"Then why aren't they fish?" persisted the Babe, ever anxious to get to
the root of a matter.

"Because they're not," replied Uncle Andy, impatient at having let
himself in for explanations, which he always disliked. "They're
animals, just as much as a dog or a muskrat."

The Babe wrinkled his forehead in perplexity. And Uncle Andy relented.

"You see," he continued, "they're not fish, because they cannot breathe
under water like fish can, but have to come to the surface for air,
just as we would have to. 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."