The House in the Water: A Book of Animal Stories

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!”

“I’m glad you don’t trap them that way, Jabe!” said the Boy. “But tell me, why did you bring me away out here to this pond, to tell me all this, when you could have done it just as well at my pond?”

“I jest wanted the excuse,” answered Jabe, “fer takin’ a day off from cruisin’. Now, come on, an’ I’ll show ye some more likely ponds.”

CHAPTER VII

Winter Under Water

FOR three days more the Boy and Jabe remained in the beaver country; and every hour of the time, except when he had to sleep, the Boy found full of interest. In the daytime he compared the ponds and the dams minutely, making measurements and diagrams. At night he lay in hiding, beside a different pond each night, and gained a rich store of knowledge of the manners and customs of the little wilderness engineers. On one pond–his own, be it said–he made a rude raft of logs, and by its help visited and inspected the houses on the island. The measurements he obtained here made his note-book pretty complete, as far as beaver life in summer and fall was concerned.

Then Jabe finished his cruising, having covered his territory. The packs were made up and slung; the two campers set out on their three days’ tramp back to the settlements; and the solemn autumn quiet descended once more upon the placid beaver ponds, the shallow-running brooks, and the low-domed Houses in the Water.

As the weather grew colder; and the earlier frosts began to sheathe the surface of the pond with clear, black ice, not melting out till noon; and the bitten leaves, turning from red and gold to brown, fell with ghostly whisperings through the gray branches, the little beaver colony in Boy’s Pond grew feverishly active. Some subtle prescience warned them that winter would close in early, and that they must make haste to finish their storing of supplies. The lengthening of their new canal completed, their foraging grew easier. Trees fell every night, and the brush pile reached a size that guaranteed them immunity from hunger till spring. By the time the dam had been strengthened to withstand the late floods, there had been some sharp snow-flurries, and the pond was half frozen over. Then, in haste, the beavers brought up a quantity of mud and grass roots, and plastered the domes of their houses thickly till they no longer looked like heaps of sticks, but rather resembled huge ant-hills. No sooner was this task done than, as if the beavers had been notified of its coming, the real cold came. In one night the pond froze to a depth of several inches; and over the roof of the House in the Water was a casing of armour hard as stone.

The frost continued for several days, till the stone-like roof was a good foot in thickness, as was the ice over the surface of the pond. Then a thick, feather-soft, windless snow-fall, lasting twenty-four hours, served as a blanket against the further piercing of the frost; and the beavers, warm-housed, well-provisioned, and barricaded against all their enemies but man, settled themselves down to their long seclusion from the white, glittering, bitter, outside world.

When the winter had tightened its grip, this outside world was full of perils. Hungry lynxes, foxes, and fishers (“black cat,” the woodsman called them) hunted through the silent and pallid aisles of the forest. They all would have loved a meal of warm, fat beaver-meat; and they all knew what these low, snow-covered mounds meant. In the roof of each house the cunning builders had left several tiny, crooked openings for ventilation, and the warm air steaming up through these made little chimney holes in the snow above. To these, now and then, when stung by the hunger-pangs, a lynx or fox would come, and sniff with greedy longing at the appetizing aroma. Growing desperate, the prowler would dig down, through perhaps three feet of snow, till he reached the stony roof of the house. On this he would tear and scratch furiously, but in vain. Nothing less than a pick-axe would break through that stony defence; and the beavers, perhaps dimly aware of the futile assault upon their walls, would go on calmly nibbling birch-sticks in their safe, warm dark.

Inside the house everything was clean and dry. All refuse from the clean repasts of the family was scrupulously removed, and even the entrances, far out in the pond, were kept free from litter. When food was needed, a beaver would slip down into the dark water of the tunnel, out into the glimmering light of the pond, and straight to the brush pile. Selecting a suitable stick, he would tow it back to the house, up the main entrance, and into the dry, dark chamber. When all the tender bark was eaten off, the bare stick would be carried away and deposited on the dam. It was an easy life; and the beavers grew fat while all the rest of the wild kindreds, save the porcupine and the bear, were growing lean with famine. There was absolutely nothing to do but eat, sleep and take such exercise as they would by swimming hither and thither at terrific speed beneath the silver armour of the ice.

One night, however, there came to the pond an enemy of whose powers they had never had experience. Wandering down from northwestward, under the impulse of one of those migratory whims which sometimes give the lie to statistics and tradition, came a sinister, dark, slow-moving beast whose savage and crafty eyes took on a sudden flame when they detected the white mound which hid the shore beaver-house. The wolverene did not need that faint, almost invisible wisp of vapour from the air-holes to tell him there were beavers below. He knew something about beavers. His powerful forearms and mighty claws got him to the bottom of the snow in a few seconds. Other hungry marauders had done the same thing before, to find themselves as far off as ever from their aim. But the wolverene was not to be balked so easily. His cunning nose found the minute openings of the air-holes; and by digging his claws into these little apertures he was able to put forth his great strength and tear up some tiny fragments of frozen mud.

If he had had the patience to keep on at his strenuous task unremittingly for, perhaps, twenty-four hours or more, it is conceivable that this fierce digger might have succeeded in making his way into the chamber. There was no such implacable purpose, however, in his attack. In a very little while he would have desisted from what he knew to be a vain undertaking. Even had he succeeded, the beavers would have fled before he could reach them, and taken refuge in their burrows under the bank. But while he was still engrossed, perhaps only amusing himself with the thought of giving the dwellers in the house a bad quarter of an hour, it chanced that a huge lynx came stealing along through the shadows of the trees, which lay blue and spectral in the white moonlight. He saw the hind quarters of some unknown animal which was busy working out a problem which he himself had striven in vain to solve. The strange animal was plainly smaller than himself. Moreover, he was in a position to be taken at a disadvantage. Both these points weighed with the lynx; and he was enraged at this attempted poaching upon what he chose to regard as his preserves. Creeping stealthily, stealthily forward, eyes aflame and belly to the snow, he sprang with a huge bound that landed him, claws open, squarely on the wolverene’s hind quarters.

Instantly there arose a hideous screeching, growling, spitting and snarling, which pierced even to the ears of the beavers and sent them scurrying wildly to their burrows in the bank. Under ordinary circumstances the wolverene, with his dauntless courage and tremendous strength, would have given a good account of himself with any lynx alive. But this time, caught with head down and very busy, he stood small chance with his powerful and lightning-swift assailant. In a very few minutes the lynx’s eviscerating claws had fairly torn him to shreds; and thus came to a sudden close the invasion of the wolverene.

But meanwhile, from far over the hills, moving up from the lowlands by the sea, approached a peril which the beavers did not dream of and could find no ingenuity to evade. Two half-breed trappers, semi-outlaws from the Northern Peninsula, in search of fresh hunting-grounds, had come upon this rich region of ponds and dams.

CHAPTER VIII

The Saving of Boy’s Pond

WHEN, early in the winter, the lumbermen moved into these woods which Jabe had cruised over, establishing their camp about two miles down-stream from the spot where the Boy and the woodsman had had their lean-to, Jabe came with them as boss of a gang. He had for the time grown out of the mood for trapping. Furs were low, and there was a “sight” more money for him in lumbering that winter. Popular with the rest of the lumbermen–who most of them knew of the Boy and his “queer” notions–Jabe had no difficulty in pledging them to respect the sanctity of Boy’s Pond and its inhabitants. In fact, in the evenings around the red-hot stove, Jabe told such interesting stories of what he and the Boy had seen together a few months before, that the reckless, big-hearted, boisterously profane but sentimental woodsmen were more than half inclined to declare the whole series of ponds under the special protection of the camp. As for Boy’s Pond, that should be safe at any cost.

Not long after Christmas the Boy, taking advantage of the fact that some fresh supplies were being sent out from the Settlement by team, came to visit the camp. The head of the big lumber company which owned these woods was a friend of the Boy’s father, and the Boy himself was welcome in any of the camps. His special purpose in coming now was to see how his beavers got on in winter, and to assure himself that Jabe had been able to protect them.

The morning after his arrival in camp he set out to visit the pond. He went on snowshoes, of course, and carried his little Winchester as he always did in the woods, holding tenaciously that the true lover of peace should be ever prepared for war. The lumbermen had gone off to work with the first of dawn; and far away to his right he heard the axes ringing, faintly but crisply, on the biting morning air. For half a mile he followed a solitary snowshoe trail, which he knew to be Jabe’s by the peculiar broad toe and long, trailing heel which Jabe affected in snowshoes; and he wondered what his friend was doing in this direction, so far from the rest of the choppers. Then Jabe’s track swerved off to the left, crossing the brook; and the Boy tramped on over the unbroken snow.

The sound of the distant choppers soon died away, and he was alone in the unearthly silence. The sun, not yet risen quite clear of the hilltops, sent spectral, level, far-reaching gleams of thin pink-and-saffron light down the alleys of the sheeted trees. The low crunching of his snowshoes on the crisp snow sounded almost blatant in the Boy’s tensely listening ears. In spite of himself he began to tread stealthily, as if the sound of his steps might bring some ghostly enemy upon him from out of the whiteness.

Suddenly the sound of an axe came faintly to his ears from straight ahead, where he knew no choppers were at work. He stopped short. That axe was not striking wood. It was striking ice. It was chopping the ice of Boy’s Pond! What could it mean? There were no fish in that pond to chop the ice for!

As he realized that some one was preparing to trap his beavers his face flushed with anger, and he started forward at a run. That it was no one from the camp he knew very well. It must be some strange trapper who did not know that this pond was under protection. He thought this out as he ran on; and his anger calmed down. Trappers were a decent, understanding folk; and a word of explanation would make things all right. There were plenty of other beaver ponds in that neighbourhood.

Pressing through the white-draped ranks of the young fir-trees, he came out suddenly upon the edge of the pond, and halted an instant in irresolution. Two dark-visaged men–his quick eye knew them for half-breeds–were busy on the snow about twenty paces above the low mound which marked the main beaver house. They had a number of stakes with them; and they were cutting a series of holes in a circle. From what Jabe had told him of the Indian methods, he saw at once that these were not regular trappers, but poachers, who were violating the game laws and planning to annihilate the whole beaver colony by fencing in its brush pile.

The Boy realized now that the situation was a delicate if not a dangerous one. For an instant he thought of going back to camp for help; but one of the men was on his knees, fixing the stakes, and the other was already chopping what appeared to be the last hole. Delay might mean the death of several of his precious beavers. Indignation and compassion together urged him on, and his young face hardened in unaccustomed lines.

Walking out upon the snow a little way, he halted, at a distance of perhaps thirty paces from the poachers. At the sound of his snowshoes the two men looked up scowling and apprehensive; and the kneeling one sprang to his feet. They wanted no witnesses of their illegal work.

“Good morning,” said the Boy politely.

At the sound of his soft young voice, the sight of his slender figure and youthful face, their apprehensions vanished; but not their anger at being discovered.

“Mornin’!” growled one, in a surly voice; while the other never opened his mouth. Then they looked at each other with meaning question in their eyes. How were they going to keep this unwelcome visitor from betraying them?

“I’m going to ask you,” said the Boy sweetly, “to be so kind as to stop trapping on this pond. Of course you didn’t know it, but this is my pond, and there is no trapping allowed on it. It is reserved, you know; and I don’t want a single one of my beavers killed.”