Beaver loved to build. She built dams, and lodges, and little stick fences. She was good at it. Her tail went slap, slap, slap against the mud when she was pleased.
One morning, she noticed Porcupine sitting by the stream, looking sad.
"What's wrong?" asked Beaver.
"I would like to visit the blueberry patch," said Porcupine. "But it is on the other side of the stream, and I do not like water. It makes my quills droop."
Beaver looked at the stream. It was not very wide, and not very deep. But she could see that, to a porcupine, it might look big.
"I will build you a bridge," she said.
"Oh, you do not have to," said Porcupine.
"I would like to," said Beaver. And she did.
She chose a long, strong log, and rolled it to the edge of the stream. She gnawed off the bumpy bits. Gnaw, gnaw, gnaw. She laid smaller sticks across it, side by side, so there was something flat to walk on. She packed mud in the gaps. Slap, slap, slap.
When she had finished, there was a neat little bridge, just the right width for a porcupine.
"Try it," said Beaver.
Porcupine put one foot on the bridge. It held. He put another. It held. He took a deep breath, and walked across, one careful step at a time, with his quills all standing up.
At the other side, he turned around. "I did it," he said, in surprise.
"You did it," said Beaver.
Porcupine picked blueberries until his paws were purple. When he was done, he brought a whole leaf full of them back across the bridge, and set them in front of Beaver.
"For the best builder in the forest," he said.
They sat together at the edge of the stream, eating blueberries, while the evening light turned the water gold.
"Bridges are funny," said Porcupine. "They are only logs and sticks. But they make the other side feel closer."
"Yes," said Beaver. "I think that is what kindness is, too."
When the stars came out, Beaver slid into her lodge and curled up warm. Porcupine went home across the bridge, step, step, step, and was not afraid at all.