been the more destructive. Ben then carefully explained that the
slow-traveling fire, working its way tediously against the wind,
or along some sheltered valley, invariably did the most damage. He
said that, on account of its very slowness, that type of fire burned
everything in its path. On the other hand, the wind-swept flames
traveling through at railroad speed very often only scorched the
foliage, and were driven on before they had a chance to eat their way
into the trees.
Toward noon a fresh breeze came down out of the northwest and drove
away most of the smoke. A flock of ducks came with it and alighted in
the lake; but it was Sunday, and the lads were not hunting.
At dinner the boys were much pleased when Ben promised to take them
on a canoe trip the following day. He said they would go to the
beaver-dam, where they might see some of those wonderful animals at
work. They listened eagerly while he told how the beavers felled trees,
which they cut into proper lengths and floated to the spot chosen for
their dam. Ben also promised that they might do some shooting on the
way.
Later in the day the boys accompanied Bill down to the shore of the
lake. There they saw the flock of ducks floating quietly on the water
in a sunny cove some little distance away.
The trapper asked Ed if he would like to try a snap-shot at them, and
Ed ran to the cabin for his camera.
While he was gone Bill and George began to cut branches with which to
trim and conceal the canoe.
These branches were skilfully piled in bow and stern, and draped over
each side of the little craft, until it resembled a floating tree-top,
or pile of brush. Once in their places, the occupants would be cleverly
hidden from the wary birds.
By the time Ed returned, the job was completed, and Bill bade him take
a position in the bow, where he could use the camera to best advantage.
George was placed amidships, and the trapper knelt in the stern and
paddled them toward the ducks. He sent the canoe gliding forward
without once taking his paddle from the water, and the boys marveled at
his skill.
As the mass of floating greens slowly approached them, the ducks
seemed to become a bit uneasy. The stragglers at once swam in to join
the balance of the flock, and soon the birds were compactly bunched.
Gazing at the approaching object suspiciously, the leaders swam
nervously about in contracted circles. Then the entire flock moved
slowly away in advance of the canoe.
“Do you think they will fly?” whispered George, turning his face
cautiously toward Bill.
The trapper shook his head negatively, and placed a finger across his
lips as a warning to be still.
The flock was far out of camera-shot, and as they swam along, the
drakes called querulously. To the surprise and delight of his
companions, Bill immediately replied with a perfect imitation of their
calls.
Somewhat reassured by his answer, the ducks halted and began to swim
uncertainly to and fro, as they endeavored to identify the mysterious
object which was bearing down upon them.
After a time, as Bill ceased paddling and allowed the canoe to drift
toward them, urged on by the slight breeze, the birds became less
apprehensive. They began plunging their heads beneath the water
and splashing it over their backs. And from time to time, as their
suspicions became allayed, they lifted their bodies from the water and
flapped their wings like a barnyard rooster about to crow.
As the canoe came closer and closer to the unsuspecting flock the
boys became impatient. Peering between the branches which shielded
them, they could distinctly see the sheen on the plumage of the nearer
drakes. With eager, trembling fingers Ed placed his camera in readiness
for quick focusing.
At last he could see the birds like tiny specks in the finder, and he
was relieved to know that he was actually within focusing range. He
kept his gaze riveted on the little square of frosted glass, determined
to push the lever and make the exposure, should the ducks rise.
Bill approached still closer. One or two stealthy paddle-strokes, and
then he allowed the canoe to drift. So slowly and cautiously was his
advance made that the ducks seemed to have lost all fear. No doubt they
had mistaken the canoe for part of a floating tree-top. At any rate,
Bill soon came within perfect focusing distance. Then, when Ed saw the
entire flock plainly outlined in the center of the finder, he pressed
the lever of his camera, and the exposure was made.
The click of the shutter was slight, but it had been sufficient to
alarm the ducks. With loud, frightened calls they rose from the water,
and Ed snapped an exposure of them in flight. Then, on whistling
wings, they wheeled over the canoe and, towering higher and higher
as they circled the lake, flew rapidly from sight over the distant
tree-tops.
“Well, you got them without harming a feather,” laughed Bill, well
pleased with his work.
“Yes, and I must thank you,” said Ed, gratefully. “It was
wonderful--the way you worked up to them. I shall have some
enlargements made from that negative and will send you one, if they’re
good, Bill.”
“All right, my son, I’ll be glad to have it,” declared Bill. “Guess we
won’t need all this browse around us any longer.” And he and the boys
began throwing the branches overboard.
“What kind of ducks were they?” inquired George.
“Wood-ducks, the prettiest little ducks that swim,” replied Bill.
“Funny, too; they usually build their nest in a hollow tree, and when
the ducklings are hatched, carry them to the water in their bills.”
When the canoe was at last clear of branches the trapper paddled slowly
up the lake, his keen eyes constantly alert for something interesting.
Suddenly he brought the canoe to a stop and nodded toward the forest.
“Look half-way up that hemlock, over in that open space,” he said,
softly.
The boys heeded his warning, and saw a small black animal on one of the
limbs. It seemed to be gnawing the bark, and was evidently entirely
unaware of their approach.
“What is it?” asked Ed.
“Porcupine,” explained Bill.
“Can’t we go over to it?” pleaded George.
“We’ll try; I’d like you to see one close by,” and the trapper urged
the canoe shoreward.
“‘What funny things you see when you haven’t got a gun,’” quoted Ed,
laughing.
“And usually on Sunday,” added George, “when you couldn’t shoot if you
had one.”
Bill handled the canoe carefully until he got it in line with a large
tree, which shielded them from the sight of the porcupine. Then he dug
his paddle hard into the water and sent the light craft toward the bank
at top speed.
As the boys were scrambling hastily ashore, they heard a scratching
of bark, followed by a peculiar, complaining sort of grunt, which
apparently came from the direction of the hemlock.
“He’s climbing down! Hurry after him, he can’t run fast!” shouted Bill,
as he jumped from the canoe.
When they came in sight of the tree, the boys saw the porcupine
shuffling awkwardly along some distance ahead of them. Instantly they
gave chase, with Bill close at their heels. When they overtook their
quarry the lads suddenly halted and broke out into peals of laughter at
the antics of the stupid creature before them. Finding itself unable
to escape by direct flight, the clumsy animal had deliberately rolled
itself into a sort of ball. And, as it lay helpless in the very path
of its pursuers, there rose from its body a mass of sharply pointed
yellow-tipped quills, or spines.
“Look out! Don’t touch it!” warned Bill.
“Why, what a strange-looking beast it is!” cried Ed, instantly focusing
his camera.
“Looks like it was stuck full of hat-pins,” laughed George.
“It is, and you’ll be, too, if you touch it!” declared the trapper.
Then he began to prod it gently with his paddle. Quickly it
straightened out and made a vicious swing at the ashen blade with its
quill-filled tail.
“That’s the way he drives the darts into you. See them fall out each
time he strikes the paddle?” said Bill.
The boys saw several quills fall to the ground every time the porcupine
struck the paddle-blade with its tail.
Bill declared the creature a nuisance on account of its habit of
stripping trees of their bark, which seemed to be its principal article
of diet. And with this he began to look for a club; but the boys begged
for mercy, and the porcupine’s life was spared him.
They remained for some time watching the queer creature, which turned
its head slyly in their direction and blinked at them with little
stupid eyes. Then, when they had withdrawn a few yards, the porcupine
rose to its feet and resumed its laughable attempt at flight. The boys
at once ran to the spot where it had been and gathered up the shed
quills, which, after carefully examining, they fastened in their caps.
When they were again in the canoe, Bill told them that the porcupine
would often come boldly into camp and destroy every piece of hide or
leather it could find, as well as anything, even wood, on which there
chanced to be a bit of grease. He added that few animals in the woods
cared to attack the porcupine, unless forced to do so by a scarcity of
food-supply and the pangs of hunger.
“You see, the quills get into their mouths and work down into their
throats and stomachs. I’ve found lynxes which had starved to death on
account of having their throats full of porcupine quills,” explained
the trapper.
“Served them right for attacking so peaceful a citizen,” declared Ed,
in defense of this abused animal.
“Not so fast, son, not so fast!” laughed Bill. “Now, just suppose you
were on some island where you were starving. Then, suppose a miserable
little mite of a fish came close to shore and stranded before your
famished eyes. You’d be glad enough to grab him and eat him raw. Well,
suppose after you’d swallowed him you found a hundred burning, piercing
needles in your throat and tongue. Finally, suppose you staggered
around for days in agony, trying to get them out, till you dropped and
died in torture. Think you’d have deserved such an end just because you
tried to keep the breath of life in your body?”
The boys were silent and thoughtful as Bill ceased speaking and paddled
them slowly toward the cabin. They had changed their opinions of the
starving lynxes.
When they landed at the little log dock, the lads turned and gazed for
a long time out across the placid water at the beauty of the sunset
scene.
In the west hung a mass of pearl-colored clouds whose ragged edges
were tinged with shining gold. The upper rim of the setting sun was
barely visible above a ridge of distant pines. The hush of closing day
had fallen on the wilderness. Smooth and unruffled, like a mirror, the
lake caught and reflected the changing tints of the evening sky. Then a
thin, steam-like mist began to rise along its borders.
“Come on; time to go home,” called Bill.
That night the boys expressed a wish to go with the trapper on one of
his expeditions. To their great joy Bill promptly agreed to take them
before spring. He said he would show them how to set all kinds of traps
and how to cure pelts.
Ben reminded them that Sunday was the proper day for letter-writing,
and said it would be a fine chance to send word home, as Bill expected
to start for town at daylight. The boys wrote enthusiastic accounts of
their experiences since coming to the woods. Then they gave the letters
to the care of the trapper, to be mailed at the far-off settlement.
They thought it a very long walk for Bill to undertake, and told him
so. He only laughed and replied that such distances were nothing “when
your legs once get tuned to the trail.”
They turned in early, and, for the first time since their arrival, the
boys failed to hear the flying squirrels scampering about above them.
They spoke to Ben about it, and he said it had become too cold for the
little night prowlers.
VII A VISIT TO THE BEAVERS
The boys were up early; but Bill and Moze had already gone. They ate
breakfast by lamplight, a new experience. The guide explained that they
had a long journey to make.
Daylight was just dawning when they took their places in the canoe and
pushed from shore. Ben paddled leisurely down the lake, with Ed in the
bow and George amidships. Ed had his shotgun across his knees, and
George sat with his rifle by his side. They were armed for any sort of
game. Ben paddled noiselessly. The young hunters sat quietly in their
places, their eyes riveted on the shadowy shore-line, eager to see big
game. Once a flock of crows flew noisily overhead. Again some squirrels
barked far back in the forest. Otherwise all was still.
By the time the sun had climbed over the mountains, they had reached
the end of the lake. Here they were obliged to make a portage to
another body of water about a mile distant. They landed, pulled the
canoe up on shore, and unloaded the guns and a few cooking utensils.
George also carried the camera slung on a strap from his shoulder.
[Illustration: MAKING A PORTAGE (By courtesy of the Outing Publishing
Co.)]
To the surprise of the boys, Ben hoisted the canoe on his shoulders and
walked off with it. They fell in behind him in single file. Ed carried
the two guns, and George the cooking things in a bag on his back.
There was a well-marked trail extending from the water, and Ben
followed slowly along its winding course. He pointed to little square
patches on the tree-trunks, from which the bark had been peeled. He
said they were “blazes,” made to show the trail, especially in winter
when the snow was deep.
A grouse rose and thundered away through the woods. Ben stopped and
told Ed to put down the rifle and go ahead with the shotgun, for he
believed other birds were hiding close by. He cautioned him to aim
well in front if the birds flew crosswise, and several inches over the
middle of their bodies if they went straight away.
Ed had barely taken five steps when another grouse rose, and flew
directly from him. It was his first experience with these difficult
targets, and he was rattled. Although he fired both barrels the bird
went safely on its way.
“That’s all right,” laughed the guide; “put in two new shells quick.”
Ed slipped the shells into his gun and walked a few steps farther on,
determined to make a better showing.
Whirr! A third grouse rose and chose the same course as the first.
“Now!” cried Ben, when the bird was in the proper alignment.
Bang! bang! went both shells, and Ed whooped triumphantly, for the
grouse turned a somersault in the air and landed with a thud in the
center of the trail lifeless.
“That’s better,” said Ben, encouragingly. “You’ll soon do as well with
the gun as you do with the rifle.”
The boys ran forward eagerly and picked up the dead bird. They stroked
its plumage admiringly, and Ed put it in the large rear pocket of his
hunting-coat.
“Never mind, George, you’ll get a chance later on,” the guide promised.
They started on, and before they had gone far George evened the score
by shooting a rabbit. Then they came out on the shore of a sparkling
sheet of water which the boys thought too large to be called a pond.
It spread out on either side to far-off wooded shores, and in front
apparently stretched away for miles toward a range of purple mountains.
Ben said that distance judged over water was very deceptive, and that
it was not nearly so far to the end of the lake as it seemed. He added
that he did not intend going that far, for they would turn aside to a
brook which flowed through some swampy meadows where there was a beaver
settlement.
They had hardly launched the canoe when Ed spied a great, dark bird
with a white head and tail sitting on the naked limb of a dead pine.
Ben declared it a bald eagle, and then he pointed overhead to another
bird, somewhat smaller, soaring about in wide, swinging circles above
the lake. He called it an osprey or fish-hawk. He said, if they sat
motionless and watched closely, they might see the eagle rob it of
its dinner. For some time they drifted quietly along while the osprey
sailed about on motionless wings. Occasionally it uttered a shrill cry,
which the guide explained was its hunting-call.
The eagle sat gloomily on its lofty perch, with feathers ruffled and
head drawn down between its shoulders. The boys thought it showed
little interest in the fish-hawk; but Ben assured them it was watching
every move the latter made. He said it was just pretending to be half
asleep.
Then the osprey, with folded wings, dove straight as an arrow to the
water below, and disappeared with a loud splash which sent a cloud of
spray into the air. A few seconds elapsed before the tips of its wings
reappeared, and its body, wet and shining, came into view. It flapped
and struggled furiously to rise. The guide thought it had fastened its
claws in a monster fish.
After much effort it finally rose heavily from the lake, and they saw a
large fish twisting about in the merciless grip of its talons. Slowly
it mounted upward and flew laboriously toward the distant shore.
“Look at ‘Old Sleepy Head’ now!” laughed Ben, pointing at the eagle.
It had risen to its full height, stretched its neck, and spread its
wings. Then with a wild scream it launched into space and flew at the
osprey. The latter immediately turned and began to tower frantically
skyward. The eagle, screaming fiercely, was close behind it. They
circled higher and higher, while the little party in the canoe looked
on.
At length the eagle made a savage swoop toward its victim, and the
osprey dropped its finny prize and darted out of harm’s way. Like a
thunderbolt from the sky the eagle pitched headlong after the falling
fish, which it secured before it reached the water, and bore it proudly
away.
“What do you think of that?” asked Ben.
“I feel sorry for the poor fish-hawk; but I wouldn’t have missed seeing
the trick turned for anything,” Ed replied.
Farther on the boys saw what they believed to be a pair of ducks on the
water. They asked Ben to turn the canoe so they might get a shot. He
promptly did so, and Ed handed the shotgun to George. He took careful
aim and pulled the trigger, and at the same instant, as it seemed, the
birds vanished under water. Ben laughed heartily while they watched for
the “ducks” to come up.
After some moments they reappeared, and Ben worked the canoe carefully
toward them, that Ed might try a shot. He, too, took deliberate aim;
but again the uncanny birds disappeared before the shot reached them.
The guide, unable to control himself, shrieked with laughter.
The shooters, somewhat bewildered, asked what was the matter. He said
they had been shooting at “hell-divers” or grebes, and declared they
might shoot all day without hitting them. Ben told the boys that these
little birds had deceived the best of shots.
The young marksmen were surprised to learn that grebes sometimes swim
with only the tip of the bill above water. Also, they were told that
the surest way to get one was to paddle after it when it came to the
surface and force it to dive again. By repeatedly doing this they might
finally “wind” the swimmer and get an easy shot. The guide added that
it was not worth the trouble, as the flesh of the grebes was unfit to
eat, being strongly impregnated with fish, which formed their sole
diet. Consequently, the boys went on their way and left the grebes
swimming serenely about in bold defiance of their marksmanship.
Ben later offered to show them an otter-slide, and turned the bow
of the canoe toward land. He paddled silently along the near shore,
which at this point rose to form a steep, moss-grown bank. Finally he
stopped and pointed to a shallow gully, or chute, which extended from
the top of the bank to the edge of the water. Close beside it, and
parallel to it, was a narrow, winding trail. Ben explained that the
larger depression was an otter-slide, which the makers used like a
toboggan-run. The otters, lying on their stomachs, slid head foremost
down the chute and into the water. The boys were told that the path at
the side had been made by otters emerging from the lake and climbing
the bank for another “header.”
Ed and George decided to get out and investigate. Ben beached the canoe
and accompanied them. While they were examining the slide, he called,
and they made their way to him, a short distance back in the woods.
“There’s a bear track, and a big one,” he said, pointing to a huge
paw-mark in the soft ground.
It looked as though some giant had walked there barefooted.
“We’ll just keep tab on that fellow till he dens up, and then we ought
to be able to get him,” said Ben, following the trail into the woods.
“Do you think he is around now?” inquired Ed, anxiously.
“Bless you, no; he’d have heard us long ago and--” began the guide; but
he did not finish.
Just then there was a loud, startled “woof,” and a great crashing of
dried twigs, and to their amazement a big black shape rose from the
thicket and lumbered away.
The guide doubled up with laughter, for at sound and sight of the bear
his companions had bolted and fled for the canoe. In their frantic
haste to escape, the boys lost their footing at the top of the bank and
went rolling down to the water’s edge. It was a funny sight.
“The bear was ’most as frightened as you were,” chuckled Ben. “Too bad
you didn’t have your rifle, Ed, you might have had a nice shot.”
“I don’t believe I would have stayed to shoot,” Ed confessed. “But we
won’t run next time--will we, George?”
“Not on your life!”
They paddled to the mouth of the brook, which flowed sluggishly into
the deep, silent woods. Ben turned the canoe into it, and they were
soon skimming along between rows of willows and birches which lined the
shores. The stream brought them to a wide marsh, where the guide hoped
to see a moose on their return toward evening.
From beneath some bushes which overhung the water a flock of ducks rose
compactly bunched. George, who was in the bow with the shotgun across
his knees, quickly brought it to his shoulder and fired two shots in
rapid succession. Two plump ducks came tumbling down to float lifeless
on the water. Another dropped slightly farther on; but it was only
wounded, and it at once began flapping its way awkwardly toward shore.
“Quick, George; give him another charge, or he’ll get away!” warned
Ben, swinging the canoe broadside of the stream.
Even while George hurriedly pushed the shells into the breech of his
gun the rifle cracked, and Ed had severed the head of the duck from its
body.
“Good boy!” cried Ben, enthusiastically. “That’s shooting.”
Ed called it a good-luck shot, but his comrades called it skill. They
gathered the ducks and started for the beaver lodges and dam, which
were still some distance away.
The brook widened and became deeper. They saw a muskrat house, and one
of the small, brown inmates swimming close by. Ben said that these
little creatures were near cousins to the beavers. He restrained the
lads from shooting, since the fur was not yet prime, and promised that
there would be plenty of opportunity to hunt and trap the “rats” later.
The stream at length led into what appeared to be a mill-pond. In the
center they saw a large, dome-shaped mass of mud and sticks raised
above the water. This was the beaver house or lodge. Ben pointed to
the long, curving dam across the head of the pond. He explained how,
when the current of a brook was strong, the beavers curved their dam
upstream to withstand the surge of the water.
[Illustration: BEAVER HOUSES]
They paddled to the house, and the boys were astonished to find it so
large. Near it was a pile of short, green logs and sticks, a supply
of winter food. They observed that the smaller end of each stick was
thrust into the mud to prevent it from floating away.
They were puzzled at not finding any doorway in the house; but Ben
explained that the entrance was under water, and he told them how the
beavers traveled about beneath the ice. The muskrats, he added, built
their houses in much the same way, except that instead of small logs
and large sticks they made use of grasses and weed-stalks.
Then he paddled to the shore, and they alighted. Here they saw the
round, blunt-pointed stumps and tree-butts chiseled by the beavers’
sharp teeth, and Ben explained how they cut the trees. He said, when
beavers find a suitable tree they sit up on their haunches and gnaw
away the bark, working slowly about the trunk in a circle. Then
they go around again and chisel out pieces of the wood itself. This
they continue to do until they penetrate to the heart of the tree, and
presently it falls. Then they gnaw off the smaller limbs and branches,
which are collected and floated to the dam or lodge.