It was strong with the smell of beaver.

The top of it was high and dry, and there were dozens of smoothly worn little hollows in which the beavers had taken their sun baths.

In one of these hollows Baree stretched himself out, with his eyes on the pond.

Not a ripple stirred its velvety smoothness.
Not a sound broke the drowsy stillness of the afternoon.

The beavers might have been dead or asleep, for all the stir they made.