Mr. Bubble, the young Beaver
Goes to the bank of the river,
He unties his tiny boat,
Keeps it near the bank afloat.
 
Hardly could he cut some cane
When he meets a lonely crane.
He was startled by the whish
But the crane takes out a fish.
 
He removes with his long beak
The tough stems that rub and prick.
He ties bundles with a line,
Picks a fish from time to time.

Mr. Beaver leaves the reeds,
Fish is rather what he needs.
In his pouch he stuffs them tight,
He thinks 'bout a soup tonight!