any harm
to come of it. And she hated flying out into the full glare of the sun.

"But there is such a thing, you know, as being a bit too calm and
self-possessed. As the hay got higher up in the mow, beyond the eaves,
and almost up to the level of the topmost beam, one of the farm hands
noticed the little bat hanging under the ridgepole. He was one of
those dull fools, not cruel at heart, perhaps, but utterly without
imagination, who, if they see something interesting, are apt to kill it
just because they don't know any other way to show their interest. He
up with the handle of his pitchfork and knocked the poor little mother
bat far out into the stubble."

"_Oh_!" cried the Child. "Didn't it hurt her _dreadfully_?"

"It killed her," replied Uncle Andy simply. "But by chance it didn't
hurt Little Silk Wing himself, as he clung desperately to her neck.
The children, with cries of sympathy and reprobation, rushed to pick up
the little dark body. But the black-and-white dog was ahead of them.
He raced in and snatched the queer thing up, gently enough, in his
teeth. But he let it drop again at once in huge surprise. It had come
apart. All of a sudden it was two bats instead of one. He couldn't
understand it at all. And neither could the children. And while they
stood staring--the black-and-white dog with his tongue hanging out and
his tail forgetting to wag, and the children with their eyes quite
round--Little Silk Wing fluttered up into the air, flew hesitatingly
this way and that for a moment till he felt sure of himself, and then
darted off to the shelter of those woods where he had so often
accompanied his mother on her hunting."

The Child heaved a sigh of relief. "I'm so glad he got off," he
murmured.

"I thought you would be. That's why he did," said Uncle Andy
enigmatically.

CHAPTER IX

A LITTLE ALIEN IN THE WILDERNESS

It was too hot and clear and still that morning for the most expert of
fishermen to cast his fly with any hope of success. The broad
pale-green lily pads lay motionless on the unruffled breast of
Silverwater. Nowhere even the round ripple of a rising minnow broke
the blazing sheen of the lake. The air was so drowsy that those sparks
of concentrated energy, the dragonflies, forgot to chase their aerial
quarry and slept, blazing like amethysts, rubies and emeralds, on the
tops of the cattail rushes. Very lazily and without the slightest
reluctance, Uncle Andy ruled