- —they get you down quickly. Almost before the boys
realized that they were at the bottom, they found themselves walking along a level wood road, and it seemed suddenly very still.
"It's the brook—we don't hear the water falling any more," said Art.
They came out quickly upon the highway—or so much of a highway as ran through this tiny notch. It was hardly more than a wood road. They turned to the left, as their friend on Moosilauke had advised, and in a moment came into a grassy clearing, with the ruins of an old logging camp at one side. This was Beaver Meadow. To the left, the steep wall of Moosilauke leapt up, and they could see the course of Beaver Brook, beside which they had descended, the white of its waterfalls flashing here and there in the sun. To the right was Wildcat Mountain, really a foot-hill of Kinsman. The meadow itself was very green, and the road went through the middle of it. At the western end, it narrowed to perhaps a hundred feet in width, and here a little brook flowed out, beside the road, and on either side they saw the remains of a dam, perhaps three or four feet high, quite grown over with grass and bushes.
"The beaver dam!" cried Art. "They just cut down the trees on each side, and let them fall over the brook, and then plastered 'em up with mud, eh? My, but they are smart!"
