THE BEAVER. 



Up in the North if thou sail with me, 

 A wonderful creature I'll show to thee. 

 As gentle and mild as a lamb at play. 

 Skipping about in the month of May, 

 Yet wise as any old learned sage, 

 Who sits turning over a musty page. 



And yonder the peaceable creatures dwell 



Secure in their watery citadel ; 



They know no sorrow, have done no sin ; 



Happy they live 'mong kith and kin, 



As happy as living things can be, 



Each in the midst of his family ; 



Ay, there they live, and the hunter wild 



Seeing their social natures mild. 



Seeing how they were kind and good. 



Hath felt his stubborn soul subdued ; 



And the very sight of their young at play, 



Hath put his hunter's heart away ; 



And a mood of pity hath o'er him crept, 



As he thought of his own dear babes and wept. 



I know ye are but the beavers small. 

 Living at peace in your mud wall ; 

 I know that ye have no books to teach 

 The lore that lies within your reach. 

 But what ? Five thousand years ago 

 Ye knew as much as now 3'e know ; 

 And on the banks of streams that sprung 

 Forth when the earth itself was young. 

 Your wondrous works were formed as true 

 For the All-Wise instructed you. 



But man ? How hath he pondered on. 



Through the long term of ages gone ; 



And many a cunning book hath writ ; 



Of learning deep and subtle wit ; 



Hath encompassed sea, hath encompassed land. 



Hath built up towers and temples grand, 



Hath travelled far for hidden lore, 



And known what was not known of yore, 



Yet after all, though wise he be, 



He hath no better skill than ye. 



— JTary Howitt. 



