“He soon saw what it was.  At the cry of the bereaved mother the two great walrus bulls had turned.  Now, with curious, choked roars, which seemed to tear their way with difficulty out of their deep chests, they came floundering back to the rescue.  The cub, a sure instinct asserting itself at once, looked behind him to see that the path of escape was clear.  Then he sat up on his haunches, his twinkling little eyes shifting back and forth between those mighty oncoming bulks and the long, gaunt, white form of his mother.

“For perhaps half a minute the old bear stood her ground, dodging the clumsy but terrific onslaughts of the cow, and dealing her two or three buffets which would have smashed in the skeleton of any creature less tough than a walrus or an elephant.  But she had no notion of risking her health and the future of her baby by cultivating any more intimate acquaintance with those two roaring mountains of blubber which were bearing down upon her.  When they were within just one more crashing plunge, she briskly drew aside, whirled about, and trotted off to join her cub.  They were really so clumsy and slow, those walruses, that she hardly cared to hurry.

“For a few yards the two bulls pursued her; so she and the cub strolled off together to a distance of some fifty paces, and there halted to see what would happen next.  Even creatures so dull-witted as those walrus bulls could see they would waste their time if they undertook to chase bears on dry land, so they turned back, grumbling under their long tusks, and joined the cow in inspecting the body of the dead calf.  Soon coming to the conclusion that it was quite too dead to be worth bothering about, they all three went floundering on after the other cows, who had by this time got their own calves safely down to the water, and were swimming about anxiously, as if they feared that the enemy might follow them even into their own element.  Then, after as brief an interval as discretion seemed to require, the old bear led the way back, sniffed at the body of the fat walrus calf, and crouched down beside it with a long woof of deepest satisfaction.  For it is not often, let me tell you, that a polar bear, ravenous after her long winter’s fast, is lucky enough to make a kill like that just at the very moment of coming out of her den.”

Uncle Andy knocked the ashes out of his pipe with that air of finality which the Child knew so well, and sometimes found so disappointing’.

“But what became of the snowhouse baby?” he urged.

“Oh,” replied Uncle Andy, getting up from the chopping-log, “you see, he was no longer a snowhouse baby, because the snowhouse was all smashed up, and also rapidly melting.  Moreover, it was no longer winter, you know; so he was just like lots of other wild babies, and went about getting into trouble, and getting out again, and growing up, till at last, when he was almost half as big as herself and perfectly well able to take care of himself, his mother chased him away and went off to find another snowhouse.”