summer," remarked the Babe, shaking his head thoughtfully.

"Oh, they weren't that. They used to go ashore and, in spite of their
ridiculously short legs, make most respectably long journeys through
the woods to some other stream, pretending, I suppose, that the fish
over there had a different flavor. Sometimes, too, when they came upon
a patch of smooth, mossy ground, they would have a wild romp, as if
they had just been let out of school--a sort of game of tag, in which
the father and mother played just as hard as the youngsters. Or they
would have a regular tug of war, pulling on opposite ends of a stick,
till the moss was all torn up as if a little cyclone had loafed along
that way. Then one day they came to a clay bank, something like that
one across yonder. The old ones had been there before, but not for
some time, and the clay had got all dry and hard. But the father and
mother knew very well how to fix that. When they had slid down a
couple of times with their fur all dripping the track was smooth as
oil. As for the youngsters, you may depend upon it they did not need
any coaxing or persuasion to make them believe _that_ was a good game."

"I should think not!" murmured the Babe, looking longingly over the
stream to where the wet slide glistened in the sun, and wishing that he
might try it without any regard whatever to the seat of his little
trousers.

"Taking it all together it was a pretty jolly life, I can tell you,
there in the sweet-smelling, shadowy woods and sunny waters. Then one
day all at once, as quick as falling off a log, everything was changed."

Uncle Andy paused to relight his pipe. After a few seconds the Babe's
impatience got the better of him; and before he could stop himself he