"Or from Jim Cringle?" inquired the Babe demurely.

But Uncle Andy only frowned. He always discouraged the Babe's attempts
at raillery.

"The two Little Furry Ones," he continued, after pressing down the
tobacco in his pipe, "were born in a dry, warm, roomy den in the bank,
under the roots of an old birch that slanted out over the water. The
front door was deep under water. But as the old otters had few enemies
to dread, being both brave and powerful, they had also a back entrance
on dry land, hidden by a thicket of fir bushes. The two furry 'pups'
were at first as sprawling and helpless as newborn kittens, though of
course a good deal bigger than any kittens you have ever seen. And
being so helpless, their father and mother never left them alone. One
always stayed with them while the other went away to hunt trout or
muskrat."

"Why, what _could_ get at them in there?" interrupted the Babe.

"You see," explained Uncle Andy graciously, "either a fox or a weasel
_might_ come in by the back door--if they were hungry enough to take
the risk. Or what was much more likely, that slim, black, murderous
robber, the mink, might come swimming in by the front entrance, pop his
narrow, cruel head above the water, see the youngsters alone, and be at
their throats in a twinkling. The old otters, who were very devoted
parents, were not running any risks like that, I can tell you."

"I guess not!" agreed the Babe, wagging his head wisely.