Chapter II

THE INDUSTRIOUS BEAVER.

The part played by some of the different species in the animal world (sic), in the development of our earth and its resources, cannot be over-estimated. In some parts of America, for instance, the persistent industry of beavers in the construction of dams has rendered fertile whole tracts of prairie land that were once arid and barren.

In the Castoridae, together with the squirrels, the beaver family constitute the group termed Sciuromorpha, a group distinguished by its members having a special type of lower jaw structure, and also the same type of skull structure. The powerful incisor teeth of the beaver are admirably suited to the cutting through of small tree stems, of branches and twigs, whilst its flat and scaly tail serves as a rudder to a creature that always makes its home beside or in the midst of water.

The beaver is as much noted for its sagacity, and for what nowadays we call "faculty," as it is prized for its fur. One of the largest of the rodents, its body measures nearly three and a half feet in length, not taking the tail into consideration, which is eleven to twelve inches in length.

An attempt has been made to acclimatise the beaver in England again. That it once bred in our country is proved by the fact that some fossil remains of the animal have been obtained from the crag deposits in Norfolk and Suffolk. These were, however, declared by Professor Owen to have belonged to a much larger species of beaver than is now known. Sir Edmund Loder has a number of the common species established in a little valley stream in his estate, Leonard's Lea, near Horsham, carefully protected, which are said to be thriving, and Lord Bute had a still larger number established in Scotland; but it is not likely that they will ever be at home in our country again. Whilst badgers and others have had so much difficulty in holding their own, it is not likely that the beaver could breed and thrive unmolested. Whilst writing the present article, I have heard from Lord Bute that the last of his beavers died some time ago.

In other parts of Europe it is found now only in small numbers, on the banks of the Danube, the Rhone, and the Weser. In the northern districts of Canada it is very numerous. Its range in America is from the confluence of the Ohio and the Mississippi to the banks of the Mackenzie River. At one time the demand for the fur—greatly in vogue in those days for men's hats—was so large that it was feared this clever little creature might become extinct, and the noted furriers of the Hudson Bay Company took measures, in concert with certain Indian tribes, for its protection, whilst still procuring large quantities of its fur.

The most interesting feature in the natural history of the beaver is their amazing skill in the construction of their dams and the dwellings they make for themselves—"lodges," these are called. They are often constructed in small rivers and creeks where the water is apt to be drained off, when the supplies are dried up by winter frost. I spent some time in Colorado near to a part of the Rockies where beavers abounded, and where they were a never-failing source of interest to the young folks in my friend's family. In Montana also they abound in vast numbers. One of its counties is named Beaver Head.

What we—in our ignorance of the inner life of those creatures who have always shared the rich heritage of this world with ourselves—term instinct, has taught the beavers to provide against drought, and to keep up a certain necessary depth of water, by making a dam right across these smaller rivers just at what they know to be a convenient distance from their houses. The manner in which they construct this depends on the locality where they live. If the current is not strong—if there is only a slight motion of the water—the dam is made almost straight; but in proportion as the stream is a rapid one, the dam must be more curved, presenting its convex side towards the current. Where beavers have been allowed to build for a long period undisturbed, their dams become in time, through the persistent industry with which they repair them, a bank so solid that it resists quite a strong on-rush of water or even of ice. Vegetation plants itself on this—willows, birches, and poplar-trees take root. Sometimes so large a thicket is formed that birds build there, and the whole makes a charming colony of happy and busy life. The dams are built in some rivers of trees which are often five or six inches in diameter. These the beaver cuts down with his wonderful sharp incisor teeth.

In lakes and ponds also the beavers have their habitat. They like much the narrow creeks which so often connect the lakes of North America. The currents help them to convey the wood and other materials to their dwellings. A certain depth of water is, of course, necessary for their purpose. Driftwood is utilised by them in building, as well as the green boughs of willows, birches, and poplars. But mud and stones are used also, welded all firmly together, and the different parts of the dam must, of course, be of equal strength. In the same manner, that is, of the same materials, they construct their dwellings, but they are not built with equal care; their construction is rougher than that of the dams. The only thing essential in the work is that they should be made watertight, so that they may have dry sleeping-quarters. Sometimes a house is just big enough for one family, but larger dwellings are also made, such as will house a great number of animals. When this is the case, each family has its own apartment, with a separate door communicating only with the water, never with the home of any other family. The wood is laid crosswise, nearly horizontal, leaving a cavity in the centre. The smaller branches, that project uselessly, are cut off with the teeth, and they are thrown in with the rest to form a good safeguard against any falling in of the mud through the roof.

Once it was believed that the woodwork was first finished, and that then it was plastered, the tail being used as a trowel for this purpose. But this was a popular error. The tail is used as a rudder, and like that of a dog, is a vehicle for emotion. It is flapped even when a beaver has been tamed and domesticated, especially when the creature is startled. They have a very pretty way of carrying mud and stones in their little fore-paws, holding them close up under the throat. The wood naturally is dragged along, held in the teeth. All their work is done in the night-time, a charming sight for a lover of animals, if he can quietly remain concealed near enough for observation on a clear calm night.

A wonderful instinct, so-called, again prompts the beavers to cover their houses each autumn with fresh mud—as late in the season as they can manage it—so that it may freeze hard and keep them secure against their foe, the wolverine, a creature about the size of our common badger, which is much about during the winter. Wolverines are said to do more damage to the fur trade in smaller animals than all the other creatures of prey put together.

Their lodges are kept clean, their inhabitants always plunging into the water instead of polluting their sleeping quarters.

Sir John Richardson states that their main food consists of a large root, something like a cabbage stalk, which grows at the bottom of lakes and rivers, a yellow water-lily in fact—Nuphar luteum. But they eat also the bark of trees—that of the poplar, birch and willow. The latter, however, they cannot procure in winter, when the ice prevents their getting to land, so that roots are then their staple food. In summer the diet is varied by the different kinds of herbage and the berries growing near their haunts. In the part of Colorado I have already referred to, above what is called Hardscrabble Creek, in Fremont County, wild fruits, gooseberries, currants, raspberries, and other berries are in profusion. When the ice breaks up in the spring, the beavers always leave their homes to roam about until the approaching fall of the leaf makes them return; and after laying in their winter stock of wood, they then set to work to repair their homes.

The Indians consider beaver flesh a delicacy, and they prefer to bake it with the skin on, as our gipsies roast the hedgehog. It is a heavy meat, much like pork, hard to digest.

The author already mentioned tamed several of them, and he got them to answer to their names and to follow him about like dogs. They were, he said, very fond of being petted and fondled, creeping into the laps of the Indian women and standing on their hind legs to be caressed. They lived indoors with the women and children during the winter, and if these were absent for any length of time, the beavers quite fretted after them. So domesticated did they become that they particularly enjoyed rice and plum pudding, and, indeed, shared generally the food of the women. The cry of a beaver cub is very like that of an infant.

The American poet, Whittier, says—

The musk-rat is a small kind of beaver, and great numbers of the skins are imported into England. It constructs huts like its larger relative but of a simpler style, the openings to them being under the water. There is also an animal nearly as large as a common beaver which was included in the same family, and called a coypu, inhabiting the rivers and streams of South America. Furs of coypu are sold as otter skins.

"Ask now the beasts and they shall teach thee," and from the beaver and its works we can indeed learn what persistent, cheerful industry can accomplish. Our poet, Coleridge, said, "If the idle are described as killing time, the methodical man may be justly said to call it into life and moral being, while he makes it the distinct object not only of the consciousness, but of the conscience." Perhaps the latter part of this sentence may seem obscure to some of you, my readers. To kill time means evidently to lose all count of it, to be "unmindful of the fleeting hours." But if the conscience is roused, and we are imbued with a sense of our responsibility with regard to every day, every hour we live, each hour becomes instinct with possibilities, with the opportunity and power of developing the gifts that we have, the talents entrusted to us, not only with a view to self-improvement and personal enrichment, but with an eye on the Master and His work. "Fellow-workers with Christ" in the redemption of this world,—how great a calling!

The beaver's little paws seem so small; yet by pawful after pawful of earth brought by these small animals, who are working in friendly co-operation with their fellows, great dams that can stem an advancing flood are constructed.

I once heard a story of a poor and not over-wise—as the world counts wisdom—Highlander. I think he was a shepherd, he lived where there were only a few huts widely scattered over the bleak hillsides, and no church was within the reach of the inhabitants of these. God's Spirit moved strongly in the lonely heart, and he determined that a place of worship should be built. Every time he came home to his cot, he brought as many stones as he could collect whilst out, and he placed them in a heap not far from his own door. Those who knew him and who passed that way jeered and laughed at what the simple, loving fellow called his church building.

The heap grew, though very slowly; for many years the shepherd's work went on, that work which was called by the neighbours his "folly." But one day a rich stranger travelling by that lonely and unused way noticed the heap and asked what it meant. On hearing its history, his heart was warmed by the flame of love in that of the poor cotter, and he caused a good building—where divine service was soon held weekly—to be placed on the spot, using up in it, let us hope, those stones which were truly its foundation.

I know, myself, a lovely church, not far from Ehrenbreitstein on the Rhine, which was built only from stones brought by loving hands to ground chosen by the village pastor. The building took very many years, but it stands there now complete, a monument of the free-will offerings and labour of poor working folks.

We do not all need to think of building churches, but the stories are typical. We are all either building, or—awful thought—pulling down the good work of others. As the Book says, "Every wise woman buildeth her house, but the foolish plucketh it down with her hands."

Our power to work increases by use. Many of the world's greatest books have been written by busy men. How often, too, one hears it said that if you want anything special done you must ask a busy man or woman to do it. That barren fig-tree to which our Lord directed the attention of His followers is a by-word and a proverb for all ages. Persistent industry it is that meets with the reward. An abiding sense of duty we need.

Yet all of us have our times of depression, of weakness, and days when aspiration and hope seem dead within us. Then let us try to cast ourselves on Him whose joy, "the joy of the Lord," may become our strength. One of our poets says—

It is these two last lines I would beg you to take to heart.

Huber, the distinguished naturalist of Geneva, who wrote so much and so finely on bees, was blind from the age of seventeen; yet he had a passion for the study of animal and especially of insect life, a study one would suppose quite out of the reach of the blind. He had a good and devoted wife, who never wearied in promoting his well-being and their joint happiness. Through her eyes he studied and succeeded in mastering a department in natural history which needs the clearest and keenest eyesight. And not only did he write a great work, which is still referred to as a masterpiece of its kind, and is still constantly quoted, but what the wife's eyes saw and transferred to his brain became his very own, to dwell upon, to draw deductions from, to gather to himself a fund of personal happiness, to give forth again to the world enriched by his thoughts—his life made a happiness and a blessing to himself and others—all through the unwearying industry and persevering efforts of a loving woman who effaced herself, apparently, for the sake of her husband and his life's work. "Who would lose his life shall find it."

A last word. The sovereign remedy for doubt and perplexity is, "Doe the next thynge."

(To be continued.)