It is a most interesting sight when it comes at last, and well repays
the watching. The water is pouring through a five-foot break in the
dam; the roof of a house is in ruins. You have rubbed yourself all
over with fir boughs, to destroy some of the scent in your clothes,
and hidden yourself in the top of a fallen tree. The twilight goes;
the moon wheels over the eastern spruces, flooding the river with
silver light. Still no sign of life. You are beginning to think of
another disappointment; to think your toes cannot stand the cold
another minute without stamping, which would spoil everything, when a
ripple shoots swiftly across the pool, and a big beaver comes out on
the bank. He sits up a moment, looking, listening; then goes to the
broken house and sits up again, looking it all over, estimating
damages, making plans. There is a commotion in the water; three others
join him--you are warm now.
Meanwhile three or four more are swimming about the dam, surveying the
damage there. One dives to the bottom, but comes up in a moment to
report all safe below. Another is tugging at a thick pole just below
you. Slowly he tows it out in front, balances a moment and lets it
go--_good!_--squarely across the break. Two others are cutting alders
above; and here come the bushes floating down.
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