On a Wayward Waddle Through the White Willows:Book One

Meaning of "waddle" in the English dictionary

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For this was in May, called by the Indians the Month of Flowers. Gitchie Meegwon,[ 1 ] the Big Feather—for such was the Indian's name—belonged to the Ojibway nation;[ 2 ] he had paddled against the strong current of the Yellow Birch river for many days, and was now far from his village. Steadily, day after day, he had forged ahead, sometimes moving along easily on smooth water as he was now doing, at other times poling up rough rapids, forcing his frail canoe up the rushing, foaming water and between jagged, dangerous rocks with a skill that few white men and not all Indians learn.

This morning his way was barred by a water-fall, wild and beautiful, higher than the tallest pine trees, where the sun made a rainbow in the dashing white spray at the foot of it. Here he landed, just beyond the reach of the angry, hungry-looking whirlpool that tried very hard to pull his canoe in under the thundering falls.

Picking up the canoe, he carried it, upside down on his shoulders, over a dim portage trail between the giant whispering trees, a trail hundreds of years old, and on which the sun never shone, so shaded was it. He made a second trip with his light outfit, loaded his canoe, and out in the brightness and the calm water above the falls continued his journey.

He glanced sharply about, as the bends in the river opened up before him, and saw many things that would have escaped the eyes of anyone but a hunter: Here and there deer leaped hastily away towards the woods, whistling loudly through their nostrils as they bounded like red rocking-horses through the forest, their tails flashing like white, swaying banners between the trees.

Once he came upon a great moose, as big as any horse, who stood chest deep in the river, his head buried under the surface while he dug for lily roots on the bottom. As Big Feather paused to look at the moose, who, busy with his task, had not heard him, the huge creature raised his head with a mighty splurge and stood there staring in surprise, while the water poured in streams from his face and neck. Then he turned and plunged ashore and soon was gone, though the heavy thudding of his hoofs and the sharp crack of breaking limbs and small trees could still be heard for a minute or two as he galloped crashing through the woods.

Even with all this company, Gitchie Meegwon was a little lonely, for back at the village, now so far away, he had left his two young children, a girl and a boy. Their mother had died, and though the women of the village were kind to them, they missed their mother very much, and he knew they must be lonesome too, as he was. The three of them were great friends and were seldom parted, and every place he went their father always took them. But this time he was alone, as this was likely to be a dangerous journey, for he expected to have trouble with some poachers before it was finished.

Gitchie Meegwon had built a fine log cabin for his small family, for a summer home, and there they had been happy and comfortable together, resting after the hard winter's hunt, when word had been brought in by a friendly Cree Indian that a band of half-breeds from down near the settled country had invaded the region, and were killing all the beaver as they went through it in large parties. The real bush Indians do not hunt on each other's trapping-grounds, considering such behaviour to be stealing, but these town-bred half-breeds had given up or forgotten the old ways, and were liable to clean out every trapping-ground as they came to it.

And without fur with which to buy provisions at the trading post, Big Feather's family would go hungry. So now he was up here, deep into his Winter hunting-ground, to protect it from these strangers. But he had seen none of them nor any sign of them, and the weather being now warm, and fur-animals no longer worth stealing, he felt that his work was done, and to-morrow he intended to turn back for home.

With these pleasant thoughts in mind, he was passing along close to the river bank, watching for any tracks there might be left by the careless half-breeds, when all at once he smelt a strong, sharp scent upon the air—some beast, or perhaps a man, had passed near by and crushed the spicy-smelling leaves of a mint plant. Instantly on the alert, he glanced quickly at the bank, when suddenly a short, dark, heavily-built animal sprang out into the river right in front of his canoe and sank like a stone, out of sight.

Almost immediately a black head and a brown, furry back came floating up a short distance away, and the creature swam rapidly round the canoe until, cleverly getting to a spot where the wind was from the Indian to himself, he caught the man-scent, that all the Forest People fear so much. Down came his wide, flat tail on the water with a terrific splash, the water flying in all directions as he dived like a flash, this time for good.

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Big Feather shook a few drops from the sleeve of his leather shirt, and smiled; this was very much what he had wanted to see. It had been a beaver. And before the echo of the beaver's alarm signal had died away, there came another from around the next bend, sharp and loud, almost like a gun-shot.

There were two of them. The Indian smiled again, for now he began to feel sure that no one had hunted here. These beaver would have been only too easy to catch; if these careless fellows, who allowed him to get so close to them, right on a main highway so to speak, had not been captured, the rest of them must all be safe. Still, to make certain, he decided to visit their home, where there should be others.

Their house would not be hard to find, as beaver, when on their travels, cut small green saplings of alder, poplar and willow here and there, eating the bark off them, and these peeled sticks show white and shiny every place they land, so one has only to follow from one to another of these feeding-places to discover where they live. Very soon the Indian came to where a little stream ran down into the river, and at its mouth he found what he expected—a number of these slim, shining sticks, remains of a beaver's meal. No doubt their house would be somewhere up the little stream, in some quiet spot such as beaver love to be in.

The beavers had eaten at the edge of a nice open point where a few giant pine trees stood about, as though they had wandered out from the forest and could not get back again. Here Gitchie Meegwon made a small fire and had his own noon meal. Indians drink a good deal of tea on their travels, so, leaning a slim pole over the cheerful blaze, he hung his tea-pail on one end of it to boil, the other end being stuck firmly into the ground to hold it in position; he arranged strips of deer-meat on sharp forked sticks before the hot coals, and under them placed slices of Indian bread, or bannock as it is called, to catch the delicious gravy that fell from the meat as it cooked.

After he had eaten he smoked quietly for a little time, listening to the humming of the breeze in the wide, fan-shaped boughs of the pines. Very like music it sounded to him, as he leaned back contentedly and watched the lazy smoke wafting this way and that, as it made strange patterns in the air. For these things were his pictures and his music, all he ever had, and he enjoyed them perhaps as much as you do your movies and your radio.

Soon, after covering his small outfit with the overturned canoe, he took his long-barrelled trade-gun and started up beside the brook, on his way to the beaver pond that he knew must be at the head of it. His moccasins made no sound, and left no track, as he walked softly in the quietness and calm of the sleepy forest, while squirrels shrilled and chattered at him from the boughs, and whisky-jacks, those knowing, cheerful camp birds to be seen nearly everywhere in the woods, followed him from tree to tree, sometimes getting ahead of him to peer wisely and whistle at him as he passed.

He enjoyed the company these small creatures gave to him, and took his time and walked quite leisurely along, when suddenly he stopped, listening. His keen ears had caught a strange, unexpected sound, which quickly became louder and louder and was all at once a roar—and then he saw, coming swiftly down the creek-bed towards him, a rush of yellow, muddy water, bringing with it a mass of sticks and litter which filled the banks to the very top and went pouring by in a wild, swirling torrent.

Something terrible was happening up at the beaver pond! It could be only one thing: In a moment, rifle in hand, Big Feather was leaping and tearing his way through the forest that had but a moment before been so pleasant, and seemed now so dark and threatening. Forward he raced at top speed, running on swift, moccasined feet to save his beaver colony from destruction, springing high over logs, smashing his way through windfalls and branches and tangled under-brush, leaving the squirrels and the camp birds far behind him, bounding like a deer through the shadowy woods towards the pond, hoping he would be in time.

Well did he know what had happened. Negik, the otter, bitter and deadly enemy of all the Beaver People, was on the war-path, and the beaver, their water gone, must even now be fighting for their lives. Had we walked up beside that bustling little creek while Gitchie Meegwon was making his dinner, instead of waiting to watch him as we did, we would have arrived at the beavers' home before the otter broke the dam, and have seen what it was like up there and how the beavers lived.

We would, after a rather long walk, have come out quite suddenly on the shore of a small, deep pond. Right across the front of this pond, and blocking the bed of the stream that came out of it, was a thick, high wall of sticks and brush. It was all very tightly woven, and the chinks were filled with moss and the whole business well cemented with mud. Along the top of it a number of heavy stones had been placed to keep it solid. It was nearly one hundred feet long and more than four feet high, and the water flowed over the top of it through a narrow trough of sticks, so that the stream was wearing away at it in only this one spot, where it could be easily controlled.

So well had it been made that it looked exactly as if a gang of men had been working at it—but it was animals, not men, that had built it. This wall, which was really a dam, seemed as if it were holding the lake in place: The pond was bright with sunshine; very silent and peaceful it was, back there among the Hills of the Whispering Leaves, and so calm, that the few ducks dozing quietly upon its waters seemed almost to be floating on air, and the slim white poplar trees that stood upon its banks were reflected so plainly on its smooth surface, that it was hard to tell where the water stopped and the trees began.

It was very beautiful, like a fairy-land, with its silver poplars and May flowers and blue water. And it was very still, for nothing moved there, and it seemed quite lifeless except for the sleeping ducks. Yet, had you watched patiently for a little while, being careful not to move or talk, or even whisper, you would have seen, before very long, a ripple on the water near the shore as a dark brown head, with round ears that showed very plainly, peered cautiously out from the rushes at the water's edge, and watched and listened and sniffed. The head was followed by a furry body, as its owner now came out in full sight and swam rapidly, but without a sound, to another place on the far shore, there to disappear among the reeds.

The tall reeds swayed and shook for a minute as he worked there, and then he reappeared, this time holding before him a large bundle of grass, and swam over towards an enormous black mound of earth that we had been wondering about all this time, and dived, bundle and all, right in front of it. He had scarcely disappeared before another head, with another bundle, could be seen swimming from a different direction when—somebody moved, and with no warning at all, a huge flat tail came down on the water with a heavy smack, and with a mighty splash and a plunge the head and its bundle were gone.

Now, this was exactly what had happened to Big Feather, down on the river that morning, and for the same reason. For that great mound, taller than any of us, before which the swimmers had dived, was a beaver house, and the dark brown, furry heads were those of the Beaver People themselves. And they had been very busy.

The lodge had been built up to more than six feet in height, and was a good ten feet across. It had lately been well plastered with wet mud, and heavy billets of wood had been laid on the slopes of it to hold everything firmly in place. It all looked very strong and safe-looking, like a fortress, and even a moose could have walked around on top of it without doing it a bit of harm.

Up the side of it there was a wide pathway, on which the building materials were carried, and had you been more patient or careful awhile ago, or perhaps had the wind not played a trick on you and given you away to those keen noses, you might have seen old father beaver dig out a load of earth from the shore, go with it to the house, swimming slowly and carefully so as not to lose any, and then, standing upright like a man, walk to the top of the roof with the load in his arms and there dump it, pushing it into nooks and crannies with his hands, and shoving a good-sized stick in after it to keep it there.

And all this work had been done with a purpose. It was a very important time, this Month of Flowers, for inside that queer-looking home, hidden away from the eyes of all the world, were four tiny little kitten beavers. Woolly little fellows they were, perfectly formed, with bright black eyes, big webbed hind feet, little hand-like fore-paws and tiny, flat, rubbery-looking tails. They had marvellous appetites, and their lungs must have been very good too, for they were the noisiest little creatures imaginable, and cried continuously in long, loud wails that were very much like the cries of small human babies: Interior of beaver house.

The living-room, or chamber. Lower level for drying off, draining into plunge-hole, at D. Tunnel leading out into deep water. Side, or emergency entrance, also used in discarding old bedding and used sticks. Spillway, for regulating overflow, and maintaining correct water level. L, L, and L, I. Trees felled, and partly felled by beaver. Greatest portion under water, below the reach of ice. Beaver runway, or hauling trail, used for removing required portions of tree, cut down by beaver, and marked L, I.

Original stream resuming its course. Stream running into pond, passing out at K. Bottom of pond has been dug out below the feed raft and in front of the dam, so as to obtain a greater depth of water. The materials thus obtained are used in the construction of the dam and house. Former dry land, now under water on account of dam. Without the dam there would be no pond, only the stream. The hind feet only are used in swimming, the front paws being used as hands, for working and picking up objects, or as feet for walking. Beaver do a considerable amount of walking on their hind feet, marching along slowly but very steadily; all loads consisting of earth, mud, or other loose materials, are carried in the arms, the beaver walking upright, like a man.

The heavier sticks are drawn by means of the teeth, on all fours. In the water the tall is used as a rudder, sometimes as an oar, and for signalling by splashing on the water.

Synonyms and antonyms of waddle in the English dictionary of synonyms

This slapping sound is varied slightly, according to whether it is intended for an alarm signal, or as an indication of the owner's whereabouts. The kittens sometimes take a ride on their parents' tails. The living-room, or chamber, inside the lodge, was large enough for a man to have curled up in it with ease, and was very clean and sweet smelling, with its floor of willow bark and bed of scented grasses.

The entrance was through a short, slanting tunnel, one end of which, called the plunge-hole, was in the floor, and the other end came out below, near the bottom of the lake. The dam held the pond up to a level nearly even with the floor, keeping the plunge-hole always full, so that the tiny kittens, who were a little wobbly on their legs as yet, could drink there without falling into it; or if they did which happened rather regularly , they could climb out again quite easily. The whole tunnel and the outer doorway were under water, so that no land animals could enter, or even see it, unless they were first-class divers, which most of them are not.

But if the dam should break and let the saved-up water out, the beaver would be in grave danger, as not only could their enemies, such as wolves and foxes, find their way into the house, but the beaver would be unable to protect or hide themselves by diving suddenly out of sight, as you saw them do a little while ago.

If you look at the sketch you can see how it was all arranged, and will be able to realize how very important this dam was, and why the father spent so much of his time watching it and fixing any small leaks that appeared. He had, too, a pretty steady job keeping the trough, which you might call a regulator, clear of rubbish, so that the water could flow freely and not become too high, and so flood the house, but was always at exactly the right level. Between whiles, both he and the mother attended to their babies' every want, changing their bedding every so often, bringing in small sprays of tender leaves for them to eat, combing and brushing their wool you could hardly call it fur , while they made queer, soft sounds of affection and talked to them in that strange beaver language that, at a little distance, sounds almost as though human people were speaking together in low voices.

And the shrill wailing cries of the little ones, and their chattering, and their little squawks and squeals, could be heard even through the thick walls of the lodge, so noisy were they when they were hungry, or pleased or in some small trouble, which, one way and another, was pretty nearly all the time. And when either their father or their mother returned they were never away together; one or the other was always on guard from a trip to the so-important dam, or brought in new bedding of sweet-grass, he or she would give a low, crooning sound of greeting, to be immediately answered by a very bedlam of loud shouts of welcome from the youngsters, that went on long after it was at all necessary.

They were never still unless they were asleep, and were continually scrambling around, and tussling together, and clambering over everything, and by the noise they made, seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely. And altogether they were pretty much like any other family, and were very snug and happy in their home. The little ones were now old enough to try their hand at swimming in the plunge-hole, though at present this exercise consisted mostly in lying on top of the water, not always right side up, and going round and round in circles, screeching with excitement.

And being so very light, and their fluffy coats containing so much air, they could not seem to sink deep enough for their webbed hind feet to get a grip on the water both at the same time, so they swam with first one foot and then the other, rolling from side to side and bobbing up and down, squirming and squealing and wriggling, while their parents passed anxiously around amongst them, giving them encouragement, or perhaps advice, in their deep, strong voices. From what I have seen of such goings on, it must have been rather a troublesome time for the old folks, this business of learning to swim, but the youngsters seemed to be having a good time, which, as you will agree, is, after all, something to be considered.

But they would soon become tired, and climbing out on to the drying-off place a little lower than the rest of the floor, so the water would soak away and not run all over the beds , every little beaver carefully squeezed, rubbed and scrubbed the water from his coat on the front, sides, back, every place he could reach, sitting upright and working very industriously, puffing and blowing like most of us do after a swim.

Then, when this was all over and everybody was dry, or thought he was some of them would topple over once in a while and made rather a poor job of it , the call for lunch would go up in a loud chorus, and the new green leaflets and water plants that had been provided ahead of time with the idea, no doubt, of putting a stop to the uproar as soon as possible , would be divided up, and pretty soon all the busy little jaws would be munching away, and the piercing cries died down to mumbles and little mutterings of contentment. And soon the little voices became quiet and the small black eyes closed, while they lay cuddled together on their sweet-smelling, grassy bed, with their tiny fore-paws, so much like hands, clutched tightly in each other's fur.

This would be their daily programme until, after perhaps three weeks, would come that glorious day when they would venture down the long, dim tunnel out into the brightness of the great unknown world that was all about them, but which they had never seen. And while they slept the old ones stood watch and guard, turn about, and took turns to inspect the defences of their castle and the dam on which their very lives depended, and kept a weather eye out for enemies, and collected food and bedding for when the babies should awaken, and carried on at the hundred and one jobs that make father and mother beaver a very busy pair of people during the latter part of May, the Month of Flowers.

Our four young heroes, or heroines, or both, had just arrived at that thrilling stage of the proceedings when they could at last dive without bobbing up immediately, tail first, like a rubber ball, and could swim around on the surface for quite a respectable distance without calling loudly for help, when one day at noon, at the very time when we had been watching Gitchie Meegwon at his dinner, the father noticed that the water in the entrance was sinking. He watched it for a moment; the mother heard it too, heard it gurgling and came to look—the water was going down, swirling into the tunnel—was gone!

Into the empty plunge-hole, one after another tumbled the two big beaver. There was no time to be lost. They were losing their precious water, the water upon which the lives of their little ones so much depended! Their home was open now to all the world; it might mean the death of all of them. The four kittens, terrified, realizing that something fearful was wrong, but too young to know just what it might be, crept close together, whimpering, while their alarmed parents tore through what was left of the water, towards the dam.

They found a hole, nearly as big as a barrel, right at the deepest part of it, where it would quickly drain the lake to the very bottom. Madly the beaver began to work, pulling down sticks from anywhere, tearing out great armfuls of earth from the marshy shore, slashing off limbs from fallen trees with their razor-sharp teeth, rolling stones into the hole and shoving grass and brush in between them, digging up mud and pushing it before them into the break, where the suction of the now rapidly falling water held it plastered tight against the stick and stones and brush.

But the pond had been too small for so big a leak, and water was not coming in from the tiny stream that fed it, nearly as fast as it was going out. Despair seized on the beaver as they worked don't let anyone ever tell you that animals cannot feel despair! Beaver are slow walkers, and what had once been a short, easy swim had now become a slow, awkward scramble through slippery mud and over rocks and tangled, fallen water-plants and weeds.

Precious minutes would pass before they would have staggered, and crawled, and dragged their way to that dark mound that now seemed so far away. Anything could catch them. If a bear or a wolf should pass and see them they would have no chance; the Beaver People were defenceless now, for they were never made to fight, only to work. Gitchie Meegwon, run your fastest; your Little Brothers need you badly, need you now! Soon, any minute, he should be here——. Across the muddy bottom of the empty pond the two big beavers struggled slowly, painfully and pitifully on their short and weary legs towards their unprotected home and babies, while—within the lodge, huddled together, their tiny hands clutched tightly in each other's woolly fur, four helpless little kitten beavers stared in terror at a sleek, black monster with a flat, evil head, that crept slowly through the entrance towards them, his teeth bared, hissing like a snake as he came.

Negik[ 1 ] the Otter, the hungry, the cruel and the sly, having broken the dam and so drained the pond, could now get what he had come for—kitten beaver meat! Now was his time. His snaky body blocked the plunge-hole; there seemed to be no escape. He gathered his legs beneath him, ready to spring. Just then Gitchie Meegwon, breathless, his shirt off, his gun ready, burst through the reeds beside the dam, and leaping from rock to rock, made for the beaver house.

Translation of «waddle» into 25 languages

But in his eagerness, so greedy he was, he tried to seize them all at once, and the little beavers, quick as so many coiled springs, threw themselves sideways in the way that beaver have, and scattered before him as he came. Aiming at no particular one, he missed them all, nearly stunning himself against the wall of the lodge with the force of his leap. This confused him for a second, and the kittens rushed past him through the entrance, now no longer blocked by his body. The otter, roused to ferocious anger by his failure, and knowing very well that he could catch them one by one outside, was about to turn in pursuit, when the doorway was again darkened.

That was all the warning he had.

The next moment he was fighting for his life with the two big beavers. They had arrived only just in time; and they, usually so playful and good-natured, would fight to the death in defence of their young ones. The otter was quicker on his feet and fiercer than they were, and could lock his jaws like a vice once he had bitten in, like a bull-dog; but a beaver's hide is tough, and their chisel-shaped teeth, that could hew down big trees and had never before been used to do harm to anyone, now slashed through skin and muscle, inches deep. They held on with their hands and drove their razor-edged cutting-teeth in deeper and deeper.

The otter fought hard, for he was no coward, trying for his favourite hold on a beaver's nose and mouth, so as to prevent at least one of them from using his teeth. But he had all he could do to defend his own throat, at which the beavers were aiming. He twisted and turned like a great hairy lizard, lashing out right and left with his snaky head, hissing, snapping, and snarling. The beaver held on in deadly silence, while he dragged them here and there, and they drove their teeth in again and again. For here was an enemy, the worst one of them all, who must be got rid of somehow—anyhow.

Fighting fair with this evil beast was only a waste of time; the matter must be settled once and for all. Over and over they fought and wrestled and rolled, until they rolled right out through the plunge-hole, a squirming, tangled mixture of legs, tails and glistening teeth, almost at the feet of Gitchie Meegwon, whose last flying jump from one rock to another had brought him close beside the beaver house.

The sight of this new foe discouraged the otter completely, and with a violent effort he broke loose and in one leap was beyond the beavers' reach. Paying no attention to the Indian, they scrambled after the fleeing otter, but the slimy mud that held them back gave the otter just the kind of going that he needed, and he threw himself forward in the slippery ooze and slid twenty feet at one shot, took two or three jumps and another slide, and kept this up until he was at the dam, and over it, and away—for ever.

Big Feather, standing on a near-by rock, saw him go. Once he aimed his rifle at the otter, but thinking he had punishment enough he let him go. Anyway, everything was all right now, and water was beginning to collect again. A good-sized pool had already formed in the basin of the pond, getting larger all the time, and held there by the dam, which, as you remember, the beavers had repaired; and Big Feather was obliged to hurry back to shore before his rocks became covered again.

However, he was still a little anxious, as he had seen the young ones rush out, but had not seen them go back in. So he sat down on the shore, in a spot where he could be neither seen nor smelled, and watched the goings-on. Soon he saw the mother beaver commencing to collect her little ones, one at a time. Two of them had come out of hiding, and as she came for them in turn, each would mount upon her broad, flat tail, which trailed behind her like a short toboggan, and standing upright on it and holding onto his mother's fur with his hands to steady himself, would be dragged across the mud to the doorway.

And the little fellows would look around them as they rode on this queer conveyance, taking in all the sights, no doubt feeling mighty pleased with themselves. I think Big Feather got as much fun out of it as they did; he saw two of them taken home this way, and laughed to himself at the comical sight. And as he watched, he could not help feeling, somehow, that it was a great shame ever to kill such creatures, that worked so hard to protect their babies and their humble home and seemed to have such real affection for each other—almost like killing little people, he thought. He had never before seen such things as had happened here to-day, and he began to realize why some of the older Indians called the beaver Little Talking Brothers, and Beaver People.

Although he had neither food nor blanket, he made up his mind to stay all night in case the otter should return, or another one come, for they often travel in pairs. But none did, and when Gitchie Meegwon left next morning he saw that the pond had filled up completely, and was running over as before; the secret doorway was again hidden, and everything was in good order, and the same as it had ever been. That is, nearly everything. What he did not know was, that two of the kittens, scared almost out of their wits, had scrambled on and on through one of the long passage-ways that beaver often dig for various purposes under the muskeg,[ 1 ] and coming to the end of it had found themselves near the dam.

Trying to get as far away as they possibly could from that fierce monster, and hardly knowing or caring where they went, they had slipped over the dam unobserved. They had gone on down the now dry and empty stream-bed, hearing in their excited imagination the hissing breath of Negik close behind them. So real did this become to them, and so near did it seem to be at last, that they scrambled hastily under a hollow in the bank—and not a moment too soon.

For they were scarcely out of sight before the otter went hurrying by; they really had heard him. Fortunately, baby beavers, like the very young of many other animals, give out no scent, so that not even a fox, for all his sharp, inquisitive nose, could ever have found them except by accident. So Negik never knew they were there, and kept on putting as much ground between himself and the beaver pond as he could, after the beating he had got there. Too terrified now to move lest their enemy should return, the two mites clung together in their shelter, afraid to go ahead, afraid to turn back.

So they waited for their mother, who would be sure to look for them. But that lack of scent that had just now saved them from the otter, was to be their undoing. For their parents, searching frantically everywhere, could not trace them, and did not know they had even left the pond; and in their excitement and fear the kittens had not noticed how short a distance they had really come.

So, like two tiny lost children, they sat miserable and lonely in their little cave, listening for a deep, crooning voice that they loved, waiting, waiting for the big kind mother who had always comforted them in their small troubles and kept them warm with her brown, furry body, and had combed and scrubbed them so carefully every day. Surely she, or their father, who had played so gently with them and taught them how to swim, and had always brought them sweet-grass for their beds and sprays of tender leaves for them to eat—surely he would soon come for them!

But now there were no sweet-grasses, no juicy tender leaflets, only hard rocks and gritty sand; and no father, no mother came for them. And so they crouched together all the long night, shivering, hungry and afraid. Once a slim, dark creature, the shape of a weasel but much larger, peered in at them, and they waited, still as two mice, scarcely daring to breathe, while he sniffed loudly at the opening where they were hidden, and then passed on.

It had been a mink who, seeing two of them together, had feared to attack them. Later on they peered out cautiously from under the bank, but ducked back just in time to escape a great, grey shape that swooped down at them from above, an awful, ghostly creature with huge, staring yellow eyes, that missed them only by an inch or two and swooped up again, to sit on an overhanging branch, from where it stared and stared, and snapped its beak and gave loud, long screeches, and made a horrible chuckling sound.

Wap-aho,[ 2 ] the Laughing Owl of the woods, had spotted them and was waiting patiently for his chance. And every time they peeked out from their hiding-place, the dreadful yellow eyes were there, staring down at them. At daylight the owl was gone, and as the dam was full again and spilling over by now, the stream was running freely.

And on its flow they now set out to find their home. If they had only known how close it was! But the poor little heads were badly muddled now, and they were entirely lost. And, too small to swim against the current, they went the easiest way and floated with it, slipping down, down the stream, further and further away from their home, their parents and the tiny sisters[ 3 ] they had romped and played with so happily all their short lives. On they floated, weak and hungry for want of the leaves and plants they did not know how to look for; yet they felt a little safer now that they were in the water once again—drifting along on this fruitless journey that could have only one ending.

As the little stream began to reach the level of the Yellow Birch it flowed more slowly and became quieter and quieter, and they floated easily and smoothly upon its lazy waters. Once a deer, feeding in a shallows, looked up and saw them, watched them with his gentle eyes, his long ears pointed forward. Further on they met a hurrying muskrat, who gave them a sharp chitter of greeting and passed them by.

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Birds looked down on them and called to them from the tree-tops, far above; and the sun was warm and pleasant, and the world was very beautiful as they floated sleepily, dreamily along—to nowhere. And so they would go on, dreamy with hunger and weakness until, as sick little beavers do, they would fall asleep at last and never wake.

And then, as they floated out onto the broad, calm waters of the Yellow Birch, Gitchie Meegwon saw them. He had been back at his dinner place again, at the foot of the stream, and quietly launching his canoe he paddled softly over to them. They heard him, opened their eyes a little and saw him. Somehow they were not afraid, as he lifted them into the canoe by their tiny black tails.

Perhaps they didn't care any more, or maybe the big, watchful eye painted on the front of the canoe didn't look so sharp and fierce as it was intended to. Perhaps, too, they knew he wouldn't harm them; for animals, even very young ones, seem to know who is their friend. He handled them very gently, for they were very small and pitiful as he held them cupped in the hollow of his two hands. Their wee front paws were tucked up in feeble little fists,[ 4 ] as though to put up some kind of a little fight for their tiny lives; but the chubby heads were too heavy and drooped down, and their eyes were closed.

Big Feather knew they must be dying, and was sorry for them. For he was a kindly man, as hunters so often are, when they stop to think. He would try to save them. After all, he thought, he had made his living killing beaver for their fur, and it seemed only fair that in return he should do something for these two lost waifs that had drifted almost into his hands. On shore, he took from his provisions a can of milk, and making a thin mixture of some of it with water, poured a little in their mouths.

And as he held the small woolly bodies gently in his big brown hands, he could feel how flat and empty their little stomachs were, and how feebly the little hearts were beating. And as he fed them they clutched tightly at his fingers with their tiny hands. And his heart softened more and more towards them as he fed them, though he hardly knew what he was going to do with them. He had little time to spare, as he had promised Sajo[ 5 ] and Shapian,[ 6 ] his children, that he would be back on a certain day, and he did not want to disappoint them.

If he carried the kittens back to the pond they might never find their way across, and if he let them go here they would certainly starve, or else the hawks, or an eagle, or even a hungry fish would get them. But he had far to go, and they would be a nuisance; after all, they were only little animals—yet, they were in great trouble and needed help, and he felt that it would be wicked to abandon them; for some of the old-time Indians had very strict rules about such things.

Their mother had thought them very beautiful; but the Indian found them to be very homely indeed, with their big hind feet, short, round little bodies and little pug noses, rather like Pukwajees,[ 7 ] or Kewpies or something. In fact, they were so homely that really they were mighty cute, he finally decided; just the thing for pets! Sajo, his little daughter, was nearly eleven years old, and was soon to have a birthday. They would make a dandy present—the very thing! And when they became too big to have for pets, they could be brought back to their old home again.

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And just then, feeling the effects of the milk, they began to cry for more—those voices! They quite finished Gitchie Meegwon—how could a man desert two creatures that were able to cry so much like children? And so he cut a large sheet of tough, leathery bark from a fine birch tree that stood close by among the pines, and with it made a strong, light box, or basket, with strips of cedar wood to hold it in its shape, and made a close-fitting lid that fitted neatly down over the top of it, and punched it full of holes for air, and made a handle of braided cedar bark to carry it by.

And inside it he put some bedding of grass and rushes, and green food-stuffs such as he knew that beaver loved. And when he lifted them in by their little flat tails they made a first-class handle! And they forgot the otter with his hissing, fishy breath, clean forgot the owl with his staring yellow eyes and fiercely snapping beak, who had laughed at them so grimly in the darkness.

And they jabbered together with little bleats and squeals, as they had not done this long time past, and ate and ate until they could hold no more. And Big Feather, as he dipped and swung his paddle in his swift canoe, on his way back to his home and loved ones, was very pleased with the gift that he would bring his children of course the little boy, who was three years older than his sister, would have to share in the fun too, even though it was not his birthday ; and he was glad because he had helped two suffering forest creatures.

And speaking to the canoe, or his gun, or maybe to the little beavers, or perhaps just talking to himself, he said:. Kae-get mino-ta-kiyah, it is well indeed! And the two small adventurers must have found things to be going very well with them, too, as they had become very quiet. And indeed, they were very comfortable in their nest; and they could hear, through the air holes in their birch-bark chamber, the song of the blackbirds and the thrushes, and the cheerful gurgling of the water all around; heard the drowsy humming of the insects and all the other pleasant woodsy sounds.

Yet, even in this new-found happiness, they did not quite forget, never would quite forget, the kind father and mother, and the old home and small companions they had lost; and they were lonely for them all at once, and whimpered a little and crept together, and held each other tight. And then the loneliness would go away again, when they were close together; and the tired little heads nodded and the little voices were quiet, and the round black eyes just would not stay open any more; and then the pleasant sounds outside faded quite away, and their troubles, at last, were altogether gone.

And so they fell asleep. And that is how two small, lost, kitten beavers—so small that both of them could have sat together very comfortably in a pint-pot—went on their way to a new home and friends, and saw many strange and wonderful things that the wisest of beavers had never even heard about, and had adventures such as no beaver ever had before, I'm pretty sure. They are capable of striking quick, sharp blows, using the strong, heavy finger-nails, or with the hand balled into a fist.

The latter device is used when it is desired to avoid inflicting injury with the nails, as among themselves. Note that the little beavers, even though at the last extremity, instinctively chose the gentler method. Such is their disposition. One day, almost a week later, Sajo and Shapian were busy preparing for their father's homecoming. Gitchie Meegwon's home was a short distance away from the Indian village of O-pee-pee-soway,[ 1 ] which means The Place of Talking Waters.

The Indians had so named the village on account of a little low waterfall that was near by, where the bubbling and the murmuring of the water made a sound like that of low, dreamy voices, so that the people said that there were spirits in the falls. The cabin in which they lived was built of pine logs, and stood not far from the lake shore, on a grassy knoll.

The forest started right behind it, but all around the camp the ground had been cleared of underbrush and fallen timber, leaving only the finest trees, which formed a lovely glade through which there could be had a splendid view of the lake. This lake was a large one, and the farther shore showed only as a range of tumbled, forest-covered hills that seemed to be rolling for ever on into the blue distance, like the waves of some great, dark ocean.

A narrow footpath, or water-trail, led down the slope from the cabin to the landing, where stood a grove of tall and graceful poplar trees, in whose leafy shade Gitchie Meegwon and his young son and daughter spent many a happy Summer day beside the water, and often took their meals there.

The cabin was not large, but it made a handsome appearance from the outside, with its walls of red-brown logs and rows of green and yellow moss between them. Though it had only one room, it was even more pleasant to look at on the inside. The floor, of solid logs hewed flat and fitted tight together, had been scrubbed until it was as clean and bright as any floor you ever saw, and on the three bunks that stood in a row along one wall, rich-looking Hudson's Bay blankets were neatly folded.

Some of them were red, some were white and others green, each with wide black stripes at either end, and they made the place look very gay and cheerful. The three windows, a single large pane of glass in each, were as spotless and shining as windows ought to be, as shiny as the inside of a rifle barrel, so Shapian put it; for that was his idea of something that was very clean indeed.

That was the way he kept his own rifle, and to-day it had been oiled and rubbed, inside and out, till it fairly glittered in its corner, opposite the door where anyone who entered could not help but see it. For this rifle, which had cost him four good mink skins at the Trading Post, was the proudest of all his possessions, which, I may tell you, were not very many.

Sajo had gathered the stems of bulrushes and dried them, and then cut them into short lengths and dyed them blue, and red, and yellow, and threaded them, like long, narrow wooden beads, on strings, and these hung down in rows beside the windows. She had arranged the different colours to make a kind of pattern, and they had quite an expensive look about them—rather like curtains, she thought, as she glanced at them for about the hundredth time. On the table, all the tin dishes and knives and forks had been arranged in their proper places, and in the centre was a large loaf of Indian bread, or bannock, as it is called, freshly baked and still steaming hot, and stuck upright in the top of it was a very small spruce tree no higher than your hand.

It was really a tiny Christmas tree, and although it was not Christmas time, Sajo was nearly as happy as if it had been, and that was her way of showing how she felt about everything. The little iron stove that had been polished until it looked like a new one, had no oven and no legs, and was raised some distance from the floor on flat stones, which was a very convenient arrangement, as, to bake bread, all you had to do was to cook the dough for a while on top of the stove, and then you put it underneath, between the warm stones, where it got finished off and nicely browned by the heat from the fire above.

Otherwise the loaf would have had to be turned over in the pan when it was half baked, which would have made matters a little uncertain. And Sajo made good bread, I can tell you that, for I have eaten it many's the time. Shapian had done his part too, as could be seen by the large pile of wood in a box behind the stove, and the rug of deerskin, newly stretched and dried, that lay in the centre of the floor; while in a huge pot upon the stove were cooking all the choicest portions of the meat—obtained with that so much prized rifle in the corner.

Shapian was a manly-looking boy, tall for his age, with the copper-coloured skin and dark eyes of his people, the Ojibways.

He sat quietly waiting; his father had set this day for his return, and when he promised something he always kept his word, as nearly as the uncertainties of forest life would allow. But his sister, younger than he, her brown eyes aglow and her jet-black hair, in two long braids, flying behind her, ran and hopped and skipped from place to place, tending to the cooking, placing around the table the rough wooden blocks they used for chairs, and putting the finishing touches to the wooden curtains.

Shapian had seated himself where he could get a good view out across the lake, through one of the windows, and was watching for the first sight of Big Feather's canoe—though he pretended not to be, and had chosen a window on the far side of the room, through which he could keep an eye without appearing to do so; as it would never do, he thought, to show how anxious he was.

He was only fourteen, but he was feeling quite grown-up just now, as he had been the head of the household for well over a month. Sajo sang a little song as she worked, and was all a-flutter with a many-coloured tartan dress, and on her dancing feet was a beautiful pair of beaded moccasins, worn only on special occasions. Warwick and Coventry by Lady Blanche Murphy. Washerwoman's Windfall by Jonathan F. Waste Not, Want Not by E. Wasteful Pleasures by Vernon Lee. Watch by Ivan Turgenev. Watcher by the Threshold by John Buchan. Watches of the Night by Rudyard Kipling.

Water Baby by Jack London. Water Carrier by James Frederic Thorne. Water Devil by Frank R. Water Lilies by Jane Andrews. Water of Life by Grimm Brothers. Waters of Erongo by Frederick Cornell. Waving of the Sword by Arthur Christopher Benson. Way of the West by Nellie McClung. Way to be Happy by T. Wayarnbeh the Turtle, Australian Legendary Tale.

Wayward Donkey by W. Weasel and the Frogs, from Harper's. Web of Circumstance by Charles Waddell Chesnutt. Wedding Gift by Guy de Maupassant. Wedding Jest by James Branch Cabell. Wedding Knell by Nathaniel Hawthorne. Fox by Grimm Brothers. Weeds by Ruth McEnery Stuart. Weekend Adventure by William Webster.

Weeoonibeens and the Piggiebillah, Australian Legendary Tale. Well Meaning Little Busybody by Mrs. Welsh Musical Festival - The Atlantic. Welsh Poetry by Arthur Symons. Werewolves of War by D. W - Index of Titles. Mason War on the Goats by Jacob A. Kelley Way to be Happy by T.

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