It was about the middle of March. We were fishing up at the Sagamore Pond--Rod Nichols and myself; fishing through the ice for pickerel.
When the country in this part of Maine was first settled, the Sagamore, as well as all the other ponds and lakes, abounded with lake trout, or, as they were then called, togue trout--great, broad-backed fellows, weighing from twelve to twenty pounds. But it was foolishly supposed by the early settlers that it would be better to have pickerel instead, of trout in these waters. So pickerel were put into nearly every pond and lake in this section. They are the most voracious of fish, very strong and savage, and soon destroyed the trout.
Those of the Sagamore are larger than the pickerel in most of the ponds. It takes a strong line to get them out of the water. Through a hole in the ice this is more easily done; but it is no small job to cut such a hole when the ice is two feet thick. Rod and I were an hour and a half hacking ours with a hatchet, that afternoon.
It was not far from the shore--eight or ten rods, perhaps--but between us and the bank there was a wide, open place, worn away, or thawed, by a "springhole" along the shore. The afternoon sunbeams, falling on the glass-bright surface, were reflected under the ice, and lighted up the water as far out as where we had made our hole. We could thus see all that was going on under us, though the water was nearly twenty feet deep.
We had fished in this place before, and knew how to take advantage of this clear water, for it's always pleasant to see what one's about. It is fully half the sport to see the fish biting.
After skimming our hole, we dropped in a hook baited with a shiner--we had a jug full of them--and waited for a bite; watched and waited patiently and confidently, but it didn't come. Not a fish could be seen in all the clear depths beneath. This was unusual, as well as vexatious, for the Sagamore was known to be well stocked with pickerel, and they generally took the hook readily. But an hour passed without so much as a nibble at our bait.
It was a fine, sunny afternoon. Everything was still. There was not even the cawing of crows to be heard. Presently, looking across to the shore, we saw a large black creature watching us from an old pine stump, that was some four or five rods from the water.
"Fisher-cat, isn't it?" said Rod.
It did look like one, certainly. It was black, and about the same size.
"Suppose he'd show fight if we should go round there?" continued Rod, looking leisurely for the hatchet.
Poor success fishing had made him a little pugnacious, I suppose; and a scrimmage with a fisher-cat, or carcajoe, when you can get one to face about, isn't bad fun for those who enjoy such sport, and are willing to run the risk of getting scratched and bitten.
In explanation, I should say that the "fisher-cat" is a member of the weasel family. Naturalists call it the Mustela Canadensis, or Canada weasel; a pretty big weasel, to be sure. Hunters and trappers hate it most heartily, for it will follow them all day on their rounds, taking the bait out of their traps as fast as they can set them.
Well, if we could not catch any pickerel, perhaps a little fracas with Mr. Snarly-face, over there, would be the next best thing; and I was just drawing up my line, when there came a heavy tug at the bait, nearly jerking the line from my hands. There was not only one tug, but a series of tugs and rushes to and fro, making the water fairly boil in the hole.
I had hooked a big one, and he was testing the line to the utmost, and rasping it across the sharp edges of the ice. Holding it steadily, however, the struggle gradually ceased, and looking down into the water, we saw a noble fellow, slowly waving his fins on the sand, at the bottom of the pond.
"Isn't he a thumper!" exclaimed Rod. "Five or six pounds, certain! Fish enough for one day."
He had become pretty docile, and I had drawn him up within six or seven feet of the surface, when, with a sudden plunge, a long, dark animal darted through the water, and seizing the fish, passed out of sight under the ice, like a black streak. I pulled sharply at the line, once, twice--then it snapped.
Here was a surprise.
"What on earth was that?" cried Rod.
But there was nothing further to be seen. A few bubbles came struggling up through the water, but the creature had gone, and so had the fish.
"It couldn't have been that fisher-cat," said Rod.
"No, indeed! Who ever heard of a fisher-cat, or any other cat, swimming ten rods under water!"
"But he is gone from the stump."
"Well, let him go. That wasn't him."
"What was it, then?"
That was a question easier asked than answered. We were fairly "stuck," as Rod expressed it, and stood staring into the hole. Suddenly there was a wavy motion, deep down, below the surface, and we saw the creature shoot back, by the hole, with the fish in his mouth. We had just a dim, refractive glimpse, and he had passed, going toward the shore. We looked in that direction, and a few seconds after, saw a flat, black head pop up a moment into sight from the open water, and, then it disappeared. We watched for some minutes, but it did not come up again.
"Rather a strange performance, anyhow," muttered Rod.
"But let's go round to the shore, and see if we can find the fisher."
Going to the shore, we saw that the bank shelved off abruptly into deep water; and in one place it was worn smooth, and was icy, as if some animal had been sliding from it down into the pond. Other than this there were no traces.
So, first cutting a couple of stout clubs, we went to the pine stump, where we had seen what we had taken for a fisher. He was gone; but we discovered a hole in the top of the stump, that went down under the ground, and looking into it saw a broad, black muzzle, and a pair of wicked little eyes gleaming up at us.
"Hollo!" cried Rod, "here he is;" thrusting in his stick. The head vanished.
"But that's no fisher; their noses do not look like that. It was too big and blunt. I'll tell you what," exclaimed he suddenly; "it's an otter! That was one out in the pond, too. Did you ever see one?"
"No."
"Nor I; but I've heard old Hughy Olives tell about them; and that's just what this is."
"What about them? Will they fight much?"
"Fight when cornered, Hughy says, like young tigers, too. Dogs are no match for them. But their fur's valuable."
"That's so. We must get this one if we can."
"There may be more than one. They live two and three together, sometimes, Hughy said, in burrows, opening under water. This couldn't be the one that stole our fish, either. It might have been though; for this hole probably leads out into the water, under the bank. Let's see if it doesn't."
We ran to the edge and looked over. The water was six or seven feet deep.
"Stamp on the ground," said I.
Rod did so; and a moment after I saw a long, slim animal glide out from under the bank and dart off beneath the ice--then another.
"Yes, here he is; two of them."
They didn't come up in the open water, but must have gone off under the ice. I suppose there were air-holes through it, where they came up to breathe.
They were otters; no doubt of it. But how to catch them; that was the next question.
"Hughy spoke of setting traps for them," said Rod.
"So we can! Your father's old bear-trap! Set it down under the bank here, where their burrow opens out into the water."
"Agreed."
And home we went after the trap. It was nearly three miles, but we were soon there, and took the trap from the garret, where it had been resting for a dozen years. It was heavy, and must have weighed sixty or seventy pounds. But we hung it on a pole, and resting the ends of the pole on our shoulders, started for the pond; and a fine sweat it gave us before we reached our destination.
The next thing was to set it. The springs were so rusty and stiff that we had to use a lever to bend them, and we came near getting caught in it once or twice; but it was set properly at last, and sinking it at the entrance of the burrow we chained it to an old root.
This done, we filled in stones, and stopped the hole in the stump at the upper end of the den, to prevent the otters from getting out there. Then we went home, for it was considerably after sunset. We had our trap on their doorstep, as Rod said; they could neither go in nor out without climbing over it.
The next afternoon we went to see what success attended our efforts. There was nothing stirring about the stump, and creeping cautiously down the bank, we looked over. The trap had been sprung and drawn up into the burrow, partly out of sight. Pulling it out by the chain, sure enough, there was a long, sleek, black fellow in it fast by one of his chubby legs. But he was quite dead--drowned.
The great weight of the trap had prevented his coming to the surface. And although an otter can remain under water for nearly two minutes, yet at the end of that time he must come to the surface, like any air-breathing animal, or be suffocated.
We were jubilant. Taking him out, we carefully replaced the trap in its old position and went home with our game, where, calling in the assistance and advice of old Hughy, we proceeded to take off the skin according to standard rules.
The fur was of a light brown color, thickly interspersed with black hairs, which gives the animal at a little distance the appearance of being wholly black. The ears were small and far apart, and the feet short and webbed like a goose. The entire length of the animal, including its tail, was nearly five feet; but Hughy thought this one rather above the average size.
The next day we caught another otter--a smaller one; and about a fortnight after, a third met his fate in the jaws of the old trap.
We received twelve dollars apiece for these skins, and felt very well satisfied with oar afternoon's sport at the Sagamore.
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