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