She would sit upon her fat haunches in the door of the burrow while the babies were nibbling around outside, pretending to keep an eye on them.

But half the time she would be sound asleep, with her head dropped straight down on her stomach, between her little black paws.

One day, as she was dozing thus comfortably, a marsh hawk came flapping low overhead, and pounced on one of the youngsters before it had time to more than squeak.

At the sound of that despairing squeak, to be sure, she woke up and made a savage rush at the enemy.

But the wary bird was already in the air, with the prize drooping from his talons.