identical parish. If the district visitors were to come
to my study, I don't think they would give me
a prize for a tidy room! We live and learn! I
am not so rabid against all flower-shows as I
was. The Bloomsbury Bouquets have taught
me a lesson.

BEN'S BEAVER.

A PIONEER settler in the woods of Canada
has need to be a man of brave heart and strong
hand. We had been five years on our Canadian
farm, and we had "a frame house" as fairly
fitted for two families as two flats in Paris one
above the other, or two dwellings joining in a
semi-detached villa. My eldest brother had the
wife of his choice and two fine boys. We had
thirty acres in corn, grass, fruit, and kitchen
garden. This conquest of the woods made the
two brothers next to the eldest very uneasy.
They wanted a world to conquer, and I remember
when Walter, the eldest, now eighteen, said
to my father, " Give John and me ten shillings
each to buy axes, and we will never ask any
more of you. We will give you a receipt in
full for our inheritance."

"And may well do so, if you have your health
and can fetch your food from home for a while,"
said my mother.

The result was, that the two boys started,
each with an axe and a knapsack, for a place
called " Thug's Hollow," ten miles into the
dense forest east of our home. The tract of
land, comprising a fine waterfall, had been
bought by a man named Sugge, and he intended
that his claim should bear his own name; but
he lisped and called himself Thugge, and other
folks called him what he called himself, and
hence the ugly name was fastened on a very
lovely valley which is now a beautiful and
prosperous village, long ago emancipated from
forest trees, beavers, blackened stumps, and its
bad name.

On the mill-stream, where now stand the
mills of my victorious brothers, Ben's beaver
was caught in a box trap. He was a baby
beaver, or he might have known better than to
intrude into the small room that became his
prison, for the bribe of a sweet apple. The colony
of beavers that had built near where the corn-
mill now stands, had been fastened out of their
house, and all shot, by my brothers, while they
were trying to get in at their own doors. It
was a cruel and profitable job, for beaver skins
then brought a very high price. Not one was
left alive except baby Brownie, who was given
to Ben by reason of his great love of four-footed
pets. I went over to see the beavers' house, built
of small trees, or saplings, which they cut down
with their chisel-like front teeth, and floated
into position in the water. The dam, as well
formed as if men had built it, the warm dry
rooms of the dwelling with their soft lining,
the treasures of bark and bulbous roots for food
in winter, all were wonderful to me. The boys
had watched them at work for some days before
they commenced destroying them. They had
seen them cut down saplings to repair damage
purposely done to their dam. They had floated
these to the place where they were wanted, and
then, lifting the stick upon the fore-leg, as a man
takes a burden on his arm, they had put it in
its place, very much after the manner of a
monkey. Many have said that the beaver carries
burdens on his tail, and that he uses it as a
trowel. My brothers were not able to verify
these assertions. They were of opinion that
though the tail may be used sometimes to brace
the animal, like a fifth leg, or to hammer their
work into place, yet that it is not used as a
trowel or a raft. Perhaps the time they allowed
themselves for observation was too short.

I took notes of Brownie for a long time, and
he soon grew to be a big beaver, and very tame.
He was one of the most cheerful and
affecttionate pets in the world, and, though he ate
bark and bulbous roots readily, his favourite
food was bread and milk; if it was sweetened,
it was a special and delightful treat.

One of our neighbours was remarkably
fortunate in finding horses that had gone astray.
On being asked for the secret of his sagacity
and luck, he said: "I always fancy myself a
horse, and think of what I would want if I
was one, and where I would go to get it." If
I could fancy myself a beaver, I might hope
to explain some of the singular doings of Ben's.
He loved my brother so dearly, that Alice (my
brother's wife) was almost jealous of him. It
was impossible for Ben to separate or hide from
him. On one occasion, Ben left home to go to
Plattsburg and Whitehall, on Lake Champlain.
This lake is nearly one hundred miles long, and
has many steam-boat landings on both sides:
being at its widest not above six miles across.
The beaver was left at home, but when Ben
went up to his room at the St. Alban's Hotel, he
was met by Brownie, who showed no signs of
fatigue, and indulged in the most extravagant
expressions of joy. Ben rewarded his attention
with a dish of bread and milk, of which he ate
about one-half, and then laid himself to sleep on
his master's valise. He changed to his master's
feet when my brother was in bed. In the
morning Ben missed him, and the remaining
portion of the bread and milk. "Brownie has
gone home," said Ben to himself. That night
he stayed at Plattsburg, on the other side of
the lake; when he retired to his room, after
taking supper in the ordinary dining-room, there
he found Brownie on his valise again. Again
there was a joyful meeting, and an eager
consumption of bread and milk and sweet apples.
This time there was none left for breakfast. Still
Brownie disappeared early, and not until Ben
reached Whitehall was he again visible. It is to
be noted that in all the distance travelled by this
beaver, from our home, there was water. Brooks
and a small river took him to St. Alban's, and
after that he had the lake. The beaver is a
poor traveller on land, and does better by night
than by day. Much of the work of beaver
colonies is done in the night. But, Brownie