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 better than to
eat them whenever it got the chance. But the whale had only one--at a
time, that is--and she always used to think there was nothing else like
it in the world. There are lots of other mothers as foolish as that.
Yours, for instance, now."
The Babe laughed. It pleased him when he understood one of Uncle
Andy's jokes--which was not always, by any means. He squatted himself
on the moss before the log, where he could stare straight up into Uncle
Andy's face with his blue, steady, expectant eyes.
"It was a long way off from Silverwater," began Uncle Andy in a
far-away voice, and with a far-away look in his eyes, "that the whale
calf was born.
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