ed himself out among the long
grasses and lay basking, hidden from all the world but the whirling
hawk overhead. The other, of a more industrious mould, swam off toward
the upper end of the pond where, as he knew, there was work to be
done.

Still as was the surface of the pond, below the surface there was life
and movement. Every little while the surface would be softly broken,
and a tiny ripple would set out in widening circles toward the shore,
starting from a small dark nose thrust up for a second. The casual
observer would have said that these were fish rising for flies; but
in fact it was the apprehensive beavers coming up to breathe, afraid
to show themselves on account of the Boy. They were all sure that he
had not really gone, but was in hiding somewhere, waiting to pounce
upon them.

It was the inhabitants of the House in the Water who were moving
about the pond, this retreat being occupied by their wounded and
ill-humoured champion. The inhabitants of the other house, over on
the shore, who had been interested but remote spectators through
all the strange events of the morning, were now in comfortable
seclusion, resting till it should be counted a safe time to go
about their affairs. Some were sleeping, or gnawing on sappy
willow sticks, in the spacious chamber of their house, while others
were in the deeper and more secret retreats of their two burrows
high up in the bank, connecting with the main house by roomy
tunnels partly filled with water. The two families were quite
independent of each other, except for their common interest in
keeping the great dam in repair. In work upon the dam they acted not
exactly in harmony but in amicable rivalry, all being watchful and all
industrious.

In the under-water world of the beaver pond the light from the
cloudless autumn sun was tawny gold, now still as crystal, now
quivering over the bottom in sudden dancing meshes of fine shadow as
some faint puff of air wrinkled the surface. When the dam was first
built the pond had been of proper depth--from three to four feet--only
in the channel of the stream; while all the rest was shallow, the old,
marshy levels of the shore submerged to a depth of perhaps not more
than twelve or fifteen inches. Gradually, however, the industrious
dam-builders had dug away these shallows, using the material--grass,
roots, clay, and stones--for the broadening and solidifying of the
dam. The tough fibred masses of grass-roots, full of cl