or there on the low, mossy bank was an otter, glaring at him
through the darkness. Beaver-meat makes a very acceptable meal for an
otter, and the Beaver knew it. And he knew, also, how utterly helpless
he was, either to fly or to resist, with that heavy trap on his arm, and
its chain binding him to the stake. His heart sank like lead, and he
trembled from his nose to the end of his tail, and whimpered and cried
like a baby. But, strange to say, it was the trapper who saved him,
though, of course, it was done quite unintentionally. As the otter
advanced to the attack there came a sudden sharp click, and in another
second he too was struggling for dear life. Two traps had been set in
the shallow water. The Beaver had found one, and the otter the other.

The full story of that night, with all its details of fear and suffering
and pain, will never be written; and probably it is as well that it
should not be. But I can give you a few of the facts, if you care to
hear them. The Beaver soon found that he was out of the otter's reach,
and with his fears relieved on that point he set to work to free himself
from the trap. Round and round he twisted, till there came a little
snap, and the bone of his arm broke short off in the steel jaws. Then
for a long, long time he pulled and pulled with all his might, and at
last the tough skin was rent apart, and the muscles and sinews were torn
out by the roots. His right hand was gone, and he was so weak and faint
that it seemed as if all the strength and life of his whole body had
gone with it. No matter. He was free, and he swam away to the nearest
burrow and lay down to rest. The otter tried to do the same, but he was
caught by the thick of his thigh, and his case was a hopeless one. Next
day the trapper found him alive, but very meek and quiet, worn out with
fear and useless struggles. In the other trap were a beaver's hand and
some long shreds of flesh and sinew that must once have reached well up
into the shoulder.

We shall have to hurry over the events of the next winter--the last
winter in the city's history. By the time the Beaver's wound was
healed--Nature was good to him, and the skin soon grew over the torn
stump--the pond was covered with ice. The beavers, only half as numerous
as they had been a few weeks before, kept close in their lodges and
burrows, and for a time they lived in peace and quiet, and their numbers
suffered no further diminution. Then the trapper took to set