Children of the Wild. Sir Charles G. D. Roberts
danger was past."
"And she could never come!" murmured the Babe thoughtfully.
"Well, she didn't," snorted Uncle Andy, the discourager of sentiment. Fairly reeking with sentiment himself, at heart, he disliked all manifestation of it in himself or others. He liked it left to the imagination. "They never stirred for an hour or more," he went on. "Then at last they stole out and began looking everywhere for those lost parents. All about the slide they hunted—among the bushes at the top, in the water and the rushes at the bottom—but they found nothing. For the man had come in his canoe and carried off his victims.
"All day long the two Little Furry Ones continued their search. But you would not have known them for the same creatures as those which had started out that morning. Then they had played carelessly and gone boldly, thinking not of enemies and fearing none. Now they crept noiselessly, sniffing this way and that, and never showing their noses outside a thicket without first taking observations. For life was now a very different matter with them. Never in all their lives before had they come across so many hostile and threatening smells as they encountered this one afternoon. But then, to be sure, they had never looked for them before. They were all the time running into trails of mink, or weasel, or wildcat; and it seemed to them as if the world had suddenly become quite full of foxes. They were painfully surprised, for they had never thought there were so many disagreeable creatures in the world. You see, being so young and inexperienced, it never occurred to them that one fox or one weasel could make quite a lot of trails. So they kept having palpitations every other minute.
"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."
"That would be fun," muttered the Babe.
"And then," continued Uncle Andy, "they smelt a faint, musky scent. I don't think it would be fun if we had such noses as that. We'd smell so many smells we did not want to. Eh? And I tell you, the youngsters did not want to smell that smell. It was a fox. They couldn't fight a fox. Not yet. With their hearts in their throats they backed softly down to the front door, and waited, ready to slip into the water.
"But fortunately the fox was cunning, and proud of it. He had heard a rumor that the old otters were dead. But he was much too cunning to believe all he heard. It would be just like them, he thought, to pretend they were dead, so that he might come in and get caught. Assuredly there was a good, strong, live otter smell coming up out of that hole. He poked his nose down and gave a very loud sniff, then cocked his ear sharply and listened. Nothing stirred. Had it been only the little ones, down there all by themselves, he thought, they would have been frightened enough to jump. So, it was plainly a trap. Waving his great bushy tail complaisantly, he tiptoed off to hunt rabbits, pleased with the notion that somebody else was going to get taken in.
"The youngsters stayed where they were, close beside the water. The first glimmer of dawn, striking on the misty surface of the pool outside, struggled up into the den. The youngsters turned to greet it, with the thought, perhaps, that it was time to go fishing. Just at this moment the mink, who had been looking for the remnants of his trout where he had left them on the bank (he was a fool, of course, ever to have left them there), came diving into the deep front door of the den to avenge himself on the unprotected little ones. His slim black form was visible as it rose through the greying water. As the pointed head popped above the surface, it was confronted by two grinning heads which snarled savagely in its face and snapped at it in fearless defiance. The mink was surprised and pained. He had expected to find those two youngsters huddled together and already half frightened to death just at being alone. He had not expected to find them half so big. In fact, there at home, and guarding their own domain, they looked to him much bigger than they really were. A very small man, you know, may look about seven feet high when he stands in his own door and tells you to keep out. Eh, what? Well, the mink suddenly felt sort of bashful about intruding. He discreetly withdrew, without thinking to make inquiry about the fish. And his sudden diffidence was very fortunate for the two Little Furry Ones. For the mink, let me tell you, would have been a tough proposition for them to tackle.
"This sudden departure of the terrible mink made the two youngsters feel almost bigger than was good for them. But the otter, fortunately, is born cautious, no matter how courageous he may be. So the youngsters were not spoiled by their good luck. They waited a few minutes, to give the mink a chance to get good and far away. Then they dived forth into the misty pool. Never before had they seen one quarter so many fish in it. They breakfasted very well on a couple of plump, silvery chub—though they would have preferred trout, of course—and then, just for sport, began killing as many as they could, only swallowing a bite out of each, from the thick, flaky meat behind the head. They were young, you see—though not more foolish than lots of sportsmen we hear about. In a very few minutes, of course, every fish that could get away had got away as far as possible from that deadly pool. And then the two reckless fishermen crawled ashore and began a tug of war with a stick. They could just not help playing, you see, any more than kittens or puppies could; though they were still lonely and anxious. And in their play they kept very close to the water's edge, in case the fox should happen along to inquire after their parents.
"The fox did not turn up. But after some time they caught sight of a great, dark bird winnowing his way slowly above the tree tops. Just to be on the safe side, they got into the water so quickly that one of them, to save time, threw himself in backwards. They did not know that it was