The House in the Water: A Book of Animal Stories
TextCHAPTER V
Dam Repairing and Dam Building
AS the Boy trudged triumphantly back toward camp, over the crest of the moon-bright ridge, he carried the limp, furry body of the lynx slung by its hind legs over his shoulder. He felt that his prestige had gone up incalculably in the woodsman’s eyes. The woodsman was silent, however, as silent as the wilderness, till they descended the other slope and came in sight of the little solitary camp. Then he said: “That was a mighty slick shot of yourn, d’ye know it? Ye’re quicker’n chain lightnin’, an’ dead on!”
“Just luck, Jabe!” replied the Boy carelessly, trying to seem properly modest.
This different suggestion Jabe did not take the trouble to controvert. He knew the Boy did not mean it.
“But I thought as how ye wouldn’t kill anything?” he went on, teasingly.
“Had to!” retorted the Boy. “That was self-defence! Those beavers are my beavers. An’ I’ve always wanted a real good excuse for getting a good lynx skin, anyway!”
“I don’t blame ye a mite fer standin’ by them beaver!” continued Jabe. “They’re jest all right! It was better’n any circus; an’ I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed myself more.”
“Then the least you can do, Jabe, is promise not to trap any more beavers!” said the Boy quickly.
“Wa’al,” answered Jabe, as they entered camp and began spreading their blankets, “leastwise I’ll do my best to see that no harm comes to them beaver, nor to the pond.”
Next morning, as the woodsman was starting out for the day’s cruise, the Boy said to him:
“If you’re game for another night’s watching, Jabe, I’ll show you something altogether different up at the pond to-night.”
“Try me!” responded the woodsman.
“You’ll have to be back earlier than usual, then,” said the Boy. “We’ll have to get hidden earlier, and in a new place.”
“I’ll come back along a couple of hours afore sundown, then,” answered Jabe, swinging off on his long, mooselike stride. It was contrary to his backwoods etiquette to ask what was in store for him; but his curiosity was excited, and kept him company through the solitude all day.
When Jabe was gone, the Boy went straight up-stream to the dam, taking no special care to hide his coming. His plan was one in regard to which he felt some guilty qualms. But he consoled himself with the thought that whatever harm he might be doing to the little citizens of the pond would be more than compensated by the protection he was giving them. He was going to make a break in the dam, for the sake of seeing just how the beavers would mend it.
On reaching the dam, however, it occurred to him that if he made the break now the beavers might regard the matter as too urgent to be left till nightfall. They might steal a march on him by mending the damage little by little, surreptitiously, through the day. He had no way of knowing just how they would take so serious a danger as a break in their dam. He decided, therefore, to postpone his purpose till the afternoon, so that the beavers would not come to the rescue too early. In the meantime, he would explore the stream above the pond, and see if there were other communities to study.
Skirting the hither side of the pond to near its head, he crossed the little meadow and the canal, and reached the brook again about fifty yards beyond. Here he found it flowing swift and narrow, over a rocky bottom, between high banks; and this was its character for nearly half a mile, as he judged. Then, emerging once more upon lower ground, he came upon a small dam. This structure was not much over eighteen inches in height, and the pond above it, small and shallow, showed no signs of being occupied. There was no beaver house to be seen, either in the water or on shore; and the water did not seem to be anywhere more than a foot and a half in depth. As he puzzled over this–for he did not think the beavers were likely to build a dam for nothing–he observed a second and much larger dam far away across the head of the pond.
Hastening to investigate this upper dam, he found it fully three feet high, and very massive. Above it was a narrow but deep pond, between comparatively steep shores; and along these shores he counted three low-roofed houses. Out in the middle of the pond there was not one dwelling; and he came presently to the conclusion that here, between the narrow banks, the current would be heavy in time of freshet. The lower dam, pretty obviously, was intended to reinforce the upper, by backing a foot and a half of water against it and taking off just that much of the pressure. He decided that the reason for locating the three houses along the shore was that the steep bank afforded special facilities for shore burrows.
The explorer’s fever being now hot upon him, the Boy could not stay to examine this pond minutely. He pressed on up-stream with breathless eagerness, thrilling with expectation of what the next turn might reveal. As a matter of fact, the next turn revealed nothing–nor the next, nor yet the next. But as the stream was full of turns in this portion of its course, that was not greatly discouraging.
About a quarter of a mile, however, above the head of the narrow pond, the ardent explorer came upon a level of sparse alder swamp. Here he found the stream just beginning to spread over its low banks. The cause of this spreading was a partial obstruction in mid-channel–what looked, at first glance, like an accidental accumulation of brush and stones and mud. A second look, however, and his heart jumped with excitement and delight. Here was the beginning of a new pond, here were the foundations of a new dam. He would be able to see what few indeed of the students of the wilderness had had the opportunity to watch–the actual process by which these wilderness engineers achieved their great work.
All about the place the straightest and brushiest alders had been cut down, those usually selected being at least ten or twelve feet in height. Many of them were still lying where they fell; but a number had been dragged to the stream and anchored securely, with stones and turfy clay, across the channel. The Boy noted, with keenest admiration, that these were all laid with the greatest regularity parallel with the flow of the current, butts up stream, brushy tops below. In this way, the current took least hold upon them, and was obstructed gradually and as it were insidiously, without being challenged to any violent test of strength. Already it was lingering in some confusion, backing up, and dividing its force, and stealing away at each side among the bushes. The Boy had heard that the beavers were accustomed to begin their dams by felling a tree across the channel and piling their materials upon that as a foundation. But the systematic and thorough piece of work before him was obviously superior in permanence to any such slovenly makeshift; and moreover, further to discredit such a theory, here was a tall black ash close to the stream and fairly leaning over it, as if begging to be put to some such use.
At this spot the Boy stayed his explorations for the day. Choosing a bit of dry thicket close by, to be a hiding-place for Jabe and himself that night, a bunch of spruce and fir where he knew the beavers would not come for supplies, he hurried back to the camp for a bite of dinner, giving wide berth to all the ponds on the way. Building a tiny camp-fire he fried himself a couple of slices of bacon and brewed a tin of tea for his solitary meal, then lay down in the lean-to, with the sun streaming in upon him, for an hour’s nap.
The night having been a tiring one for his youthful nerves and muscles, he slept heavily, and awoke with a start to find the sun a good two hours nearer the horizon. Sleep was still heavy upon him, so he went down to the edge of the brook and plunged his face into the chilly current. Then, picking up an axe instead of his rifle, he returned up-stream to the dam.
As he drew near, he caught sight of a beaver swimming down the pond, towing a big branch over its shoulder; and his conscience smote him at the thought of the trouble and anxiety he was going to inflict upon the diligent little inhabitants. His mind was made up, however. He wanted knowledge, and the beavers would have to furnish it, at whatever cost. A few minutes of vigorous work with the axe, a few minutes of relentless tugging and jerking upon the upper framework of the dam, and he had made a break through which the water rushed foaming in a muddy torrent. Soon, as he knew, the falling of the pond’s level would alarm the house-dwellers, and bring them out to see what had happened. Then, as soon as darkness came, there would be a gathering of both households to repair the break.
Hiding in the bushes near by, he saw the water slowly go down, but for half an hour the beavers gave no sign. Then, close beside the break, a big fellow crawled out upon the slope of the dam and made a careful survey of the damage. He disappeared; and presently another came, took a briefer look, and vanished. A few minutes later, far up the pond, several bushy branches came to the surface, as if they had been anchored on the bottom and released. They came, apparently floating, down toward the dam. As they reached the break, the heads of several beavers showed themselves above water, and the branches were guided across the opening, where they were secured in some way which the watcher could not see. They did not so very greatly diminish the waste, but they checked the destructive violence of it. It was evidently a temporary makeshift, this; for in the next hour nothing more was done. Then the Boy got tired, and went back to camp to wait for Jabe and nightfall.
That evening the backwoodsman, forgetting the fatigue of his day’s cruising in the interest of the Boy’s story, was no less eager than his companion; and the two, hurrying through an early supper, were off for the pond in the first purple of twilight. When they reached the Boy’s hiding-place by the dam the first star was just showing itself in the pallid greenish sky, and the surface of the pond, with its vague, black reflections, was like a shadowed mirror of steel. There was not a sound on the air except the swishing rush of the divided water over the break in the dam.
The Boy had timed his coming none too early; for the pond had dropped nearly a foot, and the beavers were impatient to stop the break. No sooner had night fairly settled down than suddenly the water began to swirl into circles all about the lower end of the pond, and a dozen heads popped up. Then more brush appeared, above the island-house, and was hurriedly towed down to the dam. The brush which had been thrust across the break was now removed and relaid longitudinally, branchy ends down stream. Here it was held in place by some of the beavers while others brought masses of clayey turf from the nearest shore to secure it. Meanwhile more branches were being laid in place, always parallel with the current; and in a little while the rushing noise of the overflow began to diminish very noticeably. Then a number of short, heavy billets were mixed with shorter lengths of brush; and all at once the sound of rushing ceased altogether. There was not even the usual musical trickling and tinkling, for the level of the pond was too low for the water to find its customary stealthy exits. At this stage the engineers began using smaller sticks, with more clay, and a great many small stones, making a very solid-looking piece of work. At last the old level of the dam crest was reached, and there was no longer any evidence of what had happened except the lowness of the water. Then, all at once, the toilers disappeared, except for one big beaver, who kept nosing over every square inch of the work for perhaps two minutes, to assure himself of its perfection. When he, at last, had slipped back into the water, both Jabe and the Boy got up, as if moved by one thought, and stretched their cramped legs.
“I swan!” exclaimed the woodsman with fervour. “If that ain’t the slickest bit o’ work I ever seen! Let’s go over and kind of inspect the job fer ’em!”
Inspection revealed that the spot which had just been mended was the solidest portion of the whole structure. Wherever else the water might be allowed to escape, it was plain the beavers intended it should have no more outlet here.
From the mended dam the Boy now led Jabe away up-stream in haste, in the hope of catching some beavers at work on the new dam in the alders. Having skirted the long pond at a distance, to avoid giving alarm, the travellers went with the utmost caution till they reached the swampy level. Then, indifferent to the oozy, chilly mud, they crept forward like minks stealing on their prey; and at last, gaining the fir thicket without mishap, they lay prone on the dry needles to rest.
As they lay, a sound of busy splashing came to their ears, which promptly made them forget their fatigue. Shifting themselves very slowly and with utter silence, they found that the place of ambush had been most skilfully chosen. In perfect hiding themselves, they commanded a clear and near view of the new dam and all its approaches.
There were two beavers visible, paddling busily on the foundations of the dam, while the overflowing water streamed about them, covering their feet. At this stage, most of the water flowed through the still uncompacted structure, leaving work on the top unimpeded. The two beavers were dragging into place a long birch sapling, perhaps eleven feet in length, with a thick, bushy top. When laid to the satisfaction of the architects,–the butt, of course, pointing straight up-stream,–the trunk was jammed firmly down between those already placed. Then the more erect and unmanageable of the branches were gnawed off and in some way–which the observers with all their watchfulness could not make out–wattled down among the other branches so as to make a woven and coherent mass. The earth and sod and small stones which were afterwards brought and laid upon the structure did not seem necessary to hold it in place, but rather for the stoppage of the interstices.
While this was going on at the dam, a rustling of branches and splashing of water turned the watchers’ attention up-stream. Another beaver came in sight, and then another, each partly floating and partly dragging a straight sapling like the first. It seemed that the dam-builders were not content to depend altogether on the crooked, scraggly alder-growth all about them, but demanded in their foundations a certain proportion of the straighter timbers and denser branches of the birch. It was quite evident that they knew just what they were doing, and how best to do it.
While the building was going on, yet another pair of beavers appeared, and the work was pressed with a feverish energy that produced amazing results. The Boy remembered a story told him by an old Indian, but not confirmed by any natural history which he had come across, to the effect that when a pair of young beavers set out to establish a new pond, some of the old ones go along to lend a hand in the building of the dam. It was plain that these workers were all in a tremendous hurry; and the Boy could see no reason for haste unless it was that the majority of the workers had to get back to their own affairs. With the water once fairly brought under control, and the pond deep enough to afford a refuge from enemies, the young pair could be trusted to complete it by themselves, get their house ready, and gather their supplies in for the winter. The Boy concluded to his own satisfaction that what he was now watching was the analogue, in beaver life, to one of those “house-raising” bees which sometimes took place in the Settlement, when the neighbours would come together to help a man get up the frame of a new house. Only, as it seemed to him, the beavers were a more serious and more sober folk than the men.
When this wilderness engineering had progressed for an hour under the watchers’ eyes, Jabe began to grow very tired. The strain of physical immobility told upon him, and he lost interest. He began to feel that he knew all about dam-building; and as there was nothing more to learn he wanted to go back to camp. He glanced anxiously at the young face beside him–but there he could see no sign of weariness. The Boy was aglow with enthusiasm. He had forgotten everything but the wonderful little furry architects, their diligence, their skill, their coöperation, and the new pond there growing swiftly before his eyes. Already it was more than twice as wide as when they had arrived on the scene; the dam was a good eight inches higher; and the clamour of the flowing stream was stopped. No, Jabe could see no sympathy for himself in that eager face. He was ashamed to beg off. And moreover, he was loyal to his promise of obedience. The Boy, here, was Captain.
Suppressing a sigh, Jabe stealthily and very gradually shifted to an easier position, so stealthily that the Boy beside him did not know he had moved. Then, fixing his eyes once more upon the beavers, he tried to renew his interest in them. As he stared, he began to succeed amazingly. And no wonder! The beavers all at once began to do such amazing things. There were many more of them than he had thought; and he was sure he heard them giving orders in something that sounded to him like the Micmac tongue. He could not believe his ears. Then he saw that they were using larger stones, instead of mud and turf, in their operations–and floating them down the pond as if they were corks. He had never heard of such a thing before, in all his wilderness experience. He was just about to compliment the Boy on this unparalleled display of engineering skill, when one particularly large beaver, who was hoisting a stone as big as himself up the face of the dam, let his burden slip a little. Then began a terrible struggle between the beaver and the stone. In his agonizing effort–which his companions all stopped work to watch–the unhappy beaver made a loud, gurgling, gasping noise; then, without a hint of warning, dropped the stone with a splash, turned like lightning, and grabbed Jabe violently by the arm.
The astonishing scene changed in a twinkling; and Jabe realized that the Boy was shaking him.
“A nice one to watch beavers, you are!” cried the Boy, angry and disappointed.
“Why–where’ve they all gone to?” demanded Jabe, rubbing his eyes. “They’re the most interestin’ critters I ever hearn tell of!”
“Interesting!” retorted the Boy, scornfully. “So interesting you went to sleep! And you snored so they thought it was an earthquake. Not another beaver’ll show a hair round here to-night. We’d better go home!”
Jabe grinned sheepishly, but answered never a word; and silently, in Indian file, the Boy leading, the two took the trail back to camp.
CHAPTER VI
The Peril of the Traps
AT breakfast next morning the Boy had quite recovered his good humour, and was making merry at Jabe’s expense. The latter, who was, of course, defenceless and abashed, was anxious to give him something new to think of.
“Say,” he exclaimed suddenly, after the Boy had prodded him with a searching jibe. “If ye’ll let up on that snore, now, I’ll take a day off from my cruisin’, and show ye somethin’ myself.”
“Good!” said the Boy. “It’s a bargain. What will you show me?”
“I’ll take ye over to one of my ponds, in next valley, an’ show ye all the different ways of trappin’ beaver.”
The Boy’s face fell.
“But what do I care about trapping beaver?” he cried. “You know I wouldn’t trap anything. If I had to kill anything, I’d shoot it, and put it out of misery as quick as I could!”
“I know all that,” responded Jabe. “But trappin’ is somethin’ ye want to understand, all the same. Ye can’t be an all-round woodsman ’less ye understand trappin’. An’ moreover, there’s some things ye learn about wild critters in tryin’ to git the better of ’em that ye can’t learn no other way.”
“I guess you’re right, Jabe!” answered the Boy, slowly. Knowledge he would have, whether he liked the means of getting it or not. But the woodsman’s next words relieved him.
“I’ll just show ye how, that’s all!” said Jabe. “It’s a leetle too airly in the season yit fur actual trappin’. An’ moreover, it’s agin the law. Agin the law, an’ agin common sense, too, fer the fur ain’t no good, so to speak, fer a month yit. When the law an’ common sense stand together, then I’m fer the law. Come on!”
Picking up his axe, he struck straight back into the woods, in a direction at right angles to the brook. To uninitiated eyes there was no trail; but to Jabe, and to the Boy no less, the path was like a trodden highway. The pace set by the backwoodsman, with his long, slouching, loose-jointed, flat-footed stride, was a stiff one, but the Boy, who was lean and hard, and used his feet straight-toed like an Indian, had no fault to find with it. Neither spoke a word, as they swung along single file through the high-arched and ancient forest, whose shadows, so sombre all through summer, were now shot here and there with sharp flashes of scarlet or pale gleams of aërial gold. Once, rounding a great rock of white granite stained with faint pinkish and yellowish reflections from the bright leaves glowing over it, they came face to face with a tall bull moose, black and formidable-looking as some antediluvian monster. The monster, however, had no desire to hold the way against them. He eyed them doubtfully for a second, and then went crashing off through the brush in frank, undignified alarm.
For a good three miles the travellers swung onward, up a slow long slope, and down a longer, slower one into the next valley. The Boy noted that the region was one of numberless small brooks flowing through a comparatively level land, with old, long-deserted beaver-meadows interspersed among wooded knolls. Yet for a time there were no signs of the actual living beavers. He asked the reason, and Jabe said:
“It’s been all trapped over an’ over, years back, when beaver pelts was high,–an’ by Injuns, likely, who just cleaned out everythin’,–an’ broke down the dams,–an’ dug out the houses. But the little critters is comin’ back. Furder up the valley there’s some good ponds now!”
“And now they’ll be cleaned out again!” exclaimed the Boy, with a rush of indignant pity.
“Not on yer life!” answered Jabe. “We don’t do things that way now. We don’t play low-down tricks on ’em an’ clean out a whole family, but jest take so many out of each beaver house, an’ then leave ’em alone two er three years to kinder recooperate!”
As Jabe finished they came in sight of a long, rather low dam, with a pond spread out beyond it that was almost worthy to be called a lake. It was of comparatively recent creation, as the Boy’s observant eye decided at once from the dead trees still rising here and there from the water.
“Gee!” he exclaimed, under his breath. “That’s a great pond, Jabe!”
“There’s no less’n four beaver houses in that pond!” said the woodsman, with an air of proud possession. “That makes, accordin’ to my reckonin’, anywheres from thirty to thirty-six beaver. Bye and bye, when the time comes, I’ll kinder thin ’em out a bit, that’s all!”
From the crest of the dam all four houses–one far out and three close to shore–were visible to the Boy’s initiated eye; though strangers might have taken them to be mere casual accumulations of sticks deposited by some whimsical freshet. It troubled him to think how many of the architects of these cunningly devised dwellings would soon have to yield up their harmless and interesting lives; but he felt no mission to attempt a reform of humanity’s taste for furs, so he did not allow himself to become sentimental on the subject. Beavers, like men, must take fate as it comes; and he turned an attentive ear to Jabe’s lesson.
“Ye know, of course,” said the woodsman, “the steel trap we use. We ain’t got no use fer the tricks of the Injuns, though I’m goin’ to tell ye all them, in good time. An’ we ain’t much on new-fangled notions, neether. But the old, smooth-jawed steel-trap, what kin hold when it gits a grip, an’ not tear the fur, is good enough for us.”
“Yes, I know all your traps, of all the sizes you use, from muskrat up to bear!” interrupted the Boy. “What size do you use for the beaver?”
“Number four,” answered Jabe. “Jaw’s got a spread of six and one-half inches or thereabouts. But it’s all in the where an’ the how ye set yer trap!”
“And that’s what I want to know about!” said the Boy. “But why don’t you shoot the poor little beggars? That’s quicker for both, and just as easy for you, ain’t it?”
“T’ain’t no use shootin’ a beaver, leastways not in the water! He just sinks like a stone. No, ye’ve got to trap him, to git him. Now, supposin’ you was goin’ to trap, where would ye set the traps?”
“I’d anchor them just in the entrances to their houses,” answered the Boy promptly. “Or along their canals, when they’ve got canals. Or round their brush piles an’ storage heaps. And when I found a tree they’d just partly cut down, I’d set a couple of traps, covered up in leaves, each side of the trunk, where they’d have to step on the pan when they stood up to gnaw.”
“Good for you!” said Jabe, with cordial approbation. “Ye’d make a first-class trapper, ’cause ye’ve got the right notion. Every one of them things is done, one time or another, by the old trapper. But here’s one or two wrinkles more killin’ yet. An’ moreover, if ye trap a beaver on land ye’re like to lose him one way or another. He’s got so much purchase, on land, with things to git hold on to; he’s jest as like as not to twist his leg clean off, an’ git away. If it’s one of his fore legs, which is small an’ slight, ye know, he’s most sure to twist it off. An’ sometimes he’ll do the trick even with a hind leg. I’ve caught lots of beaver as had lost a fore leg, an’ didn’t seem none the worse. The fur’d growed over it, an’ they was slick an’ hearty. An’ I’ve caught them as had lost a hind leg, an’ they was in good condition. A beaver’ll stand a lot, I tell you. But then, supposin’ you git yer beaver, caught so fast he ain’t no chance whatever to git clear. Then, like as not, some lynx, or wildcat, or fisher, or fox, or even maybe a bear, ’ll come along an’ help himself to Mr. Beaver without so much as a by yer leave. No, ye want to git him in the water; an’ as he’s just as anxious to git thar as you are to git him thar, that suits all parties to a T.”
“Good!” said the Boy,–not that it really seemed to him good, but to show that he was attending.
“But,” continued Jabe, “what would ye say would most upset the beaver and make ’em careless?”
The Boy thought for a moment.
“Breaking their dam!” he answered tentatively.
“Egzactly!” answered the woodsman. “Well, now, to ketch beaver sure, make two or three breaks in their dam, an’ set the traps jest a leetle ways above the break, on the upper slope, where they’re sure to step into ’em when hustlin’ round to mend the damage. That gits ’em, every time. Ye chain each trap to a stake, driven into three or four foot of water; an’ ye drive another stake about a foot an’ a half away from the first. When the beaver finds himself caught, he dives straight for deep water,–his way of gittin’ clear of most of his troubles. But this time he finds it don’t work. The trap keeps a holt, bitin’ hard. An’ in his struggle he gits the chain all tangled up ’round the two stakes, an’ drowns himself. There you have him safe, where no lynx nor fox kin git at him.”
“Then, when one of them dies so dreadfully, right there before their eyes,” said the Boy, “I suppose the others skin out and let the broken dam go! They must be scared to death themselves!”
“Not on yer life, they don’t!” responded Jabe. “The dam’s the thing they care about. They jest keep on hustlin’ round; an’ they mend up that dam if it takes half the beaver in the pond to do it. Oh, they’re grit, all right, when it comes to standin’ by the dam.”
“Hardly seems fair to take them that way, does it?” mused the Boy sympathetically.
“It’s a good way,” asserted Jabe positively, “quick an’ sure! Then, in winter there’s another good an’ sure way,–where ye don’t want to clean out the whole house, which is killin’ the goose what lays the golden egg, like the Injuns does! Ye cut a hole in the ice, near the bank. Then ye git a good, big, green sapling of birch or willow, run the little end ’way out into the pond under the ice, an’ ram the big end, sharpened, deep into the mud of the bank, so the beaver can’t pull it out. Right under this end you set yer trap. Swimmin’ round under the ice, beaver comes across this fresh-cut sapling an’ thinks as how he’s got a good thing. He set right to work to gnaw it off, close to the bank, to take it back to the house an’ please the family. First thing, he steps right into the trap. An’ that’s the end of him. But other beaver’ll come along an’ take the sapling, all the same!”
“You spoke of the ways the Indians had, of cleaning out the whole family,” suggested the Boy, when Jabe had come to a long pause, either because he was tired of talking or because he had no more to say.
“Yes, the Injuns’ methods was complete. They seemed to have the idee there’d always be beaver a-plenty, no matter how many they killed. One way they had was to mark down the bank holes, the burrows, an’ then break open the houses. This, ye must understand, ’s in the winter, when there’s ice all over the pond. When they’re drove from their houses, in the winter, they take straight to their burrows in the bank, where they kin be sure of gittin’ their heads above water to breathe. Then, the Injuns jest drive stakes down in front of the holes,–an’ there they have ’em, every one. They digs down into the burrows, an’ knocks Mr. Beaver an’ all the family on the head.”
“Simple and expeditious!” remarked the Boy, with sarcastic approval.
“But the nestest job the Injuns makes,” continued Jabe, “is by gittin’ at the brush pile. Ye know, the beaver keeps his winter supply of grub in a pile,–a pile of green poles an’ saplings an’ branches,–a leetle ways off from the house. The Injun finds this pile, under the ice. Then, cuttin’ holes through the ice, he drives down a stake fence all ’round it, so close nary a beaver kin git through. Then he pulls up a stake, on the side next the beaver house, an’ sticks down a bit of a sliver in its place. Now ye kin guess what happens. In the house, over beyant, the beavers gits hungry. One on ’em goes to git a stick from the pile an’ bring it inter the house. He finds the pile all fenced off. But a stick he must have. Where the sliver is, that’s the only place he kin git through. Injun, waitin’ on the ice, sees the sliver move, an’ knows Mr. Beaver’s gone in. He claps the stake down agin, in place of the sliver. An’ then, of course, there’s nawthin’ left fer Mr. Beaver to do but drown. He drowns jest at the place where he come in an’ couldn’t git out agin. That seems to knock him out, like, an’ he jest gives up right there. Injun fishes him out, dead, puts the sliver back, an’ waits for another beaver. He don’t have to wait long–an’ nine times outer ten he gits ’em all. Ye see, they must git to the brush pile!”