a great supply of branches laid up for winter store
near the lodge, not a chip of edible bark being wasted. Just before the
frost they begin building or repairing the dam. Each night's frost
hardens the plastered clay till the conical wattled roof--never more
than two feet thick--will support the weight of a moose.

All work is done with mouth and fore paws, and not the tail. This has
been finally determined by observing the Marquis of Bute's colony of
beavers. If the family--the old parents and three seasons' offspring--be
too large for the house, new chambers are added. In height the house is
seldom more than five feet from the base, and the width varies. In
building a new dam they begin under water, scooping out clay, mixing
this with stones and sticks for the walls, and hollowing out the dome as
it rises, like a coffer-dam, except that man pumps out water and the
beaver scoops out mud. The domed roof is given layer after layer of clay
till it is cold-proof. Whether the houses have one door or two is
disputed; but the door is always at the end of a sloping incline away
from the land side, with a shelf running round above, which serves as
the living-room. Differences in the houses, breaks below water, two
doors instead of one, platforms like an oven instead of a shelf, are
probably explained by the continual abrasion of the current. By the time
the ice forms the beavers have retired to their houses for the winter,
only coming out to feed on their winter stores and get an airing.

But this terrible thing has happened; and the young beavers huddle
together under the ice of the canal, bleating with the cry of a child.
They are afraid to run back; for the crunch of feet can be heard. They
are afraid to go forward; for the dog is whining with a glee that is
fiendish to the little beavers. Then a gust of cold air comes from the
rear and a pole prods forward.

The man has opened a hole to feel where the hiding beavers are, and with
little terrified yelps they scuttle to the very end of the runway. By
this time the dog is emitting howls of triumph. For hours he has been
boxing up his wolfish ferocity, and now he gives vent by scratching with
a zeal that would burrow to the middle of earth.

The trapper drives in more stakes close to the blind end of the channel,
and cuts a hole above the prison of the beaver. He puts down his arm.
One by one they are dragged out by the tail; and that finishes the
little beaver--sacrificed,