Then a little furry cub was born to her. She was
just about wide enough awake to tell him how glad she was to see him and
have him with her, and to lick him tenderly for a while, and to get him
nursing comfortably. When she had quite satisfied herself that he was a
cub to do her credit, she dozed off to sleep again without any anxiety
whatever. You see, there was not the least chance of his being stolen,
or falling downstairs, or getting into any mischief whatever. And that
was where she had a great advantage over lots of mothers whom we could,
think of if we tried."
"But what made the steam, Uncle Andy?" broke in the Child, somewhat
irrelevantly. He had a way, sometimes rather exasperating to the
narrator, of never forgetting the loose ends in a narrative, and of
calling attention to them at unexpected moments.
"Can't you see that for yourself?" grunted Uncle Andy impatiently. "It
was breath. Try to think for yourself a little. Well, as I was trying
to say, there was nothing much for the cub to do in the snowhouse but
nurse, sleep, and grow. To these three important but not exciting
affairs he devoted himself entirely. Neither to him nor to his big white
mother did it matter in the least whether the long Arctic gales roared
over their unseen roof, or the unimaginable Arctic cold groped for them
with noiseless fingers.
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