"There was just one point in the raft, one only, that was farther away than any other part from those dreadful, seething-crested black surges—and that was the very center. The little bear backed toward it, whimpering and shivering, from his corner.

"From her corner, directly opposite, the baby too backed toward it, hitching herself along and eyeing the waves in the silence of the terror. She arrived at the same instant. Each was conscious of something alive, and warm, and soft, and comfortable—with motherly suggestion in the contact. The baby turned with a sob and flung her arms about the bear. The bear, snuggling his narrow black snout under her arm as if to shut out the fearful sight of the waves, made futile efforts to crawl into a lap that was many sizes too small to accommodate him.

"In some ten minutes more the wild ledges were past. The surges sank to foaming swirls, and the raft once more journeyed smoothly. The two little voyagers, recovering from their ecstasy of fear, looked at each other in surprise—and the bear, slipping off the baby's lap, squatted on his furry haunches and eyed her with a sort of guilty apprehension.

"Here it was that the baby showed herself of the dominant breed. The bear was still uneasy and afraid of her. But she, for her part, had no more dread of him whatever. Through all her panic she had been dimly conscious that he had been in the attitude of seeking her protection. Now she was quite ready to give it—quite ready to take possession of him, in fact, as really a sort of glorified Teddy Bear come to life; and she felt her authority complete. Half-coaxingly, but quite firmly, and with a note of command in her little voice which the animal instinctively understood, she said: 'Turn here, Teddy!' and pulled him back unceremoniously to her lap. The bear, with the influence of her comforting warmth still strong upon him, yielded. It was nice, when one was frightened and had lost one's mother, to be cuddled so softly by a creature that was evidently friendly, in spite of the dreaded man smell that hung about her. His mother had tried to teach him that that smell was the most dangerous of all the warning smells his nostrils could encounter. But the lesson had been most imperfectly learned, and now was easily forgotten. He was tired, moreover, and wanted to go to sleep. So he snuggled his glossy, roguish face down into the baby's lap and shut his eyes. And the baby, filled with delight over such a novel and interesting plaything, shook her yellow hair down over his black fur and crooned to him a soft, half-articulate babble of endearment.

"The swollen flood was comparatively quiet now, rolling full and turbid over the drowned lands, and gleaming sullenly under a blaze of sun. The bear having gone to sleep, the baby presently followed his example, her rosy face falling forward into his woodsy-smelling black fur. At last the raft, catching in the trees of a submerged islet, came softly to a stop, so softly as not to awaken the little pair of sleepers.

"In the meantime two distraught mothers, quite beside themselves with fear and grief, were hurrying downstream in search of the runaway raft and its burden.

"The mother of the baby, when she saw the flood sweeping the raft away, was for some moments perilously near to flinging herself in after it. Then her backwoods common sense came to the rescue. She reflected, in time, that she could not swim—while the raft, on the other hand, could and did, and would carry her treasure safely enough for a while. Wading waist deep through the drowned fields behind the house, she gained the uplands, and rushed dripping along the ridge to the next farm, where, as she knew, a boat was kept. This farmhouse, perched on a bluff, was safe from all floods; and the farmer was at home, congratulating himself. Before he quite knew what was happening, he found himself being dragged to the boat—for his neighbor was a strenuous woman, whom few in the settlement presumed to argue with, and it was plain to him now that she was laboring under an unwonted excitement. It was not until he was in the boat, with the oars in his hands, that he gathered clearly what had happened. Then, however, he bent to the oars with a will which convinced even that frantic and vehement mother that nothing better could be demanded of him. Dodging logs and wrecks and uprooted trees, the boat went surging down the flood, while the woman sat stiffly erect in the stern, her face white as death, her eyes staring far ahead, while from time to time she muttered angry phrases which sounded as if the baby had gone off on a pleasure trip without leave and was going to be called to sharp account for it.

"The other mother had the deeper and more immediate cause for anguish. Coming to the bank where she had left her cub in the tree, she found the bank caved in and the tree and cub together vanished. Unlike the baby's mother, she could swim; but she knew that she could run faster and farther. In stoic silence, but with a look of piteous anxiety in her eyes, she started on a gallop down the half-drowned shores, clambering the heaps of debris, and swimming the deep, still estuaries where the flood had backed up into the valleys of the tributary brooks.

"At last, with laboring lungs and pounding heart, she came out upon a low, bare bluff overlooking the flood, and saw, not a hundred yards out, the raft with its two little passengers asleep. She saw her cub lying curled up with his head in the baby's arms, his black fur mixed with the baby's yellow locks. Her first thought was that he was dead—that the baby had killed him and was carrying him off. With a roar of pain and vengeful fury, she rushed down the bluff and hurled herself into the water.

"Not till then did she notice that a boat was approaching the raft—a boat with two human beings in it. It was very much nearer the raft than she was—and traveling very much faster than she could swim. Her savage heart went near to bursting with rage and fear. She knew those beings in the boat could have but one object—the slaughter, or at least the theft, of her little one. She swam frantically, her great muscles heaving as she shouldered the waves apart. But in that race she was hopelessly beaten from the first.

"The boat reached the raft, bumped hard upon it—and the baby's mother leaped out while the man, with his boathook, held the two craft close together. The woman, thrusting the cub angrily aside, clutched the baby hysterically to her breast, sobbing over her and muttering strange threats of what she would do to her when she got her home to punish her for giving so much trouble. The baby did not seem in the least disturbed by these threats—to which the man in the boat was listening with a grin—but when her mother started to carry her to the boat she reached out her arms rebelliously for the cub.

"'Won't go wivout my Teddy Bear,' she announced with tearful decision.

"'Ye'd better git a move on, Mrs. Murdoch,' admonished the man in the boat, 'Here's the old b'ar comin' after her young un, an' I've a notion she ain't exactly ca'm.'

"The woman hesitated. She was willing enough to indulge the baby's whim, the more so as she felt in her heart that it was in some respects her fault that the raft had got away. She measured the distance to that formidable black head cleaving the waters some thirty yards away.

"'Well,' said she, 'we may's well take the little varmint along, if baby wants him.' And she stepped over to pick up the now shrinking and anxious cub.

"'You quit that an' get into the boat quick!" ordered the man in a voice of curt authority. The woman whipped round and stared at him in amazement. She was accustomed to having people defer to her; and Jim Simmons, in particular, she had always considered such a mild-mannered man,

"'Get in!' reiterated the man in a voice that she found herself obeying in spite of herself.

"'D'ye want to see baby et up afore yer eyes?" he continued sternly, hiding a grin beneath the sandy droop of his big mustache. And with the baby kicking and wailing and stretching out her arms to the all-unheeding cub, he rowed rapidly away just as the old bear dragged herself up upon the raft.

"Then Mrs. Murdoch's wrath found words, and she let it flow forth while the man listened as indifferently as if it had been the whistling of the wind. At last she stopped.

"'Anything more to say, ma'am?' he asked politely.

"Mrs. Murdoch snorted a negative.

"'Then all I hev to say,' he went on, 'is that to my mind mothers has rights. That there b'ar's a mother, an' she's got feelin's, like you, an' she's come after her young un, like you—an' I wasn't a-goin' to see her robbed of him.'"



CHAPTER XIII

THE LITTLE SLY ONE

From away up near the top of the rocky hill that rose abruptly across the inlet came a terrible screech, piercing and startling.

"Gee!" said the Babe, slipping closer to Uncle Andy, where they sat together on a log by the water. "I'm glad that's away over there! What is it, Uncle Andy?"

"Lynx!" replied Uncle Andy, puffing at his pipe.

"What did he go and do that for?"

"Well," said Uncle Andy presently, "if you'll try your level best to listen without interrupting, I'll tell you."

"I'm not interrupting!" protested the Babe.

"Of course not!" agreed Uncle Andy. "Well, you see, the lynx is the slyest thing that goes on four legs. You think, maybe, a fox is sly. That fool guide Bill's told you that. Now, a fox is sly when he chooses to be, and when he wants to be impudent he'd sass King Solomon to his face. But a lynx is just born sly, and can't even think of outgrowing it."

"I don't see anything sly about that noise he made just now!" said the Babe.

"There you go!" exclaimed Uncle Andy. Then he stopped and thought for quite a while. But as the Babe never spoke a word he soon went on again.

"You see, I was just coming to that. That awful screech is one of the slyest things he does. That fellow has been hunting a while without catching anything. Creeping, creeping on his great furry feet, making no more sound than the shadow of the leaf on the moss; for all his quietness he hasn't had any luck. So at last, hiding behind a bush, he let out that screech just to start things moving. Did you notice how quick it stopped? Well, he knew if there was any rabbit or partridge asleep near by it would be so startled it would jump and make a noise; and then he'd be on it before it could more than get its eyes open. Don't you call that sly?"

The Babe merely nodded, being resolved not to interrupt.

"Good," said Uncle Andy. "You're improving a lot. Now, let me tell you, the slyest thing of all is the Little Sly One, which those who know everything call the lynx kitten. The Little Sly One is good enough for us to call her, for she is even slyer when she is a she than when he is a he. Is that quite clear?"

"Of course!" exclaimed the Babe.

"Well, the Little Sly One was a lonely orphan. She had had a mother and a sister and two brothers; but a man with a dog and a gun had happened on the mouth of the cave in which they lived. The dog had hastily gone in. There was a terrible noise in the cave all of a sudden, and the dog would have hastily come out again, but for the fact that he was no longer able to come or go anywhere. When the noise had stopped so that he could see in, the man had shot the mother lynx. Then he had shot the dog, because that was the only thing to do. And because he was very sorry and angry about the dog, he also shot the lynx kittens, where they crowded, spitting savagely, at the back of the cave. But there were only three of them at the back of the cave. The Little Sly One, instead of bothering to spit when there were other things more important to be done, had run up the wall and hidden in a crevice, so still she didn't even let her tail twitch. Of course, like all her family, she didn't really have a tail, but merely a little blunt stub, perhaps two inches long. But that stub could have twitched, and wanted desperately to twitch, only she would not let it. She always seemed to think she had a tail, and, if she had had, it would have stuck out so the man could have seen it, the crevice being such a very small one. You see how sly she was!

"Of course, the Little Sly One was lonely for the next few days, but she was kept so busy hunting breakfasts, and lunches, and dinners, and suppers that she hadn't time to fret much. She was something like a three-quarters-grown kitten now, except for her having no tail to speak of, and curious, fierce-looking tufts to her ears, and pale eyes so savage and bright that they seemed as if they could look through a log even if it wasn't hollow.

"Also, her feet were twice as big as a kitten's would have been, and her hindquarters were high and powerful, like a rabbit's. Her soft, bright fur was striped like a tiger's—though by the time she was grown up it would have changed to a light, shadowy, brownish gray, hard to detect in the dim thickets.

"The Little Sly One was so sly and so small that she had no difficulty in creeping up on birds and woodmice, to say nothing of grasshoppers, beetles and crickets. But one day she learned, to her great annoyance, that she was not the only thing in the woods that could do this creeping up. She had been watching a long time at the door of a woodmouse burrow, under a tree, when suddenly she seemed to feel danger behind her. Without waiting to look round, being so sly, she shot into the air and landed on the trunk of a tree. As she madly clawed up it, the jaws of a leaping fox came together with a snap just about three inches behind her, just, in fact, where an ordinary tail would have been. So, you see, her tail really saved her life, just by her not having any!

"Well, when she was safely up the tree, of course she couldn't help spitting and growling down at the hungry fox for a minute or two, while he looked up at her with his mouth watering. Then, however, she curled herself up in a crotch and pretended to go to sleep. And then the fox went away, because he didn't know when she would wake up, and he didn't want to wait! You see how sly she was!

"But once it happened she was not so sly as she might have been. You see, after all, in spite of her fierce eyes, she was still only a kitten of a lynx; and she had to play once in a while. At such times she would pounce on a leaf as if it were a mouse, or just tumble all over herself pretending she had a real tail and was trying to catch it. So, of course, when she happened to pass under a low, bushy branch and caught sight of a slim, smooth, black tip of a tail, no bigger than your little finger, hanging down from it, she naturally couldn't resist the temptation. She pranced up on her hind legs and clawed that black tip of a tail—clawed it hard!

"The next instant, before she could prance away again, the other end of that slim, black tip swung out of the branch and whipped itself round and round her body, and a black head, with sharp fangs in it, hit her biff, biff, biff! on the nose. It was the tail of a black snake she had tried to play with."

"Gee! But she wasn't sly that time!" exclaimed the Babe, shaking his head wisely.

"The black snake wasn't poisonous, of course," continued Uncle Andy, "but his fangs hurt the Little Sly One's nose, I can tell you. But the worst of it was, how he could squeeze! Those black coils tightened, tightened, till the Little Sly One, who in her first fright had set up a terrific spitting and yowling, found she had no breath to waste on noise. Her ribs felt as if they would crack. But, fortunately for her, her teeth and claws were available for business. She fell to biting, and ripping, and clawing, till the black snake realized it was no Teddy Bear he had got hold of. For a minute or two he stood it, squeezing harder and harder. Then he wanted to let go.

"And this, I think, was where he made a mistake. As he relaxed his deadly coils and swung his head round, the Little Sly One struck out with both forepaws at once, and succeeded in catching the hissing, darting head. She caught it fairly, and her long, knife-sharp claws sank in, holding it like a carpenter's vise. The next minute she had her teeth in the back of the snake's neck, chewing and tearing.

"Now, the snake's tail was still around the branch, so he tried furiously to swing the Little Sly One up and crush her against the branch. But she was too heavy and too strong. So he came down, instead, and thrashed wildly among the leaves, trying to get a new grip on her. It was no use, however. He had made too big a mistake. And the next minute he kind of straightened out. The Little Sly One had bitten through his backbone, just behind the head.

"Well, now, you see, she had a good square meal before her. But, being very sly, she first looked all round to see if anyone was coming to dine with her. There was no one in sight, but she knew how curiously things get about sometimes. So she growled, on general principles, grabbed the snake in her teeth, and climbed up the tree so she might eat in peace.

"The tail was no good to eat, so she bit it off and scornfully let it drop. If that black snake hadn't had a tail, he would never have been eaten by a kitten lynx; so the Little Sly One, as she considered this point, and also thought of the fox, said to herself: 'Well, maybe my tail doesn't amount to much, after all. But there doesn't seem to be any luck in tails, anyway.'

"For all that, things in general were keeping her so very, very busy the Little Sly One felt lonely and homesick at times. And especially she felt the need of some kind of a nest which she could call her very own, where she could curl herself up and go to sleep without fear of unpleasant interruptions.

"This sort of thing, as you may imagine, was not to be found every day of the week. Most such places had owners, and the Little Sly One was not yet big enough and strong enough to turn the owners out. If she had been big enough— Well, you see, she hadn't any more conscience than just enough to get along with comfortably.

"One fine day, soon after her adventure with the black snake, her search for a home of her own brought her out into the warm sunshine of a little, deserted clearing. It was an old lumber camp, all grown up with tall grass and flowering weeds. The weeds and grass crowded up around the very threshold of the old gray log cabin.

"The Little Sly One stopped short, blinking in the strong light and sniffing cautiously. There was no smell of danger—none whatever, but a scent came to her nose that she thought was quite the nicest scent in the world.

"Where did it come from? Oh, there is was—that bunch of dull-green weeds! Forgetting prudence, forgetting everything, she ran forward and began rolling herself over and over in ecstasy in the bed of strong-smelling weeds."

"Catnip!" suggested the Babe.

"Of course!" agreed Uncle Andy impatiently. "What else could it be?

"The Little Sly One had never heard tell of catnip, but she knew right off it was something good for every kind of cat. When she had had quite enough of it, she felt kind of light and silly, and not afraid of anything. So, as bold as you please, she marched right up to the cabin.

"The door was shut. She climbed upon the roof. There was an old bark chimney, with a great hole rotted in its base. She looked in.

"It was pleasantly shadowy inside, with a musty smell and no sign of danger. She dropped upon a narrow shelf. From the shelf, sniffing and glancing this way and that, she sprang to a kind of wider shelf close under the eaves.

"That was a bunk, of course, where one of the lumbermen used to sleep, though she didn't know that. It was full of old dry hay, very warmy and cozy. And the hay, as the Little Sly One observed at once, was full of mice.

"She pounced on one at once and ate it. Decidedly, this was the place for her. She curled herself up in the warm hay and went to sleep without fear of any enemies coming to disturb her."

"But what would she do when the lumbermen came back?" demanded the Babe anxiously.

"By that time," answered Uncle Andy, putting away his pipe and rising to go, "she would no longer be the Little Sly One! She'd be big enough to take care of herself—and run away as soon as she heard them coming."



CHAPTER XIV

THE DARING OF STRIPES TERROR-TAIL

"What would you do if a bear came at you, Uncle Andy?" inquired the Babe.

"Run," said Uncle Andy promptly, "unless I had a gun!"

The Babe thought deeply for a moment.

"And what would you do if a little, teeny, black-and-white striped skunk came at you?" he asked.

"Run like sixty!" responded Uncle Andy, still more promptly.

"But a skunk's so little!" persisted the Babe. "Will he bite?"

"Bite!" retorted Uncle Andy scornfully. "He doesn't have to. It appears to me you don't know skunks very well!"

"Huh!" said the Babe. "I've smelt 'em. But smells can't hurt anybody."

"With your notions of skunks," answered Uncle Andy, "you're going to get yourself into a heap of trouble one of these days. I'd better tell you about what happened once when a small young skunk, out walking all by himself in the dewy twilight, happened to meet a large young bear."

Now, the Babe had a great respect for bears.

"Huh!" said he scornfully. "What could he do to a bear?"

"The little skunk's name," said Uncle Andy, paying no heed to the interruption, "was Stripes Terror-Tail. He was a pretty fellow, black and glossy, with two clear white stripes down his back on each side of his backbone. His tail was long and bushy, and carried high in a graceful curve; and he was about the size of a half-grown kitten.

"Generally he went hunting with the rest of his family, for the Terror-Tails are affectionate and fond of each other's companionship. But each one does just as he likes, in his easy way; so on this particular evening little Stripes had strolled off by himself over the dewy hillocks, catching fat crickets in the dim twilight, and hoping every minute that he might find a ground sparrow's nest under some bush."

"Did he rob birds' nests?" asked the Babe, remembering that this, for boys, was one of the deadly sins.

"He certainly did!" said Uncle Andy, who didn't like to be interrupted. "That is, when he had a chance. Well, as luck would have it, a young bear was out nosing around the hillocks that evening, amusing himself with the fat crickets. He wasn't very hungry, being chock full of the first blueberries.

"He would sit back on his haunches, like a tremendous, overgrown black puppy, with his head tilted to one side, his ears cocked shrewdly, and a twinkle in his little dark eyes; and with one furry forepaw he would pat a thick bunch of grass till the frightened crickets came scurrying out to see what was the matter. Then he would almost fall over himself trying to scoop them all up at once—and while he was chewing those he'd caught he'd look as disappointed as anything over those that got away.

"Well, when he got tired of crickets he thought he'd look for a bird's nest. He came to a wide, flat, spreading juniper bush, just the kind that might have a bird's nest under it; and as he nosed around it he came face to face with little Stripes. You see, they were both after the same thing, and both had the same idea about the best place to look for it.

"Now, that young bear's education had been terribly neglected. He didn't know any more about skunks than you do. So he thought, maybe the soft little black-and-white thing with the fluffy tail carried so airily might be just as good to eat as birds' eggs—besides being more filling, of course.

"He would have grabbed little Stripes right off, had the latter tried to run away. But as Stripes showed no sign of any such intention, the bear hesitated. After all, there didn't seem to be any great hurry! He put out a big paw to slap the stranger, but changed his mind and drew it back again, the stranger seemed so unconcerned. It was decidedly queer, he thought to himself, that a little scrap of a creature like that should be taking things so easy when he was around. He began to feel insulted.

"As for Stripes, nothing was farther from his mind than running away from the big black creature that had suddenly appeared in front of him. It was not for a plump, leisurely little skunk to be taking violent exercise on a hot night. Yet he didn't want to walk right over the bear—not at all. And he had no intention of making things disagreeable for the clumsy-looking stranger."

"Huh, what could he do to him?" interrupted the Babe again. He had the greatest faith in bears.

"Will you wait!" groaned Uncle Andy. "But first let me explain to you the peculiar weapon with which Stripes, and all the Terror-Tail family, do their fighting when they have to fight—which they are quite too polite to do unnecessarily. Some distance below his bushy, graceful tail, sunken between the strong muscles of his thighs, Stripes had a shallow pit, or sac, of extraordinarily tough skin containing a curious gland which secreted an oil of terrible power.

"The strong muscles surrounding this sac kept the mouth of it always so tightly closed that not an atom could get out to soil the little owner's clean, dainty fur, or cause the slightest smell. In fact, Stripes was altogether one of the cleanest and daintiest and most gentlemanly of all the wild creatures. But when he had to, he could contract those muscles around the oil sac with such violence that the deadly oil—blinding and suffocating—would be shot forth to a distance of several feet, right into the face of the enemy. And that, let me tell you, was never good for the enemy!"

"Why?" demanded the Babe.

But Uncle Andy only eyed him scornfully. "When Stripes, quite civilly, looked at the bear, and then proceeded to smell around under the juniper bush for that bird's nest, which didn't seem to be there, the bear was much puzzled. He put out his paw again—and again drew it back.

"Then he said 'Wah!' quite loud and sharp, to see if that would frighten the imperturbable stranger. But Stripes didn't seem to mind noises like that. His bright, intelligent eyes were on the bear all the time, you know, though he seemed to be so busy hunting for that bird's nest.

"'Pooh!' said the bear to himself, 'he's just plain idiot, that's what's the matter with him. I'll eat him, anyway!' and he bounced forward, with paw uplifted, intending to gather Stripes as he would a fat cricket."

Here Uncle Andy was so inconsiderate as to pause and relight his pipe. The Babe clutched his arm.

"Well," he went on presently, "just at this moment Stripes made as if he was going to run away, after all. He whisked round and jumped about two feet, and his fine tail flew up over his back, and in that very instant the bear thought the whole side of the hill had struck him in the face.

"He stopped with a bump, his nose went straight up in the air, and he squalled: 'Wah-ah! Wah—' But in the middle of these remarks he choked and strangled and started pawing wildly at his nose, trying to get his breath.

"His eyes were shut tight, and that deadly oil clung like glue. His paws couldn't begin to get it off, and so he fell to rooting his nose in the turf like a pig, and plowing the grass with his whole face, fairly standing on his head in his efforts, all the time coughing and gurgling as if he was having a fit.

"His behavior, in fact, was perfectly ridiculous; but there was no one there to laugh at it but Stripes, and he was too polite. He just strolled on quietly to another bush, and kept looking for that bird's nest.

"At last the bear, what with pawing and rooting, managed to get his breath and open his eyes. He wallowed a bit more, and then sat up, his nose full of dirt, and moss and grass hanging all over his face. He was a sight, I tell you! And how he did dislike himself!

"As he sat there, thinking how he'd ever get away from himself, he caught sight of Stripes, strolling off quietly over the brown hillocks. Sitting back on his haunches, he blinked at the little, leisurely black-and-white figure.

"'And to think I was going to eat that!' he said to himself sadly."



CHAPTER XV

DAGGER BILL AND THE WATER BABIES

"What's that?" demanded the Babe nervously, as a peal of wild, crazy laughter rang out over the surface of the lake.

"Why, don't you know what that is yet?" Said Uncle Andy with a superior air. "That's old Dagger Bill, the big black-and-white loon. Sounds as if he was terribly amused, doesn't he? But he's only calling to his big black-and-white mate, or the two little Dagger Bills they hatched out in the spring."

"What does he do?" asked the Babe.

"I don't know much about that fellow," answered Uncle Andy. "Now you see him, and now you don't. Mostly you don't; and, when you do, as likely as not it's only his snaky black head, with its sharp dagger of a bill, stuck up out of the water to keep track of you. He's most unsociable. If anyone tells you he knows all about a loon, you wink to yourself and pretend you are not listening. But I'll tell you who do know something about old Dagger Bill—the Water Babies.

"Who're the Water Babies?" demanded the Babe.

"Why don't you know that? The little muskrats, of course, that live in the warm, dry, dark nest under the dome of their mud house, out in the water—the house with its doors so far under water that no one can get into it without diving and swimming."

"It must be cozy and awfully safe," said the Babe, who began to want a place like that himself.

"Yes, fine!" agreed Uncle Andy. "And safe from everything but the mink; and if he came in by one door, there was always another door open for them to get out by, so quick that the mink could never see their tails.

"Old Dagger Bill, of course, could never get into the house of the Water Babies, for all his wonderful swimming and diving, because he was so big—as big as a goose. But, as a rule, he wouldn't want to bother the Water Babies. Fish were much more to Dagger Bill's taste than young muskrat; and he could swim so fast under water that few fish ever escaped him, once he got after them.

"This summer, however, things were different at Long Pond. Hitherto it had fairly swarmed with fish—lake trout, suckers, chub, red fins, and so on. But that spring some scoundrel had dynamited the waters for the sake of the big lake trout. Few fish had survived the outrage. And even so clever a fisherman as Dagger Bill would have gone hungry most of the time had he not been clever enough to vary his bill of fare.

"'If we can't have all the bread we want,' he said to the family, 'we must try to get along on cake!'"

"Dagger Bill might get bread from some camp," interrupted the Babe thoughtfully, being a matter-of-fact child. "But what could he know about cake, Uncle Andy?"

"Oh, come on! You know what I mean!" protested Uncle Andy, aggrieved at the Babe's lack of a sense of humor. "You're too particular, you are! You know bread meant fish with Dagger Bill—and cake meant things like winkles and frogs, and watermice, and—Water Babies, of course!

"Well, you know, it was no joke hunting the Water Babies, for the old muskrats could fight, and would, and did! And after Dagger Bill and his family had breakfasted on two or three Water Babies, there was great excitement in all the muskrat homes.

"Dagger Bill was a new enemy, and they were not quite sure how to manage him. The mink they knew, the fox they knew, and the noiseless, terrible eagle owl, and the swooping hawk. All these they had their tricks for evading. And the savage pike they would sometimes fight in his own element.

"But Dagger Bill, swimming under water like a fish, and spearing them from beneath with the deadly javelin of his beak, this was a new and dreadfully upsetting danger. Furry heads got close together, and there was a terrible lot of squeaking and squealing before anyone could make up his mind what to do. And meanwhile Dagger Bill was feeling quite pleased, because he had found out that Water Babies were good—and safe!—to eat.

"Now the Water Babies, I must tell you, had two nests—one in the waterhouse, a few yards out from shore, and one at the end of the burrow leading up into the dry bank. Their favorite amusement, as a rule, was playing tag in the quiet water around the house, sometimes on the surface, sometimes beneath it. They would catch and nip each other by the tails or the hind legs, and sometimes grapple and drag each other down, for all the world like a lot of boys in swimming—but how they could swim! You'd give your eye teeth to swim like they could."

"Bet your boots, Uncle Andy," agreed the Babe enthusiastically. "Specially these teeth, 'cause they're my first, and I'll lose 'em soon, anyway."

"Huh!" grunted Uncle Andy, looking at him suspiciously. "But, as I was saying, the Water Babies could swim. They were no match for Dagger Bill, however, who was quicker than a fish. And when Dagger Bill took to hunting Water Babies, it was no longer safe for them to play far from home. They would get themselves well nipped by their relations, I can tell you, whenever they went outside the little patch of shallow water between the house and the bank.

"Now the sharpness of Dagger Bill's eyes was something terrible. From away across the lake, where no muskrat could see him at all, he could see the ripple made by the brown nose of the littlest muskrat swimming. So one day, when the Water Babies were playing tag in what was really, you know, nothing more nor less than their own back yard, he saw the swift ripples and splashes crossing and recrossing—and he laughed! You know how he laughed.

"And when the muskrats heard that wild laughter, they bobbed up their furry heads, those in the water; and those on land sat up like squirrels to listen, and all were as delighted as possible because the sound was so very far away! Then the Water Babies all began to play about as boldly as you please, because they knew Dagger Bill was away over at the other side of the lake.

"But do you suppose he really was?

"Not much! The moment he was done laughing he dived, and swam as hard as he could straight across the lake, under water. He swam and he swam, a sharp, black-and-white wedge rushing through the golden deep, as long as he could hold his breath. When he could not hold it a moment longer he came up, stuck his bill just above water, took a long breath, and dived again. He was halfway across the lake when he came up that time. Next time he was all the way across; but, being very cunning indeed, he came up under a grassy bank, where his black bill was hidden among the stems.

"He was not more than twenty paces now from the place where the Water Babies were splashing and racing and squeaking, and having such a good time on the smooth, sunny water, under the blue, blue sky. They were very happy. Dagger Bill sank back into the deep water so noiselessly, you would have said it was a shadow sinking. Then he rushed forward like a swordfish, down there in the brown glow, and darted up right into the game of tag.

"He had aimed his cruel thrust at the Water Baby who, at that particular moment, was IT. But, in that same second, as luck would have it, IT caught the one he was pursuing, nipped his tail, and doubled back like lightning to escape getting nipped in return. So, you see, Dagger Bill missed his aim. That javelin of his beak just grazed the brown tip of IT'S nose, scaring him to death, but nothing more."

"Ah-h!' breathed the Babe, relieved in his feelings.

"In a wink, of course," went on Uncle Andy, "all the Water Babies, with a wild slapping of tails on the water to warn each other, were scurrying desperately for the nest. Some dived as deep as possible; but others lost their wits and swam on the surface. A moment more, and Dagger Bill, who had sunk at once, darted up again, and this time his terrible beak pierced right through a little swimmer's body, severing the backbone."

"Oh-h-h!" murmured the Babe, drawing in his breath sharply.

"I can't help it," said Uncle Andy. "But that's the way things go. Well, now, Dagger Bill rose right out on top of the water, as a bird should, and swam toward shore with the victim hanging limply from his beak. But every old muskrat, along the bank or around the waterhouse, had seen and had understood. Those folks that think muskrats and other wild creatures have sense, would have said it was all planned out ahead—it happened so quick. Every muskrat dived like a flash into the water and disappeared.

"Dagger Bill was coolly making for shore, not dreaming that anybody would dare interfere with him, when suddenly his black head went up in the air, his great beak opened with a hoarse squawk, and he dropped the dead Water Baby. His dark wings flopped, and his tail was drawn under so violently that he nearly turned over backward. It seemed to him that nothing less than the Great Sturgeon, which lived far down the river, must have grabbed him by the feet."

"Wish it had been!" said the Babe.

"Just you wait!" said Uncle Andy. "Well, the next minute he looked down, and, lo and behold! all the water underneath him was alive with swimming muskrats, darting up and closing in upon him. Three or four already had their sharp teeth in his feet. He was mad and frightened, I can tell you.

"He struggled and flopped, but his short wings could not raise him from the water with those weights fastened upon his feet. Then his black head shot under, and he jabbed savagely this way and that, making dreadful wounds in those soft, furry bodies. But the muskrats never heeded a wound. They swarmed upon their enemy with a splendid, reckless rage. They'd teach him to stab Water Babies!

"And they did, too! In a minute or so they had pulled the old robber clean under, where they could all get at him; and, my! you should have seen how the water boiled! But it was only for a minute or two. Then two muskrats came up, bleeding, but proud as you please, and then two or three more; and they all went ashore to lick their wounds and make their toilets, for, as you may imagine, their hair was somewhat disarranged.

"And then, while they were combing their fur with the claws of their little forepaws, like hands, who should come up but Dagger Bill; but his feet came up first, and he didn't come up far, anyway, and he didn't stir. In fact, he was good and dead—so dead that presently a young chub, and a red-fin, and two sunfish, came up and swam round him curiously.

"You see, they thought they might never have another chance to get such a good, comfortable look at a loon, and be able to talk about it afterwards."

THE END