that when Uncle Andy spoke of the only man in the
world who knew _all_ about animals, he did _not_ mean Bill.

But though the whole field of animal lore was one of absorbing interest
to the Babe, from the day when he was so fortunate as to witness a
mother fish-hawk teaching her rather unwilling and unventuresome young
ones to fly, it was his fellow babes of the wild that he was most
anxious to hear about. In this department of woods lore, Bill was so
deeply ignorant that, not caring to lean _too_ heavily on his
imagination, lest it should break and stick into him, he used to avoid
it quite obstinately. He would say--"Them youngsters is all alike,
anyhow, an' it ain't worth while to waste no time a-studyin' 'em!" So
here Uncle Andy had the field all to himself. Whenever he undertook to
enlighten the Babe on any such subject, Bill would go off somewhere and
scornfully chop down trees.

* * * * * *

Silverwater was fed by many brooks from the deep-wooded surrounding
hills. Toward one of these, on a certain golden afternoon, Uncle Andy
and the Babe were betaking themselves along the shadowy trail, where
the green-brown moss was soft under foot and their careful steps made
no noise. When they spoke it was in quiet undertones; for the spirit
of the woods was on the Babe, and he knew that by keeping very quiet
there was always the chance of surprising some fascinating mystery.

The two were going fishing--for Uncle Andy, with a finely human
inconsistency, was an enthusiastic fisherman, and the stream toward
which they were making their way was one of deep pools and cool
"stillwaters" where the biggest fish were wont to lie during the hot
weather. Uncle Andy had a prejudice against those good people who were
always sternly consistent, and he was determined that he would never
allow himself to become a crank; so he went on enthusiastically killing
fish with the same zest that he had once brought to the hunting of
beast and bird.

While they were yet several hundred yards from the stream, suddenly
there came to their ears, unmistakable though muffled by the
intervening trees, the sound of a brisk splash, as if something had
fallen into the water. Uncle Andy stopped short in his tracks,
motionless as a setter marking his bird. The Babe stopped likewise,
faithfully imitating him. A couple of seconds later came another
splash, as heavy as the first; and then, in quick succession, two
lighter