“It was just as well, however, that they got such an exaggerated idea of the numbers of their enemies.  For it was astonishing how quickly the news got around that the old otters were dead.  Toward sunset that evening, when the two lonely youngsters, puzzled and miserable, stole back to their old den under the bank, they found that a mink had dared to kill a big trout in their own pool.  There were the remains, and the presumptuous intruder’s tracks, almost at their very door.  They were indignant, and the thick hair bristled on their necks.  But, realizing suddenly how hungry they were, they did not scorn to eat the stranger’s leavings.  Then they dived into their den; and after sniffing about and whimpering lonesomely for a while, they curled themselves up close together and went to sleep.  It had been a strange and dreadful day.

“As you may imagine, these two youngsters had never yet been trained to the useful habit of sleeping with one ear open.  They had left that to their parents.  But to-night, even while they slept most soundly, something within them seemed to keep watch.  Whatever it was, suddenly it woke them.  And instantly they were tremendously wide awake.  Before they knew why they did it, they were uncurled from the ball in which they slept and, crouching side by side, glaring savagely up the narrow passage that led to their back door.

“There they saw a pair of cruel eyes, small and flaming, and set very close together, which seemed to float slowly down towards them.”

Here Uncle Andy was so inconsiderate as to pause, as if he wanted to think.  The Babe could not hold himself in.

“Was it a snake?” he demanded breathlessly.

“There you go again, interrupting,” growled Uncle Andy, most unfairly.  “And who ever heard of a snake’s eyes flaming?  But the Little Furry Ones knew what it was at once; and the hair stood straight up on their necks.  Of course they were frightened a little.  But most of all were they in a rage at such an impudent intrusion.  There was no sign of fear, I can tell you, in the low growl which came from between their long, white, snarling teeth.  And those stealthy eyes halted.  For half a minute, motionless, they studied the crouching and defiant youngsters, evidently surprised to see how big and strong they had grown.  Then, very slowly and with dignity, they withdrew and presently disappeared.  For the weasel, though perhaps the most fearless assassin that prowls the woods, is no fool.  And he saw that the otter children had grown too big for him to handle.

“The youngsters were a good deal set up, of course, by this unexpectedly easy rebuff of so venomous an enemy; but there was no more thought of sleep for them.  It made them terribly anxious, the idea of anything stealing in on them that way, by the back door.  For a long time they lay there motionless, their wide eyes staring into the dark, their ears straining to every faint, mysterious sound, their sensitive noses questioning every scent that came breathing in to them from the still night forest.  At last they heard a stealthy footfall outside the back door.  It was as light—­oh, lighter than a falling leaf.  But they heard it.  If you and I had such ears as that, maybe we could hear the grasses growing.”