Methuselah, the Tyrant, was very old, so old that none of the inhabitants of the pond could have told you his exact age. Like the knights of old he, too, wore armour, which served very well to protect him and turn aside many a stray bullet or dangerous missile aimed in his direction. In fact, Methuselah, the giant snapping turtle of Black Pond, appeared to have led a sort of charmed life, escaping all kinds of dangers in the most lucky manner, and absolutely ruling over all wild things which came near or made their homes in or about the pond.
If the old Tyrant wore knightly armour, he in no other respect resembled the brave knights of ancient days, for by nature he was malicious, sly and wicked. And, if the truth were only known, a very great glutton. Just as soon as the frost left the strata of mud above him where he had wintered, old Methuselah would rouse himself for action. Quite torpid at first, he would crawl to some spot where the sun might strike his chilled, mud-caked shell, and gradually thaw out. Soon would commence his eager search for food, and in early spring he made regular hourly trips around the pond, gobbling up the very first young things which had come out of winter quarters, usually small tender frogs. He loved to lie motionless near the surface of the water, sending up pearly air bubbles through his horny snout, waving a flipper idly, just to keep his huge shell afloat, looking precisely like a round-topped rock, for the old fellow's back was rough and so moss-grown that he resembled a stone more than anything living. But all the while his cold, wicked-looking eyes, when not shaded by their filmy lids, were quite watchful and always on the alert, and his wrinkled neck was ever in readiness to dart out like a flash to snap up anything which came his way.
Snap, snap, would crash his horny, toothless jaws, closing over one after another of the unsuspecting minnow shoals as they slid by him. As for the catfish, with their terrible lance-like spines, rising just behind their gills, and which every boy who goes fishing dreads more than anything—they never bothered the old Tyrant; his armour protected him so well he feared nothing. His hard, warty fore legs were so tough and strong, they could ward off anything troublesome; besides, they were armed with sharp black claws. Usually, Methuselah would come upon the catfish from beneath the shoal; a swift snap of his scaly jaws and he had taken a bite from a pearl-white stomach, thus escaping the horn, and discarding every portion of the fish but the choicest morsels. Sometimes, so silently did the old Tyrant approach the shoal from beneath, that he would succeed in snapping several fish even before the leader of the shoal knew what was going on behind him.
Quite as much at home upon the land as water was old Methuselah. He could remain beneath water a long time, while in between the rank reeds and grasses along-shore ran his wide flattened trails; regular runways they were. You might readily distinguish where the nimble muskrats ran, because their trails were round and hollow, but when the old Tyrant passed, he cut a wide swath. Fully two feet wide was his great shell. It was marked off beautifully in diamonds, each diamond being ringed about with layers or rings in the shell, which, if you were expert enough to read, might have given you a clue to his great age.
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.
One after another the trusting goslings slipped into the water, their shadows from below looking like floating lily pads, only behind each shadow trailed two pink, webbed feet. Bubbles began to rise from the knot of lily roots below them, but the old goose did not see them; she was too taken up with the young ones. The old Tyrant was making ready to rise.
As soon as the floating shadows of the goslings came just over his hiding place, silently he began to paddle with just one flipper, while his wicked eyes were fixed upon a certain pink foot. Even before the innocent gosling could utter one warning "peep," the old Tyrant had pulled it quickly under water, and borne it off among the matted water-weeds. That day the old goose lost two of her brood in the most mysterious manner. How they had gone, or where, she never found out, and in time Methuselah managed to steal most of her brood, just as he had the young herons. Oh, there was no question about it, the sly old turtle was about the worst Tyrant the pond had ever known.
Now it happened that because the catfish in Black Pond were large and biting unusually well that summer, the two Newton boys, who lived in a lumber camp the other side of the mountain, used often to come there to fish. Frequently they had caught sight of old Methuselah as he lay sunning himself upon the bank, and never in all their lives had they seen such a giant turtle, and they had often spoken about him in the camp.
"You boys better look out for that old turtle," advised one of the lumbermen as the boys were about starting for the pond; "they're ugly customers, them snapping turtles, when you tackle 'em."
"Guess you boys better not go in swimmin'," spoke grandfather from his corner. "I remember a swim I took in Black Pond once when I was a boy, an' say—I left part of one of my toes behind there somewhere; always thought some old snapper got it. We caught a buster there once; managed to hold him, three of us, long enough to cut a date on his shell, but he was so 'tarnal sassy and strong he got away from us. This might be one of his relatives," chuckled the old man.
The boys were allowed to drive the colt and make a day of it. They fished until afternoon, but at last the fish failed to bite and the gnats bothered them so, they left the fishing and tramped alongshore to look at some snares they had set.
"Say, Dick; hi, come here and look at the track I've struck," called Joe; "believe it's our old friend, the snapping turtle. Yes, here he is, fast asleep. Ain't he just a corker?" The two boys had come upon the old fellow as he lay sunning himself.
"Let's wake him up and have some fun with him," suggested Joe. "I'll get a stout stick; you watch him and see that he don't get away."
Methuselah had not been asleep, however, so he just raised one cold eye and stared after the boys insolently, as much as to say, "Who's afraid?"
Soon the boys began to prod the old fellow rather too much for his comfort, for there are certain vulnerable places upon a turtle, and one of these is his wrinkled neck. The stick bothered him so he began twisting his snaky head about angrily and snapping at the boys, hissing savagely, finally clinging obstinately to the stick, so that the boys managed to raise him and turn him upon his back where he waved his flippers helplessly, trying in vain to right himself and crawl away.
"Oh, oh, Joe, look! see! why, here's a date. It says—why, it says '1825'; it surely does, see!"
"Great Scott, Dick, it surely does," cried Joe excitedly, as he read the worn date cut in the shell. "Why, it's grandfather's old snapper, the one he thinks bit off his toe when he was a boy. This old fellow must be terribly old; he was big when grandfather first saw him and grandfather's awful old. Oh, if we could only get him back to camp. Tell you what, before anything happens, let us carve a date right under this one. Give me your knife, Dick." So, together, the boys carved 1913 right under the old date. By prodding the old turtle they made him seize the stick again firmly and together they managed to lift him into their wagon, leaving him helplessly waving his flippers, flat upon his back.
Soon they started for home, but not a minute too soon, for a thunderstorm was beginning to travel over the mountain. Before they were half-way home it began, and the colt, frightened by the rattle of the thunder in the mountain passes, broke and ran. The old wagon swayed and bounced from side to side and the boys had all they could do to manage the colt. They were glad enough to reach camp, finally, and not until they drove to the shed did they remember the snapping turtle, but, to their dismay when they looked for him, he was gone.
"It's a shame!" exclaimed Dick. "I wanted grandfather to see him. Hold the lantern, Joe; perhaps he's slid away under the seat." But they searched in vain, for during their wild ride the old Tyrant had righted himself and slid off the tail end of their wagon.
Away back on the mountain road lay Methuselah, somewhat stunned by his fall. All night he lay there with a piece nicked from his shell. At sunrise he was off over the rough road heading for the pond. He crawled along aimlessly at first. Finally reaching a rise in the ground, all at once he lifted his snaky neck, scenting moisture—the pond. Raising himself high upon his great flippers, his horny head stretched out like a racer, he ran scrambling over stones and through matted jungles of weeds. At last he saw the gleam of the pond lying steel-like and sullen ahead. The hot sun heated his thick shell to furnace heat, scorching his flesh beneath; he longed to plunge into the cooling water. Finally, in desperate haste having reached a high place in the bank, he rolled the remainder of the distance and fell with a loud splash into the pond, straight down into the oozing mud to the bottom, scattering catfish and small fry in all directions.
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.