“I wish I knew what you do,” sighed Stanley. “You are ahead of me in books, even.”
“O no I ain’t; and I guess I’ll never git so I can talk properly,” lamented Bub so dolefully that Stanley burst into a laugh.
“Here we are at a stream and—beaver, by jinks! What do you think of that for logging, my son?” And Bub danced enthusiastically along the bank of a sixteen-foot stream.
“Where’s the beaver?” asked Stanley, peering about.
“The beaver went into hiding long before we got here,” said Bub. “But that is their dam.” And he pointed to an embankment, made of clay and timbers, extending across the stream, the concave side being upstream. “Now follow me and we’ll find their run-ways, or sluice-ways.”
Stanley followed him across, walking on the dam, and soon was gazing at little smooth paths leading up the bank.
“There’s six of ’em,” counted Bub. “See their timber.” And he indicated several neat piles of sticks, measuring from four to six feet in length and from two to four inches in diameter. “I tell you, the beaver is a mighty cute feller. And he knows the lumber game better than we do.”
