were getting close; but just as I was about to 

 shout to frighten him, the coyote leaped among 

 them and began killing. 



In the excitement of getting off the crag I 

 narrowly escaped breaking my neck. Once on 

 the ground, I ran for the coyote, shouting wildly 

 to frighten him off ; but he was so intent upon 

 killing that a violent kick in the ribs first made 

 him aware of my presence. In anger and excite- 

 ment he leaped at me with ugly teeth as he fled. 

 The lion had disappeared, and by this time the 

 beavers in the front ranks were jumping into the 

 pond, while the others were awkwardly speeding 

 down the slope. The coyote had killed three. If 

 beavers have a language, surely that night the 

 refugees related to their hospitable neighbors 

 some thrilling experiences. 



The next morning I returned to the Moraine 

 Colony over the route followed by the refugees. 

 Leaving their fire-ruined homes, they had fol- 

 lowed the stream that issued from their ponds. 

 In places the channel was so clogged with fire 

 wreckage that they had followed alongside the 

 water rather than in it, as is their wont At one 

 162 



