"The weasels are such merciless and murderous little killers
themselves, killing just for the fun of it when they are already too full
to eat what they have killed, that both Mr. Anderson and the Boy had no
sympathy for them, and thought them better out of the way. I don't want
to be too hard, even on a weasel; but I'm bound to say that most of the
wild creatures feel much the same way about that blood-thirsty little
pirate."
"I should think so!" agreed the Babe indignantly, resolving to devote his
future largely to the extermination of weasels, and hoping thus to win
the confidence and gratitude of the kindred of the wild.
"Young Grumpy's home life," continued Uncle Andy, "with his father and
mother and four brothers and sisters was not a pampered one. There are
few wild parents less given to spoiling their young than a pair of
grumbling old woodchucks. The father, who spent most of his time
sleeping, rolled up in a ball at the bottom of the burrow, paid them no
attention except to nip at them crossly when they tumbled over him. They
were always relieved when he went off, three or four times a day, down
into the neighboring clover field to make his meals. The little ones did
not see what he was good for, anyhow, till one morning, when the
black-and-yellow dog from the next farm happened along.
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