Through the Eel-wier--a long and fruitful rapid--we entered our old
first lake, Kedgeemakoogee, this time from another point. We had made an
irregular loop of one hundred and fifty miles or more--a loop that had
extended far into the remoter wilderness, and had been marked by what,
to me, were hard ventures and vicissitudes, but which, viewed in the
concrete, was recorded in my soul as a link of pure happiness. We were
not to go home immediately. Kedgeemakoogee is large and there are
entering streams, at the mouth of which the sport at this season was
good. Besides, the teams that were to come for us would not be due yet
for several days, if we had kept proper account of time.
It was above the Eel-weir, at George's Run, that Eddie had his first and
only success with dry flies. It was just the place--a slow-moving
current between two islands, with many vicious and hungry trout. They
would rise to the ordinary fly, two at a cast, and when Eddie put on the
dry fly--the artificial miller that sits upright on the water and is an
exact imitation of the real article--and let it go floating down, they
snapped it up eagerly. It is beautiful fishing--I should really have
liked to try it a little. But Eddie had been good to me in so many ways:
I hadn't the heart to ask him for one of his precious dry flies.
During our trip across Kedgeemakoogee, Del--inspired perhaps by the fact
that we were getting nearer to the walks and wiles of men--gave me some
idea of Nova Scotia political economies. He explained the system of
government there, the manner of voting and the like. The representation
is by districts, of course, similar to our own, and the parties have
similar methods of making the vote of these districts count on the right
side. In Queens, for instance, where we had been most, if not all, of
the time, the voters are very scattering. I had suspected this, for in
our one hundred and fifty miles travel we had seen but two natives, and
only one of these was believed to have political residence. Del said the
district had been gerrymandered a good deal to make the votes count
right, and it was plain enough that if this man was the only voter in
that much country, and he chasing bears most of the time, they would
have to gerrymander around a good deal to keep up with him. Del said
that when election time came they would go gunning for that voter over
the rocks and through the burnt timber, and would beat up the brush for
him as if he were a moose, and valuable. Somehow politics did not seem
to belong in this place, but either Del exaggerated, this time, or there
is a good deal of it to the individual. I suppose it's well to have it
condensed in that way.
We camped that night at Jim Charles's Point, our old first camp, and it
was like getting home after long absence. For the time seemed an age
since we had left there. It was that. Any new and wonderful experience
is long--as long as eternity--whether it be a day or a decade in
duration. Next morning, across to the mouth of West River--a place of
many fish and a rocky point for our camp, with deep beds of sweet-fern,
but no trees. That rocky open was not the best selection for tents.
Eddie and his guide had gone up the river a little way when a sudden
shower came up, with heavy darkness and quick wind. Del and I were
stowing a few things inside that were likely to get wet, when all at
once the tents became balloons that were straining at their guy ropes,
and then we were bracing hard and clinging fast to the poles to keep
everything from sailing into the sky.
It was a savage little squall. It laid the bushes down and turned the
lake white in a jiffy. A good thing nobody was out there, under that
black sky. Then the wind died and there came a swish of rain--hard rain
for a few minutes. After that the sun once more, the fragrance of the
fern and the long, sweet afternoon.
Looking at those deep tides of sweet-fern, I had an inspiration. My
stretcher had never been over comfortable. I longed to sleep flat. Why
not a couch of this aromatic balm? It was dry presently, and spreading
the canvas strip smoothly on the ground I covered it with armfuls of the
fern, evenly laid. I gathered and heaped it higher until it rose deep
and cushiony; then I sank down upon it to perfect bliss.
This was Arcady indeed: a couch as soft and as fragrant as any the gods
might have spread by the brooks of Hymettus in that far time when they
stole out of Elysium to find joy in the daughters of men. Such a couch
Leda might have had when the swan came floating down to bestow celestial
motherhood. I buried my face in the odorous mass and vowed that never
again would I cramp myself in a canvas trough between two sticks, and I
never did. I could not get sweet-fern again, but balsam boughs were
plentiful, and properly laid in a manner that all guides know, make a
couch that is wide and yielding and full of rest.
Up Little River, whose stones like the proverbial worm, turned when we
stepped on them and gave Eddie a hard fall; across Frozen Ocean--a place
which justified its name, for it was bitterly cold there and we did
nothing but keep the fire going and play pedro (to which end I put on
most of my clothes and got into my sleeping-bag)--through another stream
and a string of ponds, loitering and exploring until the final day.
It was on one reach of a smaller stream that we found the Beaver
Dam--the only one I ever saw, or am likely to see, for the race that
builds them is nearly done. I had been walking upstream and fishing some
small rapids above the others when I saw what appeared to be a large
pool of still water just above. I made my way up there. It was in
reality a long stillwater, but a pond rather than a pool. It interested
me very much. The dam was unlike any I had ever seen. For one thing, I
could not understand why a dam should be in that place, for there was no
sign of a sluice or other indication of a log industry; besides, this
dam was not composed of logs or of stone, or anything of the sort. It
was a woven dam--a dam composed of sticks and brush and rushes and
vines, some small trees, and dirt--made without much design, it would
seem, but so carefully put together and so firmly bound that no piece of
it could work loose or be torn away. I was wondering what people could
have put together such a curious and effective thing as that, when Del
came up, pushing the canoe. He also was interested when he saw it, but
he knew what it was. It was a beaver dam, and they were getting mighty
scarce. There was a law against killing the little fellows, but their
pelts were worth high prices, and the law did not cover traffic in them.
So long as that was the case the beavers would be killed.
I had heard of beaver dams all my life, but somehow I had not thought of
their being like this. I had not thought of those little animals being
able to construct a piece of engineering that, in a swift place like
this, could stand freshet and rot, year after year, and never break
away. Del said he had never known one of them to go out. The outlet was
in the right place and of the proper size. He showed me some new pieces
which the builders had recently put into the work, perhaps because it
seemed to be weakening there. He had watched once and had seen some
beavers working. They were as intelligent as human beings. They could
cut a tree of considerable size, he said, and make it fall in any chosen
direction. Then he showed me some pieces of wood from which they had
gnawed the sweet bark, and he explained how they cut small trees and
sank lengths of them in the water to keep the bark green and fresh for
future use. I listened and marveled. I suppose I had read of these
things, but they seemed more wonderful when I was face to face with the
fact.
The other canoe came up and it was decided to cut a small section out of
the dam to let us through. I objected, but was assured that the beavers
were not very busy, just now, and would not mind--in fact might rather
enjoy--a repair job, which would take them but a brief time.
"They can do it sometime while I'm making a long carry," Charlie said.
But it was no easy matter to cut through. Charlie and Del worked with
the ax, and dragged and pulled with their hands. Finally a narrow breach
was made, but it would have been about as easy to unload the canoes and
lift them over. Half-way up the long hole we came to the lodge--its top
rising above the water. Its entrance, of course, was below the surface,
but the guides said there is always a hole at the top, for air. It was a
well-built house--better, on the whole, than many humans construct.
"They'll be scrambling around, pretty soon," Charlie said, "when they
find the water getting lower in their sitting room. Then they'll send
out a repair gang. Poor little fellers! Somebody'll likely get 'em
before we come again. I know one chap that got seven last year. It's too
bad."
Yes, it is too bad. Here is a wonderful race of creatures--ingenious,
harmless--a race from which man doubtless derived his early lessons in
constructive engineering. Yet Nova Scotia is encouraging their
assassination by permitting the traffic in their skins, while she salves
her conscience by enacting a law against their open slaughter. Nova
Scotia is a worthy province and means well. She protects her moose and,
to some extent, her trout. But she ought to do better by the beavers.
They are among her most industrious and worthy citizens. Their homes and
their industries should be protected. Also, their skins. It can't be
done under the present law. You can't put a price on a man's head and
keep him from being shot, even if it is against the law. Some fellow
will lay for him sure. He will sneak up and shoot him from behind, just
as he would sneak up and shoot a beaver, and he will collect his reward
in either case, and the law will wink at him. Maybe it would be no
special crime to shoot the man. Most likely he deserved it, but the
beaver was doing nobody any harm. Long ago he taught men how to build
their houses and their dams, and to save up food and water for a dry
time. Even if we no longer need him, he deserves our protection and our
tender regard.[6]