e in their industrious, well-ordered
lives, and they were wildly excited over it. But much more important
to them--to all but the big beaver who was now nursing his triumphant
wounds--was the presence of Man in their solitude. Man had hitherto
been but a tradition among them, a vague but alarming tradition. And
now his appearance, yesterday and to-day, filled them with terror.
That vision of the Boy, standing tall and ominous on the dam, and
afterwards going forward and backward over it, pulling at it,
apparently seeking to destroy it, seemed to portend mysterious
disasters. After he was gone, and well gone, almost every beaver in
the pond, not only from the main house but also from the lodge over
on the bank, swam down and made a flurried inspection of the dam,
without showing his head above water, to see if the structure on which
they all depended had been tampered with. One by one, each on his own
responsibility, they swam down and inspected the water-face; and one
by one they swam back, more or less relieved in their minds.

All, of course, except the big beaver who had been in the fight. If it
had not been for that vision of the Boy, he would have crept out upon
the dry grass of the little island and there licked and comforted his
wounds in the comforting sunlight. Now, however, he dared not allow
himself that luxury. His strong love of cleanliness made him reluctant
to take his bleeding gashes into the house; but there was nothing else
to be done. He was the head of the household, however, so there was
none to gainsay him. He dived into the mouth of the shorter of the two
entrances, mounted the crooked and somewhat steep passage, and curled
himself upon the dry grass in one corner of the dark, secluded
chamber. His hurts were painful, and ugly, but none of them deadly,
and he knew he would soon be all right again. There was none of that
foreknowledge of death upon him which sometimes drives a sick animal
to abdicate his rights and crawl away by himself for the last great
contest.

The room wherein the big beaver lay down to recover himself was not
spacious nor particularly well ventilated, but in every other respect
it was very admirably adapted to the needs of its occupants. Through
the somewhat porous ceiling, a three-foot thickness of turf and
sticks, came a little air, but no light. This, however, did not matter
to the beavers, whose ears and noses were of more significance to them
than their eyes. In floor