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 has gone. But 'fore then, they's goin' to be great trouble. The white settlers has got to give up their land an' move, 'er turn Tory, 'er be tommy-hawked."
With a sense of failure, they slowly made their way back to Albany, riding the last half of it on the sled of a settler who was going to the river city with a grist and a load of furs.