distance. On August 1st and 2d the weather was cold, with a raw
wind and a continuous downpour of rain. At night the rain kept up
a steady drop, drop, drop through our tent. On the 2d, owing to
the inclemency of the weather, we did not travel; but the morning
of the 3d brought brilliant sunshine and with the perfume of the
forest in our nostrils we pushed on, soon reaching a flatter and a
marshy country, where the creek deepened and narrowed with a
sluggish current. Here the paddling was good, and for a little way
we made rapid progress.

In this marshy stretch by the creek's bank we saw a beaver house,
and George stepped out of the canoe to examine it.

"They're livin' here," he remarked. "If we're not too far away
when we camp to-night, I'm comin' down with a rifle and watch for
'em. They come out to play in the water in the evenin' and it's
not hard to get 'em."

"What's the use of killing them?" I asked. What could you do with
a beaver if you got him?"

"I'd cook it, and we'd have a good snack of beaver meat," said
George. "They're the finest kind of eatin', and I'd go a good way
for a piece of beaver tail; it's nice and greasy, and better than
anything you ever ate."

As we paddled on, George continued to extol the virtues of beaver
meat, expatiating on many a "good snack" of it that he had
consumed. However, he did not return to the beaver house, for more
important things that evening claimed our attention.