traveling by snow light without a trail. Jack
felt sure they were going wrong, but he said nothing. By and by there
was a glow in the sky ahead. The snow had ceased falling and the
heavens were clear.

"Ye see we're goin' right," said Solomon. "The sun'll be up in half an
hour, but afore we swing to the trail we better git a bite. Gulf Brook
is down yender in the valley an' I'd kind o' like to taste of it."

They proceeded down a long, wooded slope and came presently to the
brook whose white floored aisle was walled with evergreen thickets
heavy with snow. Beneath its crystal vault they could hear the song of
the water. It was a grateful sound for they were warm and thirsty.
Near the point where they deposited their packs was a big beaver dam.

Solomon took his ax and teapot and started up stream.

"Want to git cl'ar 'bove," said he.

"Why?" Jack inquired.

"This 'ere is a beaver nest," said Solomon.

He returned in a moment with his pot full of beautiful clear water of
which they drank deeply.

"Ye see the beavers make a dam an' raise the water," Solomon explained.
"When it gits a good ice roof so thick the sun won't burn a hole in it
afore spring, they tap the dam an' let the water out. Then they've got
a purty house to live in with a floor o' clean water an' a glass roof
an' plenty o' green popple sticks stored in the corners to feed on.
They have stiddy weather down thar--no cold winds 'er deep snow to
bother 'em. When the roof rots an' breaks in the sunlight an' slides
off they patch up the dam with mud an' sticks an' they've got a
swimmin' hole to play in."

They built a fire and spread their blankets on a bed of boughs and had
some hot tea and jerked meat and slices of bread soaked in bacon fat.

"Ye see them Injuns is doomed," said Solomon. "Some on 'em has got
good sense, but rum kind o' kills all argeyment. Rum is now the great
chief o' the red man. Rum an' Johnson 'll win 'em over. Sir William
was their Great White Father. They trusted him. Guy an' John have got
his name behind 'em. The right an' wrong o' the matter ain't able to
git under the Injun's hide. They'll go with the British an' burn, an'
rob, an' kill. The settlers 'll give hot blood to their childern. The
Injun 'll be forever a brother to the snake. We an' our childern an'
gran'childern 'll curse him an' meller his head. The League o' the
Iroquois 'll be scattered like dust in the wind, an' we'll wonder where
it h