In Beaver World. Enos A. Mills

boulder into place in the dam. Commonly he does things at opportune times and in the easiest way. His energy is not wasted in building a dam where one is not needed nor in constructive work in times of high water. He accepts deep water as a matter of fact and constructs dams to make shallow places deep.

      

      Beaver food is largely inner bark of deciduous or broad-leaved trees. Foremost among these trees which they use for food is the aspen, although the cottonwood and willow are eaten almost as freely. The bark of the birch, alder, maple, box-elder, and a number of other trees is also used. Except in times of dire emergency the beaver will not eat the bark of the pine, spruce, or fir tree. It is fortunate that the trees which the beaver fell and use for food or building purposes are water-loving trees, which not only sprout from both stump and root, but grow with exceeding rapidity. Among other lesser foods used are berries, mushrooms, sedge, grass, and the leaves and stalks of a number of plants. In winter dried grass and leaves are sometimes used, and in this season the rootstocks of the pond-lily and the roots of the willow, alder, birch, and other water-loving trees that may be got from the bottom of the pond. Beaver are vegetarians; they do not eat fish or flesh.

      Apparently beaver prefer to cut trees that are less than six inches in diameter, and where slender poles abound it is rare for anything to be cut of more than four inches. But it is not uncommon to see trees felled that are from twelve to fifteen inches in diameter. In my possession are three beaver-cut stumps each of which has a greater diameter than eighteen inches, the largest being thirty-four inches. The largest beaver-cut stump that I have ever measured was on the Jefferson River in Montana, near the mouth of Pipestone Creek. This was three feet six inches in diameter.

      The beaver sits upright with fore paws against the tree, or clasping it; half squatting on his hind legs, with tail either extending behind as a prop or folded beneath him as a seat, he tilts his head from side to side and makes deep bites into the tree about sixteen inches above the ground. In the overwhelming majority of beaver-cut trees that I have seen, most of the cutting was done from one side,—from one seat as it were. Though the notch taken out was rudely done, it was after the fashion of the axe-man. The beaver bites above and below, then, driving his teeth behind the piece thus cut off, will wedge, pry, or pull out the chip. Ofttimes in doing this he appears to use his jaw as a lever. With the aspen, or with other trees equally soft, about one hour is required to gnaw down a four-inch sapling. With one bite he will snip off a limb from half to three quarters of an inch in diameter.

      After a tree is felled on land, the limbs are cut off and the trunk is gnawed into sections. The length of these sections appears to depend upon the size of the tree-trunk and also the distance to the water, the number of beaver to assist in its transportation, and the character of the trail. Commonly a six- or eight-inch tree is cut into lengths of about four to six feet. If the tree falls into the water of the pond or the canal, it is, if the limbs are not too long, transported butt foremost to the desired spot in its uncut, untrimmed entirety. Ofttimes with a large tree the trunk is left and only the limbs taken.

      The green wood which the beaver uses for his winter’s food-supply is stored on the bottom of the pond. How does he sink it to the bottom? There is an old and oft-repeated tale which says that the beaver sucks the air from the green wood so as to sink it promptly. Another tale has it that the beaver dives to the bottom carrying with him a green stick which he thrusts into the mud and it is thus anchored. Apparently the method is a simple one. The green wood stored is almost as heavy as water, and once in the pond it becomes water-logged and sinks in a short time; however, the first pieces stored are commonly large, heavy chunks, which are forced to the bottom by piling others on top of them. Frequently the first few pieces of the food-pile consist of entire trees, limbs and all. These usually are placed in a rude circle with butts inward and tops outward. This forms an entangling foundation which holds in place the smaller stuff piled thereon.

      Most willows by beaver colonies are small and comparatively light. These do not sink readily, are not easily managed, and are rarely used in the bottom of the pile. Commonly, when these light cuttings are gathered into the food-pile, they are laid on top, where numerous up-thrusting limbs entangle and hold them. The foundation and larger portion of the food-pile are formed of heavy pieces of aspen, alder, or some other stream-side tree, which cannot be moved out of place by an ordinary wind or water-current and which quickly sink to the bottom.

      Among enemies of this fur-clad fellow are the wolverine, the otter, the lion, the lynx, the coyote, the wolf, and the bear. Hawks and owls occasionally capture a young beaver. Beaver spend much time dressing their fur and bathing, as they are harassed by lice and other parasites. At rare intervals they are afflicted with disease. They live from twelve to fifteen years and sometimes longer. Man is the worst enemy of the beaver.

      A thousand trappers unite to tell the same pitiable tale of a trapped beaver’s last moments. If the animal has not succeeded in drowning himself or tearing off a foot and escaping, the trapper smashes the beaver’s head with his hatchet. The beaver, instead of trying to rend the man with sharp cutting teeth, raises himself and with upraised hand tries to ward off the death-blow. Instead of one blow, a young trapper frequently has to give two or three, but the beaver receives them without a struggle or a sound, and dies while vainly trying to shield his head with both hands.

      Justly renowned for his industry, the beaver is a master of the fine art of rest. He has many a vacation and conserves his energies. He keeps his fur clean and his house in a sanitary condition. Ever in good condition, he is ready at all times for hard work and is capable of efficient work over long periods. He is ready for emergencies.

      As animal life goes, that of the beaver stands among the best. His life is full of industry and is rich in repose. He is home-loving and avoids fighting. His lot is cast in poetic places.

      The beaver has a rich birthright, though born in a windowless hut of mud. Close to the primeval place of his birth the wild folk of both woods and water meet and often mingle. Around are the ever-changing and never-ending scenes and silences of the water or the shore. Beaver grow up with the many-sided wild, playing amid the brilliant flowers and great boulders, in the piles of driftwood and among the fallen logs on the forest’s mysterious edge. They learn to swim and slide, to dive quickly and deeply from sight, to sleep, and to rest moveless in the sunshine; ever listening to the strong, harmonious stir of wind and water, living with the stars in the sky and the stars in the pond; beginning serious life when brilliant clouds of color enrich autumn’s hills; helping to harvest the trees that wear the robes of gold, while the birds go by for the southland in the reflective autumn days. If Mother Nature should ever call me to live upon another planet, I could wish that I might be born a beaver, to inhabit a house in the water.

Our Friend the Beaver

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      One bright autumn afternoon I peered down into a little meadow by a beaver pond. This meadow was grass-covered and free from willows. In it seven or eight beaver were at work along a new canal. Each kept his place and appeared to have a section in which he did his digging. For more than half an hour I watched them clawing out the earth and grass-roots and lifting it out in double handfuls and piling it in an orderly line along the canal-bank. While I was watching a worker at one end of this line, two others clinched in a fight. The fighters made no sound except a subdued guttural mumbling as they rolled about in a struggle. The other workers, to my astonishment, paid not the slightest attention to this fight, but each attended to his own affairs. After two or three minutes the belligerents broke away; one squatted down breathing heavily, while the other, with bloody tail, dragged himself off and plunged into the pond. This was the first beaver fight that I had ever seen.

      Beaver may well be called the silent workers. No matter how numerous, or crowded, or busy they are, their work goes on without a word and apparently without a sign. Although I have seen them at work scores of times, in the twilight and in the daylight, singly, in pairs, and by the dozens, doing the many kinds of work which beaver perform, yet this work has always gone quietly and without any visible evidences of management. Each one is capable of acting independently.