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pictures, at sunny midday, or beneath the hushed twilight, or in the expectant morning
before [297]the shadows come,—all these had suddenly taken wing, driven away by
mud-grubbing animals with a notion in their dull heads that they wanted deeper water
about the site they had chosen for their house of sticks. It was too bad, too hopeless! I
might have prevented the ruin had I known; but now it was beyond all remedy. With a
different interest, therefore, and still resentful that my pond was spoiled as thoroughly
as any lumberman would have spoiled it, I made my way around the flood to examine
the beavers’ work at the outlet.
[298]
[Contents]
XV
Beaver Work
Hidden among the larches at the lower end of my pond was a tiny outgoing stream,
which had proved hard to find when first I explored the region, and almost impossible
to follow afterward. Under a fallen log, so weathered and mossy that it seemed part of
the natural shore, a volume of water escaped without ripple or murmur, wandering
away under bending grasses to lose itself in an alder swamp, where innumerable
channels offered it lingering passage. From the swamp it found its way, creepingly,
among brooding cedars to a little brook, which went singing far down through the
woods to Upper Pine Pond; and beyond that on the farther side was a long dead-
water, [299]and then Pine Stream making its tortuous way through an untraveled
region to the Penobscot. The nearest beavers, a colony of four lodges which I
unearthed on a hidden branch of Pine Stream, were twelve or fifteen miles away, as
the water flowed; yet over all that distance an exploring family had made its lonely
way, guided at every turn by the flavor of distant springs, till one after another they
crept under the fallen log and entered my pond, which was solitary enough to satisfy
even their pioneer instincts. They had first picked a site for their new lodge, on a point
overlooking the lower half of the pond, and had then gone back to the outlet to raise
the water.
Their dam was a rare piece of wild engineering; so much I had to confess, even while
I wished that the beavers had chosen some other place to display their craft. Finding
where the water escaped, they stopped the opening beneath the log, and made a
bank of mud and alder-brush above it. This bank was carried out a dozen feet or more
on either side of the stream, the ends being bent forward (toward the pond above) so
as to make a very fine concave arch. On a small or quiet stream like this, beavers
almost invariably build a straight dam; and where swift water calls for a stronger or
curving structure, they present the convex side to the current; but here they had
[300]reversed both rules, for some reason or impulse which I could not fathom,—
except on the improbable assumption that the animals could foresee the end of their
work from the beginning. The finished dam was an amazingly good one, as you shall
see; but whether it resulted from planning or happy experiment or just following the
water, only a certain old beaver could tell.
Since there was no other outlet to my pond, the beavers were obliged to build here;
but the site was a poor one, the land being uniformly low on all sides, and no sooner
did they finish their dam than the rising water flowed around both ends of it. To
remedy this they pushed out a curving wing from either end of their first arch, so that
the line of their dam was now a pretty triple-curve. Again and again the outgoing
water crept around the obstacle; each time the beavers added other curving wings,
now on this side, now on that, bending them steadily forward till the top of their dam
suggested the rim of an enormous scallop-shell. Then, finding the water deep enough
for their needs, they thrust out a straight wing from either end of their dam, resting
their work on the slopes of two hillocks in the woods, some fifty yards apart,—this in a
straight line, or across the hinge of the scallop-shell: if measured on the curves, their
dam was three or four times that length. Their [301]next task was to build a lodge on
the point above; then they dug a canal through the bog to the nearest grove of
hardwood, and cut down a liberal part of the trees for their winter supply of bark. The
branches of these trees had been cut into convenient lengths, floated through the
canal, and stored in a great food-pile in the deep water near the lodge.
When I found the dam, several deer (to judge from the tracks) were already using the
top of it as a runway in passing from the flooded ground on one side of the pond to
the other. From either end a game-trail led upward along the shore, no longer
following immemorial paths over the bog, which was submerged with all its splendor
of color, but making a new and rougher way through the black growth. When I
followed one of these trails it led me completely around the pond, going confidently till
it neared the salt-lick, where it halted, wavered and trickled out in aimless wanderings.
There, where once the ground was trodden smooth by many feet, was now no ground
to be seen. The precious spring, over which a thousand generations of deer had
lingered, had vanished in a dull waste of water. Twice I watched the place from early
morning till owls began to cry the twilight; in that time only a few animals appeared,
singly, at long intervals; and after wandering about as if [302]seeking something and
finding it not, they disappeared in the dusky woods.
And so I went away, looking for the last time sadly on the little pond, as upon a place
one has owned and loved, but which has passed into other hands. Though the wild
ducks still breed or gather there, it is no longer the same. There is no restful spot from
which to watch the waters dance with the wind, or frown at the cloud, or smile at the
sunshine; the little larches are all dead beside their ancestors; the carpet of colored
moss is but a memory. When the beavers go to pioneer a remoter spot, I shall break
their dam and let the water return to its ancient level. Then, if happily I live long
enough for another fringe of larches to grow, and another mossy rug to crimson under
the waning sun, perhaps it will be my pond once more.
THE END
[Contents]
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