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.