silently, and the mother did not happen to see.  After this there would never be more than two or three days go by without the sudden disappearance of one or another of the litter, which, after all, kept the burrow from becoming too crowded.  The youngsters were getting so big by now that their parents began to lose all interest in them.  It became time for them to be weaned.  But as the interest of the owls had been increasing as that of the parents diminished, it happened by this time that there was not one left to wean.  So the duty of the furry little mother, with her silly nose and her big, childish eyes, was singularly simplified.  It was no use making more trouble with her unfriendly guests over a matter that was now past remedy.  So all was overlooked, and the burrow settled down once more to the harmony of mutual aversion.”

Uncle Andy stopped and proceeded to refill his pipe, waiting for the Child’s verdict.  The Child’s face wore the grieved look of one who has had an illusion shattered.

“I shan’t ever believe a word Bill tells me again,” said he, with injured decision.

“Oh,” said Uncle Andy, “you mustn’t go so far as that.  Bill tells lots of interesting things that are true enough as far as they go.  You must learn to discriminate.”

The Child did not know what “discriminate” meant, and he was at the moment too depressed to ask.  But he resolved firmly to learn it, whatever it was, rather than be so deceived again.

CHAPTER XII

THE BABY AND THE BEAR

A stiffish breeze was blowing over Silverwater.  Close inshore, where the Babe was fishing, the water was fairly calm—­just sufficiently ruffled to keep the trout from distinguishing too clearly that small, intent figure at the edge of the raft.  But out in the middle of the lake the little whitecaps were chasing each other boisterously.

The raft was a tiny one, of four logs pinned together with two lengths of spruce pole.  It was made for just the use which the Babe was now putting it to.  A raft was so much more convenient than a boat or a canoe when the water was still and one had to make long, delicate casts in order to drop one’s fly along the edges of the lily pods.  But the Babe was not making long, delicate casts.  On such a day as this the somewhat unsophisticated trout of Silverwater demanded no subtleties.  They were hungry, and they were feeding close inshore, and the Babe was having great sport.  The fish were not large, but they were clean, trim-jawed, bright fellows, some of them not far short of the half-pound; and the only blue-bottle in the ointment of the Babe’s exultation was that Uncle Andy was not on hand to see his triumph.  To be sure, the proof would be in the pan that night, browned in savory cornmeal after the fashion of the New Brunswick backwoods.  But the Babe had in him the makings of a true sportsman, and for him a trout had just one brief moment of unmatchable perfection—­the moment when it was taken off the hook and held up to be gloated over or coveted.