The herons, bitterns and wild ducks swept low over the brush entangled water course and dropped into the quiet open places. Innumerable clusters of small mud turtles fringed the drift wood and fallen timbers that retarded the sluggish current. The patriarchs of the hard shelled brotherhood—moss covered and intolerant—spent their days on the half-submerged gray logs in somnolent isolation. Kingfishers, crows and hawks found a fecund hunting ground along the winding byway. Squirrels and chipmunks raced over the recumbent trunks, and whisked their bushy tails in the patches of sunlight that filtered through the interlacing boughs above them. At night the owls, coons, minks and muskrats explored the wet labyrinths, aged bull frogs trumpeted dolefully, and stealthy nocturnal prowlers came there to drink. Sometimes the splash of a fish broke the stillness, and little rings crept away over the surface and lost themselves among the weeds and floating moss. Long ago the trails of wolves, deer, and other large animals appeared in the snow on the island during the winter; bear tracks were often found, and there is a legend among the latter day prosaics that a couple of panthers once had a den in the neighborhood. In later years most of the winter pathways were made by foxes and rabbits and their human and canine pursuers. Near the bank of the main stream stood a decayed but well constructed old house. It was built of faced logs with mortar between them. There were three rooms on the ground floor, and some steep narrow stairs led into an attic next to the roof that sloped to the floor along its sides. My friend “Buck” Granger, a gray haired old trapper and hunter, whose grandfather built the house about a hundred years ago, ushered me up the creaky stairs late one night. The alert eyes of a red squirrel peered at us from the end of a tattered mink muff that lay on an oak chest close to the roof, and vanished. Apparently the small visitor was not greatly disturbed, for, after two or three gentle undulations, the muff was motionless. After conventional but cordial injunctions to make myself at home, Buck departed to his quarters below. [Illustration: FAMILIAR HAUNTS ] The quaint and picturesque attic was full of interest. An old fashioned bedstead stood in the room, a cumbrous, home made “four poster.” Over its cord lacings was a thick feather bed, several comforters, and a multicolored patchwork quilt. The sheets and pillow slips were of coarsely woven linen. Bunches of seed corn and dried herbs were suspended from pegs along the roof timbers; near the oak chest was a spinning wheel, and a broken cradle—all veiled with mantles of fine dust and cobwebs. The cradle, in which incipient genius may once have slumbered, was filled with bags of beans, ears of pop corn, and hickory nuts. Squirrels and white footed mice from the surrounding woods had held high revel in the tempting hoard.