Mrs. Muskrat owned a beautiful home of her own on the edge of the mill-pond. She had built the house years ago, and had kept it in the best of repair. It was cleverly concealed at a point where tufts of grass and overhanging bushes afforded protection, and at the same time it was well out in the pond, quite inaccessible to Mrs. Muskrat's enemies.
The roof rose like an inverted bowl over a circular wall of mud and sticks; and so neatly were the straws and sticks matted over the top that the house seemed at first glance to be but an accidental confusion of dried leaves and old branches. This was as it should be, for Mrs. Muskrat, like many persons of good taste, preferred to have a home of interior elegance and ease to one with merely a showy exterior.
It was autumn and Mrs. Muskrat was congratulating herself upon her well filled larder and the prospects of a comfortable winter.
"I am always glad," she would say to the neighbor that happened in, "I am always glad that I moved down here from that upper pond when I did. It was a poor place to live and one was in constant danger of the water's being drawn off. Those farmers are so inconsiderate you can never tell when they will take it into their heads to drain the meadows, and then it is all up with us poor creatures."
She would then continue her narrative, after the manner of many people who take interest in no affairs but their own, and would probably burden her caller with the full account of how she had prevailed upon her husband, the young Dr. Muskrat, to leave the shallows of the upper home and set up for himself on the edges of the deep and permanent mill-pond.
"And," she would always conclude, "a mill-pond is so very much more aristocratic—not to mention a much better growth of provisions. Personally, I love deep water, and the sound of the mill-wheel is dear to my heart. No; I shall never go back to the upper pond."
Always the neighbors knew that Mrs. Muskrat, in alluding to the elegance of the mill-pond society, was, in point of fact, repudiating her poor relations, who had gone on living in the distant meadows. For, like many people who move to the town and prosper, waxing fat and successful, she was given to a feeling of pity that sounded a good deal like contempt for the poor relatives back in the country.
Little did she realize what the winter was to bring forth as she swam in and out of her front door, crossing to the opposite shores and back, always bringing the tenderest roots and lily stalks for her winter provisions. She was very content with the world, although she regretted the departure of her best friend, Mrs. Thrush, whose nest was in the alders almost over her very head, and she was sorry that the turtles had found it necessary to retire into the deep mud for their winter's sleep.
The sun was bright, however, and cheerful sounds came from the fields where men were loading pumpkins into the farm wagon, and from the orchards came the laughter of merry boys gathering apples. This drew her attention to the old, neglected tree which grew on the bank of the pond. Its fruit was bright, and there was much of it, but it hung high.
"If only there comes a good brisk wind to-night," she thought, "those apples will blow to the ground; and I can think of nothing more to my taste than a bit of fresh fruit."