds, but not so very far from the water. In due time three baby loons pipped their dark green shells, and queer looking little specimens of birds they were—bare, homely and always hungry.

Although it appeared desolate and lonely enough, still, if one but knew, back in the thick undergrowth about the lake, hidden by thick jungles of blackberry vines and dark spruces, there were many secret coverts and dens where the wild of the forest made their homes. The lake itself was almost completely surrounded by treacherous, oozy bogs and morasses, so that it was seldom visited by man. For this very reason the wild things felt safe, and the old King Loon had especially selected the spot, for the loon is the wildest of all wild water-fowl.

Few of the other birds cared to meet the loon in battle, because of the mighty strength of his great wings, which could soon beat out the life of anything upon which they descended, while his heavy coat of feathers protected their wearer well. So when the loon sent its uncanny scream across the lake, more than one timid, wild thing cowered close to the ground and shook with sudden fear.