constantly needed repair; wood must be cut and stored at the bottom of
the pond, so that the colony might have food through the winter. At this
work Flat Tail, son of Ahmeek, laboured manfully. His teeth were not yet
long and sharp enough for felling trees, but they could cut off the
smaller branches. Flat Tail was very proud when he could swim back to
the lodge with one of these branches over his shoulder, kept in place
by his fore-paws held close to his body.
One day toward the end of the summer Flat Tail had a narrow escape. He
was sitting on the bank, combing his glossy brown fur, of which he was
very proud, when a prowling panther discovered him. The big cat's mouth
watered, for beaver at all times is a delicate morsel for the
flesh-eating animals. The green eyes narrowed to mere slits as, silent
as a shadow, the panther climbed a tree and made its way out to a point
from which a straight drop would land it upon its unsuspecting quarry.
In another moment Flat Tail, intent upon his toilet and oblivious of his
danger, would undoubtedly have furnished a meal for the panther had not
old Ahmeek appeared, swimming upward from the lodge. Immediately his
keen eyes discovered the crouching animal and, with a sound like the
crack of a rifle, his flat, horny tail descended upon the water.
It was a sound which all beavers are taught to obey instantly and
without question. Even as the big cat dropped, Flat Tail dived backward
into the stream. The panther, with a scream of rage, dug its claws into
the earth where its prey had been sitting a moment before. The beaver
was out of reach, however, and there was nothing for the panther to do
but continue on his hungry way, his scream having warned every animal
for miles around to hide. As for Flat Tail, he swam directly to the
lodge where he crouched trembling.
The summer passed, and autumn with its flaming colors and hint of frost
came to the wilderness. On a warm Indian summer day the Hermit, in his
search for healing roots, came out upon the shore of the stream which
sheltered the beaver colony. As he approached he heard a resounding slap
and saw a number of sleek brown forms dive into the water. Thus, when he
stepped out upon the shore, there was not a beaver in sight, though
evidences of their work were all about. The Hermit's eyes had grown keen
and his brain wise in the lore of the wilderness, so that now he knew
beyond a doubt that the colony was busy building the dam higher and
raising the lodges farther above the stream.
"Must be expecting a freshet," he mused.
For some time he waited, concealed in a clump of bushes, hoping to catch
sight of the inhabitants of the pond or perhaps even watch them at
work. His waiting was vain, however, for the bright eyes of the wily
little beasts had penetrated his hiding place and not one ventured forth
until the Hermit gave up in despair and went on his way. Then
immediately the shining face of Ahmeek appeared at the surface and the
pond once more swarmed with activity.
Under Ahmeek's direction the dam was made much higher and the floors of
the lodges were raised above the highest mark which the stream had ever
reached. Then the whole colony turned its attention to providing food
for the winter. Aspen, poplar and willow branches were carried to the
pond where, as they became waterlogged, they sank to the bottom, there
to remain until needed. Lily-pads floating lightly upon the surface of
the pond gave promise of white succulent roots which penetrated the ooze
beneath. Sweet flag was abundant, and close by grew a clump of dark
green, spicy mint.
The warm, hazy days of Indian summer passed. The leaves drifted to the
ground where they spread a rustling carpet, hiding the sweet
three-cornered beechnuts upon which squirrels and raccoons waxed fat and
contented. The activities of the beavers continued until, one morning
after a clear cold night, when the stars seemed to twinkle immeasurably
far above the wilderness, a film of ice covered the surface of the pond.
Then, in a night, winter descended upon the forest. The ice grew thick
and solid. The domes of the lodges froze as hard as stone and only a
thin, almost imperceptible wisp of steam, arising from the ventilating
holes, gave indication of the life within. This was the beavers' season
of rest and they made the most of it. Snow covered land and water alike.
Icy gales swept over the wilderness, sending the inhabitants to cover
and lashing the great trees until it seemed as if they could not stand.
For most of the wilderness folk it was the hunger time, when game is
scarce and exceedingly wary.
For the beavers, however, it was a time of plenty. On their warm beds of
leaves under the frozen domes where never a cold breeze touched them,
they dreamed away the hours or, waking, nibbled a bit of aspen bark
thoughtfully provided on the floor of the lodge. The sticks were then
carried out and used in strengthening the dam. Occasionally a black,
whiskered face would appear beneath the ice where the snow had been
blown away, and stare out for a moment at the wintry world, but it would
be quickly withdrawn as the beaver returned to his comfortable lodge.
One day in midwinter, when the sun shone upon a world of sparkling
white, the Hermit, this time upon snowshoes, again visited the beaver
pond. The white domes of the lodges dotted the snowy surface but there
was no sign of life. The man stepped out upon the dam and hacked at it
with an axe which he had brought to provide himself with firewood. There
was no penetrating its stony surface, and, as he looked out across the
hard, rounded domes, he smiled to himself, picturing the beavers in
their snug retreats. He knew that beneath the ice was a fortune in
valuable furs, but the thought brought with it no desire for possession.
In the Hermit's opinion the skins were of far greater value to the
beavers than to himself.
Knowing that the forest folk, after having been storm-bound for days,
would now be driven abroad by hunger, the Hermit concealed himself in a
fir thicket not far from the pond and waited to see what of interest
chance would bring to him. He had waited scarcely ten minutes when a
lithe, tawny form appeared, sniffing at his trail and pausing often to
look suspiciously about. "Panther," thought the Hermit, with a thrill of
pleasure that his watching had so soon yielded results.
It was the same panther who had so nearly made a meal of Flat Tail
several months before. The beast, finding food scarce, had drifted south
far from its usual haunts and, locating the beaver lodges, had decided
to winter in the locality. Following the man's trail the panther, too,
stepped out upon the dam. It soon caught the faint, warm scent rising
from the ventilating hole of a near-by lodge. Frantically it dug at the
top of the dome, but it yielded no more than had the dam under the man's
axe.
Baffled, the big cat gave up its useless scratching and again turned to
the trail which had led it to the pond. As the beast came nearer, and
the Hermit realized that it was probably made bold by hunger, he blessed
the forethought which had led him to bring his axe along when he left
his pile of firewood and struck off through the forest to visit the
beaver pond.
The panther advanced, its body close to the ground and its great feet
bearing it upon the crust as if it wore snowshoes. It was coming
uncomfortably close and the Hermit began to experience a creepy
sensation. He had little fear that, armed as he was, the beast would
dare attack him in broad daylight, but nevertheless it gave him an
unpleasant feeling to see his trail stalked.
It was evident that the panther had scented him. It stopped and crouched
lower, motionless save for the tip of its long tail which waved back and
forth in a way which fascinated the man. The beast seemed more curious
than ferocious, but in spite of that the Hermit thought it high time to
create a diversion.
Remembering the effect of his shout upon the lynx the day he had rescued
Dave Lansing, the trapper, he was about to spring to his feet. Suddenly
a deer came into sight, stopped an instant, terrified at sight of its
hereditary enemy, and then leaped away with the panther in pursuit. Thus
the Hermit was left free to return to his firewood and the safety of his
cabin.
Before leaving, however, he scraped the snow from a spot upon the
surface of the pond and, putting his face close to the ice, looked
down. Through the clear water he saw the storehouse of the beavers and
even caught a glimpse of a brown shadow which at once vanished into a
dark passage. But, though the man lingered for some time, he caught no
further glimpse of the pond's interesting inhabitants.
The winter was extremely cold. Many smaller streams and ponds froze
solid, though the depth of the beaver pond prevented this calamity. When
spring came at last and the ice broke up, the water began to rise.
Higher and higher it came, fed by the melting ice and snow toward its
source. The homes of the muskrats, some distance farther upstream, were
flooded, many of the occupants being drowned and others driven for
refuge to higher ground. The beavers had no fear, however, for old
Ahmeek had prepared for just such an emergency.
Still the water rose. It reached and passed the highest mark that it had
attained for many years. And then came the big freshet. The streams
became torrents, hurling great masses of driftwood and even trees before
them. Constant vigilance on the part of the beavers was required to
keep the dam from washing away. When a drifting log or mass of brush
caught, and threatened to wreck their hope, the entire colony turned out
and literally "worked like beavers" tearing away the obstruction and
allowing it to slide on down stream. Each small leak was found and
mended before it had become large enough to be dangerous.
The water rose within an inch of the floor of the lodges. The Hermit,
remembering the beavers and concerned for their safety, made another
trip to the pond, noting with anxious eye, long before he reached it,
the havoc wrought on every hand by the freshet. It was with a distinct
sense of relief that he found the dam still intact and the domes of the
lodges still above the water. He paused at some distance from the bank
and watched the beavers as they went about their repairs without a
thought for his presence. And he marveled anew at their skill and
forethought.
Still the water rose, spreading out into a vast lake and reaching to the
floor of the lodges. Now the beavers became alarmed and watched
anxiously. For if the stream rose higher, the dam must go and the lodges
be flooded. The crest had been reached, however, and the flood came no
higher. Instead it began to recede, vanishing as rapidly as it had come.
It left the low ground around the beaver pond a mass of sticky mud and
tangled wreckage.
The flood was followed by the opposite extreme and the water fell until
it threatened to expose the entrance to the lodges. In that event
nothing could have saved the beavers from their enemies. Fortunately,
however, the stream soon returned to its normal level and life once more
became peaceful for the beavers, though there was much repair work to be
done. And so, by his forethought, Ahmeek had saved the whole colony from
destruction.
The summer was uneventful, but the winter following the great freshet
came near being a disastrous one for the thriving colony. Two half-breed
trappers on their way north for furs came upon the pond. As they noted
the number and size of the lodges dotting the surface, their eyes shone.
Here indeed was a find, for beaver pelts brought much money.
They made their camp near the pond and the next morning set a number of
snares. The ice was not thick and it was an easy matter to drive stakes
about the pile of wood which was the storehouse of the beavers. The
stakes were set so close together that a beaver could pass between in
only one place, where a slender, pliant branch had been set. Then the
trappers waited, their eyes fixed expectantly upon the tip of the branch
which extended above the water.
Before long a big beaver left his lodge to visit his wood-pile which was
also his pantry. Strange to say, it could only be reached in one place.
Here there was a slender branch, but the beaver easily pushed past it
and entered the trap. As he did so, the tip of the branch quivered and
the trappers, knowing their quarry had entered the trap, closed the
opening securely with stout stakes.
Thus the beaver, unable to escape and reach the air, soon perished
miserably and was taken from the water. Several others were taken in the
same way before the Hermit discovered what was happening and intervened
to save the colony.
Knowing that sooner or later, unless protected, the beavers would be
killed for their pelts, the Hermit had made a trip to the city and had
purchased the land through which the stream ran. Thus the trappers found
themselves poachers and were forced to leave empty-handed. The Hermit
removed the snares and departed, leaving Ahmeek and his colony once more
free to dream away the winter unmolested.
SILVER SPOT
Near the southern border of the wilderness the aisles of lofty spruce
give place to second-growth birch, maple and ash, and these in turn to
wild meadows and stump lots. The country is rugged, broken here and
there by upthrusts of gray rock. Protruding ledges shelter dark caves,
and protect their moss-carpeted entrances from sun and wind. Dense
thickets of pawpaw, hazel and wild cherry offer coverts for the shy and
furtive kindred of the forest: goggle-eyed rabbits, restless as
wind-blown leaves; mice, with their intricate system of runways among
the grass roots; slow-moving porcupines, prickly as huge sandburs; and
occasionally a stately buck or savage-eyed Canada lynx.
In such a country, in a cleverly concealed den about a mile from the
Hermit's cabin, Silver Spot was born. A projecting ledge, crowned with
hazel brush, concealed the mouth of the den which looked out upon a
small mossy clearing, sloping warmly toward the rising sun. It was an
ideal location, for, though it lay so near the outposts of civilization,
no human foot had ever trodden the spot until the Hermit discovered it
quite by accident one day while harvesting a store of golden seal, a
root of great value in the drug market.
Drawn by the peace and seclusion of this shadowy, green world, he laid
aside his mattock and wandered to the edge of the hazel thicket.
Thinking the spot a likely one for a fox den, he parted the bushes and,
as noiselessly as one of the forest creatures, crept forward until he
could look into the mossy clearing under the ledge. He had been there
but a moment when out into the sunshine rolled a furry ball which, upon
dissolving, proved to be three sturdy fox cubs. For a moment they sat on
their tails, blinking in the sunlight; then, as if at a signal, they
rose upon their haunches and began a good-natured rough and tumble,
biting and clawing as they rolled over and over on the moss.
All were appealing, as are young animals at play the world over, but to
one the Hermit's eyes turned in admiration again and again. He was
larger than the others, with a snowy white spot on breast and tail. His
movements were quick and sure and, though he still possessed some of
the awkwardness of the kitten, he showed every indication of making a
splendid animal when grown.
[Illustration: A full grown fox stood motionless in the sunlight, a
rabbit hanging limply from her jaws.]
In his study of the wild creatures of the forest the Hermit had learned
a valuable art, that of keeping still. Assuming a comfortable position
with his back against a tree, he let himself blend into his background
of green and brown until even the keen eyes of the forest people were
deceived. A chickadee regarded him inquisitively from a branch over his
head, talking softly to itself the while; a rabbit, hopping by on some
apparently urgent business, came upon the motionless figure, stopped
suddenly and then, as the Hermit did not move, went on indifferently. It
was a busy and interesting world, but the attention of the man was upon
the fox cubs.
Suddenly the play came to a halt as all eyes turned toward the thicket
on the opposite side of the little clearing. Following their gaze, the
man saw a full grown fox standing motionless in the sunlight, a rabbit
hanging limply from her jaws. Now a singular thing happened. The cubs,
who had made a wild dash toward the mother, stopped abruptly, stood an
instant, and then, silent as little shadows, vanished into the dark
cave. So far as the Hermit could observe, the mother fox had made no
sound, yet some communication had passed from her to the cubs and they
had instantly and unquestioningly obeyed. The mother stood a moment
longer, alert but unmoving; then, instead of entering the den, she
slipped away. The Hermit caught a glimpse of her circling the thicket
suspiciously, so, not wishing to alarm her unnecessarily, he stole
quietly away, leaving her free to return to the cubs.
Almost daily he paid a visit to the den, keeping well out of sight but
becoming more and more interested in the big cub that he had named
Silver Spot. Often, as he waited, the mother fox would return with food,
and before many days she appeared to become accustomed to the motionless
figure among the hazel bushes, for she no longer sent the cubs to the
den with her silent warning.
The meal finished, she would lie down in the warm sunshine and let the
cubs play rough and tumble games about her, such as those of puppies or
kittens. Worrying her plumy tail and tobogganing from her back seemed to
be favorite pastimes with two of the cubs. Silver Spot had a mind of his
own and would sometimes wander alone to the edge of the clearing, his
attitude expressing intense interest in the world beyond. He never went
farther, however, for his mother, apparently engrossed in the play of
the others, would suddenly raise her head and look intently at the big
cub, who would at once return to the family circle. The Hermit could but
wonder at the perfect understanding which needed no sound audible to
human ears.
The cubs grew fast, but Silver Spot outstripped the others. His fur grew
long and thick and glossy, his brush magnificent. His trim, pointed ears
allowed nothing to escape his active brain. The family, when grown, soon
separated, but Silver Spot, much to the satisfaction of the Hermit,
remained near the home den. Occasionally Pal, in his private
explorations into the edge of the forest, would take up the trail of the
fox. At such a time it would have been difficult to decide which animal
more enjoyed the chase, the dog or the big fox.
Silver Spot possessed an abundant share of that alertness and sagacity
necessary to a fox or any other animal in the wilderness. He did not
fear the dog, but seemed to enjoy making the trail as complicated as
possible, while Pal, nose to the ground, would patiently follow its
intricacies. Solemnly the fox would trot around in a large circle, then,
leaping as far to one side as possible, would saunter off with an
amusing air of indifference, pausing to listen for mice or rabbits.
Later, round and round in the circle would go the dog until, becoming
aware of the deceit practised upon him, he would range the neighborhood
until he struck the scent. Often the fox doubled on his trail. From a
ridge some distance away he would sit down and watch his puzzled
pursuer, who was always "it" in this game of tag.
One day, from a slight elevation, the Hermit followed the course of such
a race as well as was possible in the heavy forest. Pal had profited by
his experience and was, the Hermit concluded, giving Silver Spot a stiff
run. As the man stood leaning comfortably against a tree, though he had
caught no glimpse of the fox, he could hear the dog coming rapidly
nearer. Then suddenly Silver Spot, with the lightness of a wind-blown
leaf, drifted into view a few paces away among the trees. He paused at
sight of the man. As the beast stood, alert and graceful, one paw
daintily lifted, with no sign of fear in the eyes which questioned the
motionless figure, he made a picture which the Hermit carried in his
mind for many a day.
From his brief survey the fox evidently decided that the intruder was
quite harmless and consequently uninteresting. Though the dog was hot on
his trail, Silver Spot paused a moment longer to give an unhurried look
about him. A little to one side lay a tree which, in falling, had
lodged among the branches of its neighbor. At a point where it was
raised about four feet from the ground Silver Spot leaped upon it and
thence into the middle of a little forest stream beneath. In another
moment he had disappeared, keeping to the water which he well knew would
leave no tell-tale scent.
He was scarcely out of sight when the dog appeared, passing his master
as unheedingly as if the latter had been a part of the tree against
which he leaned. At the foot of the inclined trunk Pal stopped, plainly
puzzled. No trace of the alluring scent could he catch, though he
eagerly nosed all about the tree and even partly up the trunk. Not
having the agility of the woodland creature, however, he could not
proceed far enough to recapture the scent. So he was obliged to content
himself with ranging the neighborhood in the hope of picking up the
trail, a fruitless search from which he was at length recalled by the
whistle of his master. And though the trail invariably ended in some
such manner, Pal never seemed to weary of the chase.
As a rule a fox frequents a somewhat restricted territory in which, if
he is strong enough, he rules supreme, driving away all trespassers.
Silver Spot, however, was an unusual fox in many ways and often
demonstrated his individuality by wandering far afield.
Late one afternoon, while ranging the woods several miles to the east of
the home den, he paused beside a clear forest stream to drink. As he
raised his head from the refreshing water, his alert ears caught a faint
stir. Soundless as a shadow he melted into the bushes at his back just
as a queer procession came into view. At the head, advancing with an air
of slow dignity, walked a shining black animal with two broad white
stripes down her back and fur so long that it rippled silkily in the
breeze; behind, in a row, came five little ones, exact counterparts of
their mother. Upon a flat stone at the edge of the stream they all
crouched for a drink. Silver Spot did not offer to molest them, but
watched curiously as, their thirst quenched, they again took up their
slow march. He even followed at a discreet distance, watching the
youngster who brought up the rear and who often had to be hustled back
into the line from which his curiosity had led him.
Night found Silver Spot in an upland pasture at the edge of the forest,
a place of black stumps and thickets of juniper and wild berries,
silvered over with the radiance of the full moon. He drifted lightly
across the pasture, alert for any adventure which the night might
present, and brought up beside a rude building from which came an
enticing odour. Silver Spot had not tasted chicken since, as a cub, he
had rushed to meet his mother returning from a foraging expedition, but
the recollection of the delicacy was still strong with him. He worked
industriously, and before long dug out an entrance under the building.
Then, before the plump hen which he had selected could wake and cry out,
Silver Spot had killed her and was out and away. He traveled swiftly
and, safe in his own den, enjoyed the feast.
Having acquired a taste for plump chicken, Silver Spot decided to
revisit the henhouse the following evening. This time, however, his
intentions were thwarted in a way which almost put an end to his career.
Eyes other than those of the Hermit had been watching the growth of
Silver Spot, eyes burning with greed when they looked upon his handsome
coat. Fur such as this sold for much money in the city and the desire
for money left no room for pity or admiration for the animal in the mind
of the half-breed, Sam. He had bided his time, but now, though it was
not the best time for furs, he dared wait no longer. Very soon he was to
guide a party of hunters and fishermen far into the north, and he must
take the fox now or never.