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was fed by many brooks from the deep-wooded, surrounding hills. Toward one of these, on a certain golden afternoon, Uncle Andy and the Babe were betaking themselves along the shadowy trail, where the green-brown moss was soft underfoot, and their careful steps made no noise. When they spoke it was in quiet undertones, for the spirit of the woods was on the Babe, and he knew that by keeping very quiet, there was always the chance of surprising some fascinating mystery.

While they were yet some hundred yards from the stream, suddenly there came to their ears, unmistakably, though muffled by the surrounding trees, the sound of a brisk splash, as if something had fallen into the water. Uncle Andy stopped short in his tracks, motionless as a setter marking his bird. The Babe stopped likewise, faithfully imitating him. A couple of seconds later came another splash, as heavy as the first; and then, in quick succession, two lighter ones.

For a moment or two, the Babe kept silence, though bursting with curiosity. Then he whispered tensely, “What ’s that?”

“Otter,” replied Uncle Andy, in a murmur soft as the wind in the sedge-tops.

“Why?” continued the Babe, meaning to say, “But what on earth are they doing?” and trusting that Uncle Andy would appreciate the fact that he asked his question in a single word.

“Sliding downhill,” muttered Uncle Andy, without turning his head. Then, holding up his hand as a sign that there were to be no more questions asked, he crept forward noiselessly; and the Babe followed at his heels.

The sounds continued, growing louder and louder, till the two adventurers must have been within thirty or forty yards of the stream. Suddenly, there came one great splash, heavy and prolonged, as if all the sliders had come down close together. Then silence. Uncle Andy crouched motionless for several minutes, as if he had been turned into a stump. Then he straightened himself, and turned around with an air of disappointment.

“Gone!” he muttered. “Cleared out! They must have heard us or smelled us.”

“Oh!” exclaimed the Babe, in a voice of deep concern, although, as a matter-of-fact, he was immensely relieved, the strain of the prolonged tension and preternatural stillness having begun to make him feel that he must make a noise or burst.

Two minutes later, they came out on the banks of the stream.

The stream at this point was, perhaps, twenty-five feet in width, deep, dark, and almost without current. The hither bank was low and grassy, with a fallen trunk slanting out into the water. But the shore opposite was some twelve or fifteen feet high, very steep and quite naked, having been cut out by the floods from a ridge of clay. Down the middle of this incline a narrow track had been worn so smooth that it gleamed in the sun almost like ice.

“What do they do it for?” demanded the Babe, having, perhaps, a vague idea that all the motives of the wild creatures were, or ought to be, purely for some useful purpose.

Uncle Andy turned upon him a withering look; and he shifted his feet uneasily.

“What do you slide downhill for?” inquired Uncle Andy.

“Oh,” said the Babe, hastily, “I see!”

“I suppose now,’ went on Uncle Andy, presently, when his pipe was drawing well, “you know quite a lot about otter!”

‘Nothing at all but what Bill ’s told me,” answered the Babe.

“Forget it!” said Uncle Andy, and went on smoking. Presently he remarked: “This otter family appears to have been having a pretty good time!”

“Great!” said the Babe.

“Well,” continued Uncle Andy, “there was once another otter family, away up on the Little North Fork of the Ottanoonsis, that used to have just such good times, till, at last, they struck a streak of bad luck.

“I ‘ll tell you how it was,” he continued, after pressing down the tobacco in his pipe. “The two Little Furry Ones were born in a dry, warm, roomy den in the bank, under the roots of a birch that slanted out over the stream. The front door was deep under water. But as the old otters had few enemies to dread, being both brave and