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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. Since the quality of his work improves as the beaver increases his experience, it appears natural and probable that each colony of beaver has a leader who plans and directs the work. I am familiar with a number of instances which strongly indicate leadership. In times of emergency, when an entire colony is forced to emigrate, a beaver—and usually an aged one—takes the lead, and wherever he goes the others willingly follow.

Whatever may have been the custom of beaver in the past, at present large numbers sometimes coöperate in accomplishing community work. It used to be believed, and possibly it was true, that only the members of a family, or the beaver of one house, united in doing the general work of the colony. It was a common belief that seven beaver inhabited a house; perhaps eight was the number of the Rocky Mountain region. At the present time the number in a house is from one to thirty.

Beaver have been driven from most of the streams and lake-shores, and now maintain themselves with difficulty in the places which they inhabit. In surviving they probably have had to sacrifice a few old customs and to adopt some new ones, and it is likely that these changes sometimes call for larger houses so as to care for the increased number of beaver which conditions now compel to live in one locality. A number of instances have come under my notice where beaver were driven from their colony either by fire or by the aggressiveness of trappers; these moved on to other scenes, where they cast their lot with the beaver of another colony, and apparently were received with every welcome. Immediately after the arrival of the immigrants, enlargements were at once commenced, apparently to accommodate the new-comers permanently.

One autumn, while following the Lewis and Clark trail with a pack horse in western Montana, I made camp one evening with a trapper who gave me a young beaver. He was about one month old, and ate twigs and bark as naturally as though he had long eaten them. I named him “Diver,” and in a short time he was as chummy as a young puppy. Of an evening he played about the camp and often swam in the near-by water. At times he played at dam-building, and frequently displayed his accomplishment of felling wonderful trees that were about the size of a lead pencil. He never failed to come promptly when I whistled for him. At night he crouched near my camp, usually packing himself under the edge of the canvas on which I spread my bedding. Atop the pack on the horse’s back he traveled,—a ride which he evidently enjoyed. He was never in a hurry to be taken off, and at moving time he was always waiting eagerly to be lifted on. As soon as he noticed me arranging the pack, he came close, and before I was quite ready for him, he rose up, extending his hands in rapid succession beggingly, and with a whining sort of muttering pleaded to be lifted at once to his seat on the pack.

A YOUNG BEAVER SUNNING HIMSELF

He had a bad fright one evening. About one hour before sundown we had encamped as usual alongside a stream. He entered the water and after swimming about for a time, taking a dozen or so merry dives, he crossed to the opposite side. In plain view, only fifty feet away, I watched him as he busily dug out roots of the Oregon grape and then stopped leisurely to eat them. While he was thus engaged, a coyote made a dash for him from behind a boulder. Diver dodged, and the coyote missed. Giving a wail like a frightened child, my youngster rolled into the stream and dived. Presently he scrambled out of the water near me and made haste to crawl under my coat-tail behind the log on which I sat.

The nearest beaver pond was a quarter of a mile upstream, yet less than five minutes had elapsed from the time of Diver’s cry when two beaver appeared, swimming low and cautiously in the stream before me. A minute later another came in sight from downstream. All circled about, swimming cautiously with heads held low in the water. One scented the place where the coyote had attacked Diver, and waddled out and made a sniffing examination. Another came ashore at the spot where Diver came out to me. Apparently his eyes told him I was a part of the log, but his nose proclaimed danger. After three or four hesitating and ineffectual attempts to retreat, he plucked up courage and rose to full height on hind legs and tail to stare eagerly at me. With head well up and fore paws drooping, he held the gaze for several seconds and then gave a low whistle.

At this, Diver came forth from behind my coat to see what was going on. The old one started forward to meet him, but on having a good look at me whirled and made a jumping dive into the water, whacking the surface with his tail as he disappeared. Instantly there followed two or more splashes and a number of tail-whacks upon the water, as though a beaver rescue party were beating a retreat.

At the end of my outing Diver became the pet of two pioneer children on the bank of the Snake River. He followed the children about and romped with them. At three years of age he was shot by a visiting hunter.

My experience with Diver and other beaver pets leads me to believe that beaver are easily domesticated. One morning in northern Idaho, the family with whom I had spent the night took me out to see a beaver colony that was within a stone’s throw of their fireplace. Three beaver came out of the water within ten feet of us to eat scraps of bread which the children threw on the grass for them.

One day I placed myself between three young beaver, who were eating on land, and the river out of which they came. They were on one of the rocky borders of the Colorado River in the depths of the upper Grand Cañon. They attempted to get by me, but their efforts were not of the “do or die” nature. Presently their mother came to the rescue and attempted to attract my attention by floating in the water near me in a terribly crippled condition. I had seen many birds and a few beaver try that clever ruse; so I allowed it to go on, hoping to see another act. Another followed.

In it an old male beaver appeared. He swam easily downstream until within a few yards of me and then dived, apparently frightened. But presently he reappeared near by and dived again. While I was watching him, the youngsters edged a few yards nearer the river. To stop them and prolong the exhibition, I advanced close to them as though to grab them. At this the mother beaver struggled out of the water and set up a tumbling and rolling so close to me that I thought to catch her for examination. She dodged right and left and reached the water. While this was going on, the youngsters escaped into the river. Mother beaver instantly recovered, and as she dived gave the water a scornful whack with her tail.

The beaver is not often heard. He works in silence. When he pauses from his work, he sits meditatively, like a philosopher. At times, however, when, in traveling, beaver are separated from one another, they give a strange shrill whistle or call. Occasionally this whistle appears to be a call of alarm, suspicion, or warning. Sometimes when alarmed, a young beaver gives a shrill and frightened cry not unlike that of a lost human child. On a few occasions I have heard, while listening near a beaver house in the early summer, something of a subdued concert going on inside, a purring, rhythmic melody. They have a kind of love ditty also. This is a rhythmic murmur and sigh, very appealing, and it seems strangely elemental as it floats across the beaver pond in the twilight.

It is probable that beaver mate for life. All that is known concerning their ways indicates that they are good parents. The young are usually born during the month of April. The number varies from one to eight; probably four is the number most common. A short time before the birth of the youngsters, the mother invites the father to leave, or compels him to do so,—or he may go voluntarily,—and she has possession of the house or burrow, probably alone, at the time the youngsters are born. Their eyes are open from the beginning, and in less than two weeks they appear in the water accompanied by the mother. Often I have investigated beaver colonies endeavoring to determine the number of youngsters at a birth. Many times there were four of these furry, serious little fellows near the house on a log that was thrust up through the water. At other times from one to eight youngsters sunned themselves on the top of the rude home.

One May, in examining beaver colonies, I saw three sets of youngsters in the Moraine Colony. They numbered three, and two, and five. One mother in another colony proudly exhibited eight, while still another, who had been harassed all winter by trappers and who lived in a burrow in the bank, could display but one.

It is not uncommon for young orphan beavers to be cared for and adopted by another mother beaver. I have notes of three mothers who, with children of their own, at once took charge of orphans left by the death of a neighbor. One June a mother beaver was killed near my camp. Her children escaped. The following evening a new mother, with four children of her own adopted them and moved from her own home, a quarter of a mile distant, to the home of her dead neighbor and there brought all the youngsters up.

Beaver have great fun while growing up. Posted on the edge of the house, they nose and push each other about, ofttimes tumbling one another into the water. In the water they send a thousand merry ripples to the shore, as they race, wrestle, and dive in the pond. They play on the house, in the pond, and in the sunshine and shadows of the trees along the shore.

Beaver are mature the third summer of their lives, and at this time they commonly leave the parental home, pair, and begin life for themselves. There are stories to the effect that the parents of the youthful home-builders accompany the children to new scenes, help them select a building-site, and assist in the construction of the new house and dam. After this the parents return home. This probably is occasionally true. Anyway I once saw this program fairly well carried out, and at another time in a limited manner.

The beaver is practical, peaceful, and industrious. He builds a permanent house and keeps it clean and in repair. Beside it he stores food-supply for the long winter. He takes thought for the morrow. These and other commendable characteristics give him a place of honor among the hordes of homeless, hand-to-mouth folk of the wild. During the winter he has but little to do except bathe and eat his two or three meals a day from the food he has stored in the autumn. Towards spring, when his wild neighbors are lean, hungry, and cold, he is fat and comfortable. In the spring he emerges from the house, but then his only work is occasionally to cut a twig for food. In the summer he plays tourist. He visits other colonies, and wanders up and down streams, going miles from home. In the late summer or early autumn he returns, makes repairs, and harvests food for winter.

The beaver is a valuable conservationist, but there are localities in which he cannot be tolerated. Although dead wood is rarely cut by the beaver, many a homesteader has been disturbed by his cutting off and carrying away green fence posts. Recently beaver have returned to a few localities and got themselves into bad repute by felling fruit trees. Occasionally, too, in the West, they have lost caste by persistently damming an irrigation-ditch and diverting the water, despite the fact that a court has given both the title and the right to this water to some one else a mile or so down the ditch.

In all logging operations, beaver never fail—where there is opportunity—to cut trees upstream and float them down with the current. Tree-cutting is an interesting phase of beaver life. A beaver will go waddling dully from the water to a tree he is about to cut down. All will look about for enemies; one may be wise enough—but the majority will not do so—to look upward to see if the tree about to be felled is entangled at the top. All appear to choose a comfortable place on which to squat or sit while cutting.

Commonly when the tree begins to creak and settle, the beaver who has done the cutting thuds the ground a few times with his tail, and then scampers away, usually going into the water. Sometimes the near-by workers give the thudding signal in advance of the one who is doing the cutting. Now and then no warning signal is given, and the logging beaver occasionally fells his tree upon other workers with a fatal result. As with axe-men, the beaver doing the cutting is on rare occasions caught and killed by the tree which he fells.

Rarely does the beaver give any thought to the direction in which the tree will fall. In a few instances, however, I have seen what appeared to be an effort on the part of the beaver to fell a tree in a given direction. From an uncomfortable place he cut the lowest notch on the side on which he probably wanted the tree to fall. On one of these occasions, the aspen tree selected stood in an almost complete circle of pines. The beaver took pains to cut the first and lowest notch in this tree directly opposite the opening in the pines. I have seen a number of instances of this kind. And he will sometimes leave the windward side of a grove on a windy day, and cut on the leeward, so that the felled trees are not entangled in falling.

Rarely does more than one beaver work at the same time at a tree. In some instances, however, if the tree be large, two or even more beaver will work at once. But after the tree has been felled, ofttimes three or four beaver will unite to roll a large section to the water. In doing this, some may stand with paws against it and push, and others may put their sides or hips against it. On land, as in the water, small limb-covered trees are dragged butt foremost so as to meet the least resistance. Sometimes the beaver drags walking backwards; at other times he is alongside the tree carrying and dragging it forward.