A Beaver Fountain
We were now a half-mile away from the house up the pond and for the first time realized that we were victims of a perfidious beaver trick. His sole purpose was, clearly, to allure us as far away from his house and his family as possible, and he had won.
About fifteen years previously a fire had burned over nearly a hundred acres of forest on the northern shore of Otter Pond, and this was now grown up with poplar and white-birch saplings. The bark of both these trees is used as food by the beavers, and they were now busily at work cutting down, clearing away, and storing for winter use this second growth of timber.
Unlike the bear. Brother Beaver is very thorough and economical in his operations. Nothing is wasted. He cuts down a tree with his chisel-shaped teeth, takes out a chip just such as comes from a lumberman's ax, cuts the tree into approximately four-foot lengths, trims out the branches, and carries away every scrap of it, even the small twigs. Nothing is left where the tree fell but stump and chips. What is not required for immediate use is piled up under water to keep the bark soft and fresh for winter consumption. And when he has peeled and eaten the bark from a stick, he saves that stick for use in enlarging his house or in repairing his dam.
At one corner of the pond was a swampy place through which a system of canals had been dug, down which the lumber might be floated to the open water on the way to the storage place. There were also roadways on the hillside, cleared and smooth, down which hundreds of sticks had been dragged to the water. About ten acres had been thoroughly cleared, and there were signs of activity on every hand, but most of the actual work was done at night. The beaver was the pioneer civil engineer of the American continent. At Otter Pond he had repaired and rebuilt a dam which had been used by a lumber company twenty years before.
The Dutch Oven
To return to the discussion at our evening meal of the meat famine: Bige said that if we would get up early in the morning, long before sunrise, and go across the pond and up into the mouth of Fox River, we should find deer feeding there on the yellow pond lilies and button grass. We would have to find a hiding place before it got light, as the deer seldom stayed long at the water after sunrise.
So in the chill and shivery hours of the following morning we were on our way, I in the bow of the boat headed forward with my Winchester across my knees, and Bige operating a "still paddle" at the stern. By this method the paddle is not lifted out of the water; it is merely turned in the water so that the sharp edge of the blade is presented on moving it forward and the broad side is against the water on pushing it back. No ripple is made, or other sound, and the boat moves forward like a ghost through the darkness. A dense fog had settled down near the water, but it was clear overhead.
Groping along the opposite shore through the fog, we made our way finally into the mouth of Fox River and immediately heard a great splashing and sloshing just ahead. It sounded as if a lot of cattle might be wading across the stream, but we could see nothing but fog. Bige whispered from the other end of the boat: "There's a whole herd of them; pick the one with the biggest horns." I cocked my rifle so as to be ready for a quick shot, while Bige pulled the boat up along shore behind an overhanging wild-rose bush, and we waited with nerve and muscle tense. The splashing continued for what seemed a long time. Finally the rising sun crept over the hilltop and the fog rolled slowly up like a proscenium curtain in a theater and disclosed, at a distance of about thirty yards, a doe standing in the shallow water and quietly eating button grass, while two spotted fawns were playing tag, racing up and down, splashing water in every direction. With head and tail erect they would run about, kicking up their heels and snorting like a lot of calves at play in a barnyard.