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.

It was up North, where the summer sun swung low over a world of cold green seas, low grey shores, crumbling white ice-fields, and floating mountains of ice that flashed with lovely, fairy-like tints of palest blue and amethyst.

The calf himself, with his slippery greyish-black back and under-parts of a dirty cream color, was not beautiful--though, of course, his mother thought him so, as he lay nursing just under her great fin, rocked gently by the long, slow Arctic swells." "What's Arctic swells ?" interrupted the Babe, wrinkling his forehead more than ever.