The well built house
that sheltered him from storm and cold, and defied even the wolverine
to dig its owner out, is deserted for any otter's den or chance hole
in the bank where he may sleep away the sunlight in peace. The great
dam, upon which he toiled so many nights, is left to the mercy of the
freshet or the canoeman's axe; and no plash of falling water through a
break--that sound which in autumn or winter brings the beaver like a
flash--will trouble his wise little head for a moment.
All the long summer he belongs to the tribe of Ishmael, wandering
through lakes and streams wherever fancy leads him. It is as if he
were bound to see the world after being cooped up in his narrow
quarters all winter. Even the strong family ties, one of the most
characteristic and interesting things in beaver life, are for the time
loosened. Every family group when it breaks up housekeeping in the
spring represents five generations. First, there are the two old
beavers, heads of the family and absolute rulers, who first engineered
the big dam and houses, and have directed repairs for nobody knows how
long. Next in importance are the baby beavers, no bigger than
musquashes, with fur like silk velvet, and eyes always wide open at
the wonders of the first season out; then the one-and two-year-olds,
frisky as boys let loose from school, always in mischief and having to
be looked after, and occasionally nipped; then the three-year-olds,
who presently leave the group and go their separate happy ways in
search of mates.
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