The otter is one of the most graceful of living creatures, but as a fisherman and fishculturist, I candidly confess that I look on him as a detestable nuisance on my river. What says the poet!

This is a faithful picture of the otter’s remorseless and predacious nature. I caught one the other day in an eel-grate, whither he had doubtless gone for the eels. The biter was, however, bit, for the rush of water was too powerful, and on opening the door in the morning I found him dead and stiff.

The otter usually kills many more fish than it actually wants for food, and as otters generally hunt in pairs, it is not uncommon to find in the morning as many as thirteen or fourteen prime trout—in an ordinarily plentiful river, of course—killed and only partly eaten. Like the lord mayor’s jester, however, the otter knows what is good, or, indeed, best, for it eats away the shoulders of the fish, leaving the rest to rot or be devoured by rats.

I have said it is graceful, and so it is, in a remarkable degree. Let me advise you, if you live in New York, to visit the Zoological Gardens, in Central Park, and watch the fine sinuous turns and sweeps as the otter seizes or seeks for its prey. Its body is long and flexible, and its feet short and webbed, and the adjacent muscles are of immense muscular power. Its eyes are large, the ears short, and it is bewhiskered like a Viking. Its coat is double, like that of the seal. Long glossy hairs form the outer one, and a short waterproof woolly waistcoat comprises the inner, so that neither cold nor wet can affect the well-being of this amphibious hunter. In the daytime it hides itself in its hole, which usually is some feet deep in the bank, above highwater mark, but at night its depredations commence; and when the female has young, say five, and the male otter works with her, as he generally does, I estimate that from thirty to forty fish per night are, if anything, rather within the number than beyond. Can any one deny, therefore, that the otter comes within the common-sense definition of vermin?

If the otter be taken young, and great kindness and care be shown it, it may be transferred from the category of vermin into that of “pets,” and I do not think there is a much more interesting pet in existence, and I recollect one which used to run about after its master at Eton, England, some years since. A friend of mine (head river-keeper on a nobleman’s estate) took a tame one from an old poacher which the latter had constantly employed to catch fish and bring to him. My friend tells me that when he caught the poacher he had some sixty fine trout, scarcely injured, in a bag, all of which had been captured by the otter.

There are many instances of a similar character referred to in the natural history books which I cannot produce here. It is sufficient to say that otter-taming, and even the utilizing of the creature for fishing purposes, is by no means uncommon.

The otter is usually hunted with dogs of a particular breed, but I shall not attempt to describe this species of sport in this place. There are those who object to hunting on principle, and I am not bigoted enough to say they are altogether wrong. Certain, however, it is that otter hunting is remarkably exhilarating, and there is a great deal of fun to be got out of the mishaps which are sure to ensue to the hunters as they scamper and splash and rush and dash over the bowlders, through bush and brier and stream and rivulet, till the wily brute is either caught or “kenneled.” So far as we are now concerned, I shall content myself with telling you how to trap this vermin of the water, and if ever you become possessed of a stream or lake of fish do not forget that the otter is your chiefest enemy—excepting the human poacher, of course.

Now we will presume you are one morning early taking a walk by the side of your favorite stream. On each side the willows and alders bend over the water and their roots clutch the banks with rugged fingers, forming coverts for rats, moorhens, dabchicks, and other small fry, as well as for the quiet-loving trout.

Presently, as you attentively note these features, you are aware of a sort of footpath proceeding from the stream, and on looking closer you notice that fresh excrement has been left and that footprints of a dog-like animal are to be seen in the soft earth. Follow this trail and perchance, ere many steps have been taken, you come upon the carmine-spotted body of a two-pound trout, minus head and shoulders, or a pound silver eel with its broadest part eaten away. You now know that an otter has been at work, and you must vow that he shall die. But how? Listen. The track is fresh. Good! Procure the largest rabbit-gin you can, and after attaching it firmly to a stake driven under water, drive two more sticks under water exactly where the otter comes ashore, and set it upon them. Do not bait the trap at all, or the otter will not come near, but simply set it under water, so that when his ottership comes to bank with his ill-gotten booty he puts his foot on the plate of the gin. A good plan also, where this one is not practicable, is to carefully cut up a sod of dirt in the pathway of the otter, and set the gin very gingerly, covering it up completely with short grass and a sprinkling of dirt. In any case use gloves, so that your hands are not smelt, for, strange as it may seem in an animal getting its food by sight, the sense of smell is exquisitely developed in the otter. When caught be very careful not to handle him. His teeth are “orful.”

Daniel, in his “Rural Sports,” says “the trap must be set in and covered with mud to prevent the otter seeing it. The instant the trap strikes, the otter plunges into the water with it, when its weight preventing his rising to the surface soon destroys him.” But I incline to my own plan in preference. Of course, if the “spoor,” “spraint,” or “seal” cannot be seen it is advisable to set several traps at intervals along the bank, covering them lightly with moss.