looked all whalebone. For, you must know, she was of the ancient and
honorable family of the Right Whales, who scorn to grow any teeth, and
therefore must live on soup so to speak."

Here he paused, and looked at the Babe as much as to say, "Now, I
suppose you're going to interrupt again, in spite of all I've said."
But the Babe, restraining his curiosity about the soup, only sat
staring at him with solemn eyes. So he went on.

"You see, it was a most convenient kind of soup, a _live_ soup, that
they fed upon. The sea, in great spots and patches, is full of tiny
creatures, sometimes jelly-fish, sometimes little squid of various
kinds, all traveling in countless hosts from somewhere-or-other to
somewhere else, they know not why. As the great mother whale lay there
with her mouth open, these swarming little swimmers would calmly swim
into it, never dreaming that it was a mouth. There they would get
tangled among those long narrow strips or plates of whale-bone, with
their fringed edges. Every little while the whale would lazily close
her mouth, thrust forward her enormous fat tongue, and force the water
out through this whalebone sieve of hers. It was like draining a dish
of string beans through a colander. Having swallowed the mess of
jellyfish and squid, she would open her mouth again, and wait for
another lot to come in. It was a very easy and comfortable way to get
a bite of breakfast, while waiting for her baby to finish nursing. And
every little while, from the big blowhole or nostril on top of her head
she would 'spout,' or send up a spray-like jet of steamy breath. And
every little while, too, the big-headed baby under her flipper would
send up a baby spout, as if in imitation of his mother.

"You must not think, however, that this lazy way of feeding was enough