“Just about this time a perfectly new idea flashed across the mink’s mind, and it startled him.  For the first time in his life he thought that perhaps he was a fool.  Young otters seemed to be so much older than he had imagined them, so much more unreasonable and bad-tempered, and to have so many teeth.  It was a question, he decided—­while he was being mauled around among the water weeds—­that would bear some thinking over.  He wanted to think about it right away.  There was no time like the present for digesting these new ideas.  Seeing a big root sticking out of the bank, close to the bottom, with a tremendous effort he clawed himself under it and scraped off his antagonists.  Shooting out on the other side, he darted off like an eel through the water grass, and hurried away up stream to a certain hollow log he knew, where he might lick his bites and meditate undisturbed.  The two Little Furry Ones stared after him for a moment, then crawled out upon the bank and lay down in the sunny grass.”

Uncle Andy got up with an air of decision.  “Let’s go catch some fish,” he said.  “They ought to be beginning to rise about now, over by Spring Brook.”

“But what became of the two Little Furry Ones after that?” demanded the Babe, refusing to stir.

“Well, now,” protested Uncle Andy in an injured voice, “you know I ain’t like Bill and some other folk.  I don’t know everything.  But I’ve every reason to believe that, with any kind of otter luck, they lived to grow up and have families of their own—­and taught every one of them, you may be sure, to slide down hill.  As likely as not, that very slide over yonder belongs to one of their families.  Now come along and don’t ask any more questions.”

CHAPTER II

THE BLACK IMPS OF PINE-TOP

“I think I’d like to be a bird,” murmured the Babe, wistfully gazing up at the dark green, feathery top of the great pine, certain of whose branches were tossing and waving excitedly against the blue, although there was not a breath of wind to ruffle the expanse of Silverwater.  “I think I’d like it—­rather.”  He added the qualification as a prudent after-thought, lest Uncle Andy should think him foolish.

“In summer!” suggested Uncle Andy, following the Babe’s eyes toward the agitated pine-top.

“Of course in summer!” corrected the Babe hastily.  “It must be awful to be a bird in winter!” And he shuddered.

“You’d better not say ‘of course’ in that confident way,” said Uncle Andy rather severely.  “You know so many of the birds go away south in the winter; and they manage to have a pretty jolly time of it, I should think.”

For a moment the Babe looked abashed.  Then his face brightened.

“But then, it is summer, for them, isn’t it?” said he sweetly.

Uncle Andy gave him a suspicious look, to see if he realized the success of his retort.  “Had me there!” he thought to himself.  But the Babe’s face betrayed no sign of triumph, nothing but that eager appetite for information of which Uncle Andy so highly approved.