close the twigs that project through in building (the whole affair apparently conceived and put together in a helter-skelter fashion), they are very compact, exhibiting both solidity and firmness, and are well adapted to warmth and protection. Each dwelling consists of but one apartment, and this opens by a short incline beneath the surface of the water into a channel dredged to sufficient depth to avoid being blocked by ice in winter. It is easy to determine whether a dwelling is in present occupation by the appearance of the trails over which the beaver drags his supplies from the wood; by the freshly-peeled sticks the bark of which has served for food, and which are invariably heaped up upon the house itself; and in winter by the melting snow on the roof caused by the exhalations from the occupants.
One dwelling harbors from four to twelve individuals, rarely more, though eighteen or twenty have been noted, all of the same family, but of two generations, representing litters of kittens of two successive years. The young make their appearance usually in May, and are from four to eight in number, five being the average. Queer-looking little fellows they are too, with their heavy heads, big cutting teeth, flat tails, and fine, mouse-like fur, not yet disfigured by the long, coarse hair so noticeable with adults. When taken at an early age they are easily domesticated, and are so esteemed as pets in the far West and fur countries that almost every trading-post or camp can exhibit three or four. It is no uncommon occurrence to see one running about an Indian lodge, submitting patiently to the wiles and caprices of the little savages, or joining in their sports, and frequently receiving with the papoose the nourishment from the maternal breast. The cry of the "kitten," too, is so exactly like that of an unweaned child that one is readily mistaken for the other by even the initiated. On one occasion I visited a wigwam at Little Traverse, Michigan, for the purpose of viewing a "real, live, baby beaver." "He cry all same as papoose," remarked the squaw, as she brought the little fellow forward, at the same time giving him an unmerciful pinch that caused him to set up a doleful little wail that, had I not been forewarned, I should certainly have believed to proceed from a minute, black-eyed specimen of an aboriginal infant that, swathed in cloth, beads, and bark, and bound fast, mummy-like, to a board, stood leaned up against the wall. By-the-way, do Indian babies ever cry or laugh? I suppose they do, occasionally, though I do not remember ever hearing one. I think it is Mr. Lewis Morgan, in his excellent work on "The American Beaver," that tells of a trapper on the upper Yellowstone who, while making his rounds, heard, as he supposed, the wail of an infant. Fearing the vicinity of hostiles, he approached with great caution, only to find that the cry proceeded from two beaver kittens sitting upon a low bank by the stream, and mourning for the nourishment only a mother could give; while she, poor thing, was fast in the merciless jaws of his trap.
When the youngsters have completed their second year, they are
