One bright autumn afternoon I peered down into a little meadow by a
beaver pond. This meadow was grass-covered and free from willows. In
it seven or eight beaver were at work along a new canal. Each kept his
place and appeared to have a section in which he did his digging. For
more than half an hour I watched them clawing out the earth and
grass-roots and lifting it out in double handfuls and piling it in an
orderly line along the canal-bank. While I was watching a worker at
one end of this line, two others clinched in a fight. The fighters
made no sound except a subdued guttural mumbling as they rolled about
in a struggle. The other workers, to my astonishment, paid not the
slightest attention to this fight, but each attended to his own
affairs. After two or three minutes the belligerents broke away; one
squatted down breathing heavily, while the other, with bloody tail,
dragged himself off and plunged into the pond. This was the first
beaver fight that I had ever seen.
Beaver may well be called the silent workers. No matter how numerous,
or crowded, or busy they are, their work goes on without a word and
apparently without a sign. Although I have seen them at work scores of
times, in the twilight and in the daylight, singly, in pairs, and by
the dozens, doing the many kinds of work which beaver perform, yet
this work has always gone quietly and without any visible evidences of
management. Each one is capable of acting independently. Since the
quality of his work improves as the beaver increases his experience,
it appears natural and probable that each colony of beaver has a
leader who plans and directs the work. I am familiar with a number of
instances which strongly indicate leadership. In times of emergency,
when an entire colony is forced to emigrate, a beaver--and usually an
aged one--takes the lead, and wherever he goes the others willingly
follow.
Whatever may have been the custom of beaver in the past, at present
large numbers sometimes coöperate in accomplishing community work. It
used to be believed, and possibly it was true, that only the members
of a family, or the beaver of one house, united in doing the general
work of the colony. It was a common belief that seven beaver inhabited
a house; perhaps eight was the number of the Rocky Mountain region. At
the present time the number in a house is from one to thirty.
Beaver have been driven from most of the streams and lake-shores, and
now maintain themselves with difficulty in the places which they
inhabit. In surviving they probably have had to sacrifice a few old
customs and to adopt some new ones, and it is likely that these
changes sometimes call for larger houses so as to care for the
increased number of beaver which conditions now compel to live in one
locality. A number of instances have come under my notice where beaver
were driven from their colony either by fire or by the aggressiveness
of trappers; these moved on to other scenes, where they cast their lot
with the beaver of another colony, and apparently were received with
every welcome. Immediately after the arrival of the immigrants,
enlargements were at once commenced, apparently to accommodate the
new-comers permanently.
One autumn, while following the Lewis and Clark trail with a pack
horse in western Montana, I made camp one evening with a trapper who
gave me a young beaver. He was about one month old, and ate twigs and
bark as naturally as though he had long eaten them. I named him
"Diver," and in a short time he was as chummy as a young puppy. Of an
evening he played about the camp and often swam in the near-by water.
At times he played at dam-building, and frequently displayed his
accomplishment of felling wonderful trees that were about the size of
a lead pencil. He never failed to come promptly when I whistled for
him. At night he crouched near my camp, usually packing himself under
the edge of the canvas on which I spread my bedding. Atop the pack on
the horse's back he traveled,--a ride which he evidently enjoyed. He
was never in a hurry to be taken off, and at moving time he was always
waiting eagerly to be lifted on. As soon as he noticed me arranging
the pack, he came close, and before I was quite ready for him, he
rose up, extending his hands in rapid succession beggingly, and with a
whining sort of muttering pleaded to be lifted at once to his seat on
the pack.
[Illustration: A YOUNG BEAVER SUNNING HIMSELF]
He had a bad fright one evening. About one hour before sundown we had
encamped as usual alongside a stream. He entered the water and after
swimming about for a time, taking a dozen or so merry dives, he
crossed to the opposite side. In plain view, only fifty feet away, I
watched him as he busily dug out roots of the Oregon grape and then
stopped leisurely to eat them. While he was thus engaged, a coyote
made a dash for him from behind a boulder. Diver dodged, and the
coyote missed. Giving a wail like a frightened child, my youngster
rolled into the stream and dived. Presently he scrambled out of the
water near me and made haste to crawl under my coat-tail behind the
log on which I sat.
The nearest beaver pond was a quarter of a mile upstream, yet less
than five minutes had elapsed from the time of Diver's cry when two
beaver appeared, swimming low and cautiously in the stream before me.
A minute later another came in sight from downstream. All circled
about, swimming cautiously with heads held low in the water. One
scented the place where the coyote had attacked Diver, and waddled out
and made a sniffing examination. Another came ashore at the spot where
Diver came out to me. Apparently his eyes told him I was a part of the
log, but his nose proclaimed danger. After three or four hesitating
and ineffectual attempts to retreat, he plucked up courage and rose to
full height on hind legs and tail to stare eagerly at me. With head
well up and fore paws drooping, he held the gaze for several seconds
and then gave a low whistle.
At this, Diver came forth from behind my coat to see what was going
on. The old one started forward to meet him, but on having a good look
at me whirled and made a jumping dive into the water, whacking the
surface with his tail as he disappeared. Instantly there followed two
or more splashes and a number of tail-whacks upon the water, as though
a beaver rescue party were beating a retreat.
At the end of my outing Diver became the pet of two pioneer children
on the bank of the Snake River. He followed the children about and
romped with them. At three years of age he was shot by a visiting
hunter.
My experience with Diver and other beaver pets leads me to believe
that beaver are easily domesticated. One morning in northern Idaho,
the family with whom I had spent the night took me out to see a beaver
colony that was within a stone's throw of their fireplace. Three
beaver came out of the water within ten feet of us to eat scraps of
bread which the children threw on the grass for them.
One day I placed myself between three young beaver, who were eating on
land, and the river out of which they came. They were on one of the
rocky borders of the Colorado River in the depths of the upper Grand
Cañon. They attempted to get by me, but their efforts were not of the
"do or die" nature. Presently their mother came to the rescue and
attempted to attract my attention by floating in the water near me in
a terribly crippled condition. I had seen many birds and a few beaver
try that clever ruse; so I allowed it to go on, hoping to see another
act. Another followed.
In it an old male beaver appeared. He swam easily downstream until
within a few yards of me and then dived, apparently frightened. But
presently he reappeared near by and dived again. While I was watching
him, the youngsters edged a few yards nearer the river. To stop them
and prolong the exhibition, I advanced close to them as though to grab
them. At this the mother beaver struggled out of the water and set up
a tumbling and rolling so close to me that I thought to catch her for
examination. She dodged right and left and reached the water. While
this was going on, the youngsters escaped into the river. Mother
beaver instantly recovered, and as she dived gave the water a scornful
whack with her tail.
The beaver is not often heard. He works in silence. When he pauses
from his work, he sits meditatively, like a philosopher. At times,
however, when, in traveling, beaver are separated from one another,
they give a strange shrill whistle or call. Occasionally this whistle
appears to be a call of alarm, suspicion, or warning. Sometimes when
alarmed, a young beaver gives a shrill and frightened cry not unlike
that of a lost human child. On a few occasions I have heard, while
listening near a beaver house in the early summer, something of a
subdued concert going on inside, a purring, rhythmic melody. They have
a kind of love ditty also. This is a rhythmic murmur and sigh, very
appealing, and it seems strangely elemental as it floats across the
beaver pond in the twilight.
It is probable that beaver mate for life. All that is known concerning
their ways indicates that they are good parents. The young are usually
born during the month of April. The number varies from one to eight;
probably four is the number most common. A short time before the birth
of the youngsters, the mother invites the father to leave, or compels
him to do so,--or he may go voluntarily,--and she has possession of
the house or burrow, probably alone, at the time the youngsters are
born. Their eyes are open from the beginning, and in less than two
weeks they appear in the water accompanied by the mother. Often I
have investigated beaver colonies endeavoring to determine the number
of youngsters at a birth. Many times there were four of these furry,
serious little fellows near the house on a log that was thrust up
through the water. At other times from one to eight youngsters sunned
themselves on the top of the rude home.
One May, in examining beaver colonies, I saw three sets of youngsters
in the Moraine Colony. They numbered three, and two, and five. One
mother in another colony proudly exhibited eight, while still another,
who had been harassed all winter by trappers and who lived in a burrow
in the bank, could display but one.
It is not uncommon for young orphan beavers to be cared for and
adopted by another mother beaver. I have notes of three mothers who,
with children of their own, at once took charge of orphans left by the
death of a neighbor. One June a mother beaver was killed near my camp.
Her children escaped. The following evening a new mother, with four
children of her own adopted them and moved from her own home, a
quarter of a mile distant, to the home of her dead neighbor and there
brought all the youngsters up.
Beaver have great fun while growing up. Posted on the edge of the
house, they nose and push each other about, ofttimes tumbling one
another into the water. In the water they send a thousand merry
ripples to the shore, as they race, wrestle, and dive in the pond.
They play on the house, in the pond, and in the sunshine and shadows
of the trees along the shore.
Beaver are mature the third summer of their lives, and at this time
they commonly leave the parental home, pair, and begin life for
themselves. There are stories to the effect that the parents of the
youthful home-builders accompany the children to new scenes, help them
select a building-site, and assist in the construction of the new
house and dam. After this the parents return home. This probably is
occasionally true. Anyway I once saw this program fairly well carried
out, and at another time in a limited manner.
The beaver is practical, peaceful, and industrious. He builds a
permanent house and keeps it clean and in repair. Beside it he stores
food-supply for the long winter. He takes thought for the morrow.
These and other commendable characteristics give him a place of honor
among the hordes of homeless, hand-to-mouth folk of the wild. During
the winter he has but little to do except bathe and eat his two or
three meals a day from the food he has stored in the autumn. Towards
spring, when his wild neighbors are lean, hungry, and cold, he is fat
and comfortable. In the spring he emerges from the house, but then his
only work is occasionally to cut a twig for food. In the summer he
plays tourist. He visits other colonies, and wanders up and down
streams, going miles from home. In the late summer or early autumn he
returns, makes repairs, and harvests food for winter.
The beaver is a valuable conservationist, but there are localities in
which he cannot be tolerated. Although dead wood is rarely cut by the
beaver, many a homesteader has been disturbed by his cutting off and
carrying away green fence posts. Recently beaver have returned to a
few localities and got themselves into bad repute by felling fruit
trees. Occasionally, too, in the West, they have lost caste by
persistently damming an irrigation-ditch and diverting the water,
despite the fact that a court has given both the title and the right
to this water to some one else a mile or so down the ditch.
In all logging operations, beaver never fail--where there is
opportunity--to cut trees upstream and float them down with the
current. Tree-cutting is an interesting phase of beaver life. A beaver
will go waddling dully from the water to a tree he is about to cut
down. All will look about for enemies; one may be wise enough--but the
majority will not do so--to look upward to see if the tree about to be
felled is entangled at the top. All appear to choose a comfortable
place on which to squat or sit while cutting.
Commonly when the tree begins to creak and settle, the beaver who has
done the cutting thuds the ground a few times with his tail, and then
scampers away, usually going into the water. Sometimes the near-by
workers give the thudding signal in advance of the one who is doing
the cutting. Now and then no warning signal is given, and the logging
beaver occasionally fells his tree upon other workers with a fatal
result. As with axe-men, the beaver doing the cutting is on rare
occasions caught and killed by the tree which he fells.
Rarely does the beaver give any thought to the direction in which the
tree will fall. In a few instances, however, I have seen what appeared
to be an effort on the part of the beaver to fell a tree in a given
direction. From an uncomfortable place he cut the lowest notch on the
side on which he probably wanted the tree to fall. On one of these
occasions, the aspen tree selected stood in an almost complete circle
of pines. The beaver took pains to cut the first and lowest notch in
this tree directly opposite the opening in the pines. I have seen a
number of instances of this kind. And he will sometimes leave the
windward side of a grove on a windy day, and cut on the leeward, so
that the felled trees are not entangled in falling.
Rarely does more than one beaver work at the same time at a tree. In
some instances, however, if the tree be large, two or even more beaver
will work at once. But after the tree has been felled, ofttimes
three or four beaver will unite to roll a large section to the water.
In doing this, some may stand with paws against it and push, and
others may put their sides or hips against it. On land, as in the
water, small limb-covered trees are dragged butt foremost so as to
meet the least resistance. Sometimes the beaver drags walking
backwards; at other times he is alongside the tree carrying and
dragging it forward.
[Illustration: IN THE HARVEST-FIELD Aspens cut by beaver]
Early explorers say that beaver do most of their work at night. In
this they are practically unanimous. However, in Long's Journal,
written in 1820, beaver were reported at work in broad daylight. A few
other early writers have also mentioned this daylight work. They
probably work in darkness because that is the safest time for them to
be out. During dozens of my visits to secluded localities,--localities
which had not been visited by man, and certainly not by trappers,--I
found beaver freely at work in broad daylight. I am inclined to think
that day work was common during primeval times; and that, although the
beaver now do and long have done most of their work at night, in
localities where they are not in danger from man, they work freely
during daytime.
Both the Indians and the trappers have a story that old beaver who
will not work are driven from the colony and become morose outcasts,
slowly living away the days by themselves in a burrow. I have no
evidence to verify this statement, and am inclined to think that
solitary beaver occasionally found in abandoned colony-sites and
elsewhere are simply unfortunates, perhaps weighed down with age,
unable to travel far, with teeth worn, the mate dead, without ambition
to try, or without strength to emigrate. It is more likely that these
aged ones voluntarily and sadly withdraw from their cheerful and
industrious fellows, to spend their closing days alone. Although, too,
there were among Indians and trappers stories of beaver slaves, I am
without material for a story of this kind.
The beaver is peaceful. Although the males occasionally fight among
themselves, the beaver avoids fighting, and plans his life so as to
escape without it. Now and then in the water one closes with an otter
in a desperate struggle, and when cornered on land one will sometimes
turn upon a preying foe with such ferocity and skill that his
assailant is glad to retreat. On two occasions I have known a beaver
to kill a bobcat.
Beaver are not equally alert. In many cases this difference may be due
to a difference in age or experience. Beaver have been caught with
scars which show that they have been trapped before, a few even having
lost two feet in escaping from traps. On the other hand, skillful
trappers have found themselves after repeated trials, unable to catch
a single beaver from a populous colony. Sometimes in colonies of this
kind, the beaver even audaciously turned the traps upside down or
contemptuously covered them with mud.
Nor is the work of all beaver alike. The ditches which one beaver
digs, the house one builds, or the dam one makes, may be executed with
much greater speed and with more skill than those of a neighboring
beaver. Many houses are crude and unshapely masses, many dams
haphazard in appearance, while a few canals are crooked and uneven.
But the majority do good work, and are quick to take advantage of
opportunity, quick to adjust themselves to new conditions, or to use
the best means that is available. Beaver probably have made numbers of
changes in their manners, habits, and customs, and those changes
undoubtedly have enabled them to survive relentless pursuit, and to
leave descendants upon the earth.
The industry of the beaver is proverbial, and it is to the credit of
any person to have the distinction of working "like a beaver." Most
people have the idea that the beaver is always at work; not that he
necessarily accomplishes much at this work, but that he is always
doing something. The fact remains that under normal conditions he
works less than half the time, and it is not uncommon for him to spend
a large share of each year in what might be called play. He is
physically capable of intense and prolonged application, and, being an
intelligent worker, even though he works less than half the time he
accomplishes large results.