u are silent, with your bread-and-butter
half way to the next bite, or your teacup in mid flight to your lips.

It was as we supposed. Albert's uncle did not come back for a long
while. We did not keep the bread-and-butter on the wing all that time,
of course, and we thought we might as well finish the raspberries and
white currants. We kept some for Albert's uncle, of course, and they
were the best ones too; but when he came back he did not notice our
thoughtful unselfishness.

He came in, and his face wore the look that means bed, and very likely
no supper.

He spoke, and it was the calmness of white-hot iron, which is something
like the calmness of despair. He said:

"You have done it again. What on earth possessed you to make a dam?"

"We were being beavers," said H. O., in proud tones. He did not see as
we did where Albert's uncle's tone pointed to.

"No doubt," said Albert's uncle, rubbing his hands through his hair. "No
doubt! no doubt! Well, my beavers, you may go and build dams with your
bolsters. Your dam stopped the stream; the clay you took for it left a
channel through which it has run down and ruined about seven pounds'
worth of freshly reaped barley. Luckily the farmer found it out in time
or you might have spoiled seventy pounds' worth. And you burned a bridge
yesterday."

We said we were sorry. There was nothing else to say, only Alice added,
"We didn't _mean_ to be naughty."

"Of course not," said Albert's uncle, "you never do. Oh, yes, I'll kiss
you--but it's bed and it's two hundred lines to-morrow, and the line
is--'Beware of Being Beavers and Burning Bridges. Dread Dams.' It will
be a capital exercise in capital B's and D's."

We knew by that that, though annoyed, he was not furious; we went to
bed.

I got jolly sick of capital B's and D's before sunset on the morrow.
That night, just as the others were falling asleep, Oswald said:

"I say."

"Well," retorted his brother.

"There is one thing about it," Oswald went on, "it does show it was a
rattling good dam anyhow."

And filled with this agreeable thought, the weary beavers (or explorers,
polar or otherwise) fell asleep.

THE HIGH-BORN BABE

It really was not such a bad baby--for a baby. Its face was round and
quite clean, which babies' faces are not always, as I dare say you know
by your own youthful relatives; and Dora said its cape was trimmed with
real lace, whatever that may be--I don't see myself how one kind of