oked roars, which
seemed to tear their way with difficulty out of their deep chests, they
came floundering back to the rescue. The cub, a sure instinct asserting
itself at once, looked behind him to see that the path of escape was
clear. Then he sat up on his haunches, his twinkling little eyes
shifting back and forth between those mighty oncoming bulks and the long,
gaunt, white form of his mother.

"For perhaps half a minute the old bear stood her ground, dodging the
clumsy but terrific onslaughts of the cow, and dealing her two or three
buffets which would have smashed in the skeleton of any creature less
tough than a walrus or an elephant. But she had no notion of risking her
health and the future of her baby by cultivating any more intimate
acquaintance with those two roaring mountains of blubber which were
bearing down upon her. When they were within just one more crashing
plunge, she briskly drew aside, whirled about, and trotted off to join
her cub. They were really so clumsy and slow, those walruses, that she
hardly cared to hurry.

"For a few yards the two bulls pursued her; so she and the cub strolled
off together to a distance of some fifty paces, and there halted to see
what would happen next. Even creatures so dull-witted as those walrus
bulls could see they would waste their time if they undertook to chase
bears on dry land, so they turned back, grumbling under their long tusks,
and joined the cow in inspecting the body of the dead calf. Soon coming
to the conclusion that it was quite too dead to be worth bothering about,
they all three went floundering on after the other cows, who had by this
time got their own calves safely down to the water, and were swimming
about anxiously, as if they feared that the enemy might follow them even
into their own element. Then, after as brief an interval as discretion
seemed to require, the old bear led the way back, sniffed at the body of
the fat walrus calf, and crouched down beside it with a long _woof_ of
deepest satisfaction. For it is not often, let me tell you, that a polar
bear, ravenous after her long winter's fast, is lucky enough to make a
kill like that just at the very moment of coming out of her den."

Uncle Andy knocked the ashes out of his pipe with that air of finality
which the Child knew so well, and sometimes found so disappointing'.

"But what became of the snowhouse baby?" he urged.

"Oh," replied Uncle Andy, getting up from the choppi