k a ways--a pond with two big beaver-houses
in it. I've found it--so I claim it as mine, and there ain't to be
any trapping on that pond. Those are my beavers, Jabe, every one of
them, and they sha'n't be shot or trapped!"

"I don't know how fur yer injunction'd hold in law," said Jabe dryly,
as he speared a thick slab of bacon from the frying-pan to his tin
plate. "But fur as I'm concerned, it'll hold. An' I reckon the boys of
the camp this winter'll respect it, too, when I tell 'em as how it's
your own partic'lar beaver pond."

"Bless your old heart, Jabe!" said the Boy. "That's just what I was
hoping. And I imagine anyway there's lots more beaver round this
region to be food for the jaws of your beastly old traps!"

"Yes," acknowledged Jabe, rising to clear up, "I struck three likely
ponds yesterday, as I was cruisin over to west'ard of the camp. I
reckon we kin spare you the sixteen or twenty beaver in 'Boy's
Pond!'"

The Boy grinned appreciation of the notable honour done him in the
naming of the pond, and a little flush of pleasure deepened the red of
his cheeks. He knew that the name would stick, and eventually go upon
the maps, the lumbermen being a people tenacious of tradition and not
to be swerved from their own way.

"Thank you, Jabe!" he said simply. "But how do you know there are
sixteen or twenty beaver in my pond?"

"You said there was two houses," answered the woodsman. "Well, we
reckon always from eight to ten beaver to each house, bein' the old
couple, and then three or four yearlin's not yet kicked out to set up
housekeeping fer themselves, and three or four youngsters of the
spring's whelping. Beavers' good parents, an' the family holds
together long's the youngsters needs it. Now I'm off. See you here at
noon, fer grub!" and picking up his axe he strode off to southwestward
of the camp to investigate a valley which he had located the day
before.

Left alone, the Boy hurriedly set the camp in order, rolled up the
blankets, washed the dishes, and put out the last of the fire. Then,
picking up his little Winchester, which he always carried,--though he
never used it on anything more sensitive than a bottle or a tin
can,--he retraced his steps of the night before, up-stream to the
beaver pond.

Knowing that the beavers do most of their work, or, at least, most of
their above-water work, at night, he had little hope of catching any
of them abroad by daylight. He approached the dam, nevertheles