“Better go back to that tree and wait for her there,” he decided. “It was a little drier there.”
He started off the way he had come, only to stop abruptly.
“This isn’t right,” he growled with rage. Spinning around, he lumbered in another direction, trying to catch the scent of his own tracks. It had vanished. The rain had washed it away.
Lost, increasingly frustrated, Ereth galloped first this way, then that in search of the cottonwood tree. “Duck dapple!” he shouted up at the clouds. “Dry up!” But the rain continued to fall.
Utterly wretched, Ereth peered through the gloom until he saw a stand of trees that he thought would protect him.
He ran forward.
Reaching the trees was easy enough. But which tree should he climb? Confounded by his own anger, he rushed from one to another. The first was too small. The second was too thin.
Seven trees later he found one to his liking. The bark was rough. The foliage was thick. Frantic, Ereth clawed past the first layer of branches, the second, and the third. “This’ll do,” he muttered, moving toward a particularly large branch.
He reached it and squatted down, trying to make as tight a ball of himself as possible. Even so, the rain pelted him.
“Stupid mouse . . .” he mumbled. “No, she’s not stupid. She’s mean. What kind of friend would leave me in all this muck? She’s abandoned me. Left me. When I’m her real friend. Her only friend. But no, all she thinks about is Ragweed. Who’s dead! As for me, she keeps telling me I’m old. Old!” he shouted. “I’m not old! Don’t I take care of her, help her, love . . .”
He stopped. “Love . . .” he muttered. “I don’t love Poppy. I hate Poppy!” he shouted. “I hate love!”
Bursting with rage, the porcupine scrambled down from his tree and began to gallop as fast as he could. Where he was running he had no idea, no more than he knew if the water dripping from his cheeks was rain or . . . something else.
CHAPTER 11
Mr. Canad Makes Some Plans
IT WAS STILL RAINING. In the middle of the pond, Mr. Canad used his webbed feet to propel himself swiftly across the water with strong, steady strokes. There was something mighty fine about swimming, enough to make one fit as a fiddle.
Now and again he lifted his head and let the pattering rain soak him even more. “Bless my teeth and smooth my tail,” he murmured. “I do love water!” Then he thought hard as to how best to express his feelings in words that had a real impact. Though it took some hard thinking, he worked it out. “The whole thing is,” he decided, “it never rains but it should do it a lot.”
When Mr. Canad said the phrase out loud, biting off the last T with his large orange teeth, he enjoyed it so much he repeated it to himself: “It never rains but it should do it a lot—a lot.
“I must use that,” he told himself. “Perhaps during the next company meeting. They would appreciate it. They would.”
With his strong paws Mr. Canad pulled himself onto the bank, gave himself a shake—sending water in all directions—then turned to survey what had been achieved by the beavers’ work.
In the little valley through which the Brook had flowed there had been, in Mr. Canad’s mind, a dull, dreary landscape, with little to behold but a piddling stream without power or grandeur. It had no depth. Its banks were wasteful in their simple, sloping nature. Why, the water itself had no texture or color. One could see through it!
Limpid lily pads and useless bulrushes had marred its lazy surface. The animals who had wasted their time on the banks—mice, voles, otters, and toads—were insignificant. As far as Mr. Canad was concerned, it had been a place where nothing important ever had or would happen. An utter waste.
But now, how different the beavers had made it! Every day the pond was growing wider, deeper, grander. It had taken on the vibrant color of mud. It was a home for hearty, busy beavers who worked day and night.
“This,” Mr. Canad said to himself with genuine pride, “is progress.” The portly beaver felt so good about it, he spelled the word out letter by letter: “P-R-O-G-R-E-S-S!”
And yet, Mr. Canad had to confess, he was not fully satisfied. No, he was not. What he and his company had created was—he had to admit it—merely a pond.
Mind, he told himself, there was nothing wrong with a pond. A beaver who built a good pond had every reason to be pleased with himself. Yet even the word pond suggested smallness, a compactness of size which might be good enough for some, but not for the likes of Caster P. Canad and Co.! Not only could they do better, they should do better. As Mr. Canad saw things, it was not a pond that was needed but a lake!
The beaver cast his keen engineer’s eye over the little valley. To achieve a lake they needed to build another dam higher up.
As he surveyed the little valley, he noticed a boulder perched on a hill. A large boulder, it was embedded in an outcropping of earth and stone. Flowers and shrubs shaded it. As Mr. Canad perceived it, the boulder was doing nothing but sitting there. But it could be providing the perfect anchor for a new dam. An immense dam! With a dam at that spot, a large lake could be created. It would be his crowning achievement, a monument to himself. Indeed, what could be a better name than Lake Canad? Mr. Canad liked the sound of it so much he said it a few times.
Then he reminded himself, with some gleeful rubbing of back feet, that it was time to stop dreaming. Time to get
