saw the young beavers sunning them- 

 selves on the bank or playing in the 

 water near the shore. The mother was 

 always somewhere near, and invariably 

 sounded a warning by pounding the 

 water with her broad tail, whereupon 

 the youngsters would scamper for cover 

 and each would precede his dive by 

 slapping the water with his little ladle- 

 like tail, in feeble imitation of the 

 mother. 



One day in June a hawk swooped 

 down, grabbed one of the young bea- 

 vers and carried him away. Later, a 

 pekan, sometimes called a fisher, killed 

 another one. Apparently the mother 

 scared him off. We found the dead 

 baby beaver, and tracks in the mud 

 gave us the name of his murderer. 



Early in July of that summer, while 

 on a fishing trip to Wolf Pond, six miles 

 to the east, Bige and I met our white- 

 headed beaver friend. A slap on the 

 water and a shower of spray informed 

 us that we were recognized. It also 



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