ld streams
which feed the crystal bosom of Silverwater, Uncle Andy had landed a
magnificent pink-bellied trout--five pounds, if an ounce!

"Hi, but isn't he a whopper?" he cried exultantly, holding up his prize
for the inspection of the Babe, who had been watching the struggle
breathlessly.

"A--whopper?" repeated the Babe doubtfully. His idea of a whopper was
something that objectionable little boys have been known to tell in
order to get themselves out of a scrape. No full-fledged fisherman as
yet, he did not see what it could have to do with a trout.

Uncle Andy seemed to divine his difficulty.

"I mean," he explained, "isn't he a big one? _Tremendous_?"

At this again the Babe looked doubtful. The fish was certainly a very
beautiful one; but to the Babe's eyes it did not seem in any way
remarkable for size. Yet he did not like to appear to disagree with
Uncle Andy.

"Is it _big_?" he inquired politely. "Bill says there's some fish
bigger than a house."

Uncle Andy looked at him askance.

"Seems to me," said he, "you're mighty hard to please to-day. And,
anyhow, Bill talks nonsense. They're not fish, those monsters he was
telling you about. They're _whales_."

"But they live in the water, don't they?" protested the Babe in
surprise.

"Of course!" agreed Uncle Andy, wrapping his big trout up in wet grass
and seating himself on a handy log for a smoke.

"Then why aren't they fish?" persisted the Babe, ever anxious to get to
the root of a matter.

"Because they're not," replied Uncle Andy, impatient at having let
himself in for explanations, which he always disliked. "They're
animals, just as much as a dog or a muskrat."

The Babe wrinkled his forehead in perplexity. And Uncle Andy relented.

"You see," he continued, "they're not fish, because they cannot breathe
under water like fish can, but have to come to the surface for air,
just as we would have to. And they're not fish, because they nurse
their babies as a cow or a cat does. And--and there are lots of other
reasons."

"What are the other reasons?" demanded the Babe eagerly.

But Uncle Andy had felt himself getting into deep water. He adroitly
evaded the question.

"Do you suppose this old trout here," said he, pointing to the grassy
bundle, "used to love and take care of its little ones, like the whale
I'm going to tell you about loved and took care of hers? No indeed!
The trout had hundreds of thousands, and liked nothing be