twinkled incessantly as if it were talking to itself. At last,
apparently having decided that the Child was nothing worth taking
further notice of, it dropped on all fours, nibbled at a leaf,
discarded it, and hopped off to find more tasty provender. Its
companion, having "sized up" Uncle Andy in the same way, presently
followed. But being of the more suspicious disposition, it stopped
from time to time to glance back and assure itself that the strange,
motionless things behind the poplar sapling were not attempting to
follow it.

The Child was immensely interested. He thought of a lot of questions
to ask as soon as he should be allowed to speak, and he resolved to
remember every one of them. But just as he was getting them arranged a
small, low, long-bodied, snaky-slim, yellowish beast came gliding by
and drove them all clean out of his head. It was a weasel. It almost
bumped into the Child's feet before it noticed them. Then it jumped
back, showing its keen teeth in a soundless snarl of its narrow,
pointed muzzle, and surveyed the Child with the cruellest little eyes
that he had ever even imagined. The savage eyes stared him full in the
face, a red light like a deep-buried spark coming into them, till he
thought the creature was going to spring at his throat. Then gradually
the spark died out, as the little furry reassured itself. The
triangular face turned aside. The working, restless nose sniffed
sharply, catching the fresh scent of the two rabbits, and in the next
instant the creature was off, in long, noiseless bounds, upon the hot
trail. The Child knew enough of woodcraft to realize at once the
meaning of its sudden departure, and he murmured sympathetically in his
heart, "Oh, I do hope he won't catch them!"

All thoughts of the weasel and the rabbits, however, were speedily