Part 2

Just as we emerged from the woods we saw on the shore of Otter Pond, quietly browsing and about seventy-five yards away, a big buck deer having five prongs on each horn.

"Gosh!" said Bige.

We looked at him some minutes before he discovered our presence and loped off into the woods. It was as fine a shot as we shall ever have if we hunt the balance of our lives, but our guns were a mile away.

While paddling across the pond and near an island we heard a squeaking sound such as a lot of mice might make. Stopping the boat to listen, we soon saw, on a partly sunken log, six young mink. They were about the size of kittens when a week old. We sat quietly watching them a few minutes, when the mother mink came to the surface with a trout about five inches long in her mouth. She swam to the log and laid the fish on it, when the little ones scrambled for it, tearing it into shreds in a jiffy. They fought over the last scrap while the mother mink dove under the water again, and we continued across the pond to the beaver house which was on the opposite shore.

This beaver house was made of sticks of wood of varying size fastened together by mud. It was cone-shaped and placed on the bank with one edge in the water. It was about fifteen feet in diameter at the base and seven feet high at the center. There were five separate canals or ditches sunk below the bottom of the pond, all entering the house under its base and about four feet below the surface of the water. These allowed the beaver entrance and exit when the ice was very thick in winter.

We stopped our boat alongside, pounded on the roof with the paddle and waited for a response. We heard a murmur of beaver talk inside, and in two or three minutes there came a sudden splash directly behind us and a shower of water poured over my head and down the back of my neck. The grandfather beaver, the largest of his tribe, had come out through one of the cellar passages, under the boat, had come to the surface behind us, had lifted his tail, which was as broad and flat as Bige's paddle, and slapped the water with it, throwing spray at least six feet into the air. When I caught sight of him he was in the act of diving, but he presently came to the surface again, about fifty feet away, and started swimming toward the opposite shore. I wanted his portrait for my collection, so we went paddling after him. Five or six times we got near enough to focus the camera on him and press the button at just the instant when he slapped the water and dove under. The result was a half-dozen pictures of fountains but no beaver.

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.

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.

This was a show worth the price of admission, and we sat and watched it for fully ten minutes, when a shifting breeze apparently carried our scent to the mother, who instantly sounded a note of warning, and the family party quickly disappeared through the brush into the tall timber, and we paddled back across Cherry Pond to our breakfast of flapjacks, syrup, and onions.

As we approached the landing place it occurred to me that the hammer of my gun was still up, and that the gun had not been lifted from my knees during the entire performance. As I let the hammer down and removed the cartridge from the barrel, I was conscious of a sense of relief that nothing had occurred to disturb the pleasant relations of the happy family.

After breakfast I went over on the Wolf Mountain tote road and shot four fine fat partridges. That night we had roast partridge for dinner. Have you ever eaten partridge that had been roasted in a Dutch oven before a camp fire? Well, say! "Jes take and have 'em stuffed with onions, baste 'em well, and roast 'em brown with a lot of gravy."

END OF CAMPING AT CHERRY POND