Children of the Wild

In the brown, balsam-smelling log cabin on the shores of Silverwater,

loveliest and loneliest of wilderness lakes, the Babe's great thirst

for information seemed in a fair way to be satisfied.  Young as he was,

and city-born, the lure of the wild had nevertheless already caught

him, and the information that he thirsted for so insatiably was all

about the furred or finned or feathered kindreds of the wild.  And here

by Silverwater, alone with his Uncle Andy and big Bill Pringle, the

guide, his natural talent for asking questions was not so firmly

discouraged as it was at home.




But even thus early in this adventurous career, this fascinating and

never-ending quest of knowledge, the Babe found himself confronted by a

most difficult problem.  He had to choose between authorities.  He had

to select between information and information.  He had to differentiate

for himself between what Bill told him and what his Uncle Andy told

him.  He was a serious-minded child, who had already passed through

that most painful period of doubt as to Santa Claus and the Fairies,

and had not yet reached the period of certainty about everything.  He

was capable of both belief and doubt.  So, naturally, he had his

difficulties.