"Here we are!" she cried, shaking the water off her tail as she scrambled through. Phil noticed that she was as agile in the water as she was clumsy on land, and that two toes on each foot were webbed. Inside the winter house were three young Beavers, all very wide awake and covered with brown and glossy fur. Their three little beds were nicely arranged along the side of the wall, while two vacant ones, somewhat larger, and belonging to Father and Mother Beaver, were on the other side. The centre of the chamber was left free to move about in, and was so beautifully clean that Phil was sure Mother Beaver would be as particular about muddy boots as the matron at school. He was very glad he had left his behind him--bare feet were much more comfortable. "Yes, my children," Mother Beaver was saying, as she patted each affectionately, "the time has come for us to go to the woods. Your father is exploring now, so that he may know where you can find the juiciest roots, and how far it is safe to venture. He will meet us before dusk." She busied herself in smoothing their fur, while they stared hard at Phil. Under their shining chestnut hair was a thick soft coat of greyish brown, and Mother Beaver seemed very anxious that this should lie quite flat. "They're very thin," she said, regretfully, "but then it has been a long winter, and our larder is nearly empty. We live on bark entirely when we are down here," she explained to Phil, as she made sure that all was straight before she left. "We find it very nourishing and tasty, though you might think it dry. Before the frosts come we lop off branches of willows and other trees, and sink them under layers of stones close to our houses. Last fall we laid in a larger supply than usual, for we knew the spring would be late in coming; but our neighbours had such enormous appetites that it soon went. Our neighbours? Yes--they live on the other side of our lodge; but we don't visit--it isn't our way." With a last look round she left the winter house, and though Phil swam more quickly than he had ever done before, she and her young ones were first on the river bank. "But we're good friends," she went on (Phil shook himself as she had done, and noticed with pleasure that his brown coat was dry in a moment), "and always work together in building or repairing our dams and houses. That's why they call us 'Social' Beavers. Some cousins of ours (there are not many of them, I believe) live quite alone." The young Beavers had a fine time of it that bright spring day. Phil found them most amusing play fellows, for when they had satisfied their hunger on succulent roots and tender shoots they were quite ready for any game that he suggested. They were all in the highest spirits when Father Beaver came on the scene.