the empty deeps of air.  Presently there was a sudden tumultuous outburst of ca-ing, the branches shook, and a whole flock, perhaps two score or more, swarmed into the air.  After a few moments of clamorous confusion they all flew off in the direction of the muddy flats at the lower end of the lake.  The pine-tops subsided into stillness.  But an occasional hoarse croak or muttered guttural showed that a few of their occupants had been left at home.  The Babe wondered what it had all been about, but he succeeded in holding his tongue.

In a moment or two this heroic self-restraint had its reward.

“Trying to show some of the youngsters how to fly, and jeering at the timid ones and the stupid ones!” explained Uncle Andy.

“Oh!” said the Babe, with a long, appreciative inflection.

Uncle Andy paused, leaving an opening for more questions.  But the Babe refused to be drawn, so presently, with a comprehending grin, he went on: 

“It’s rather a small affair for crows, you know, this colony of theirs here on Silverwater.  I suppose they’ve been crowded out from the places they really prefer, along the skirts of the settlements on the other side of the Ridge.  They would rather live always somewhere near the farms and the cleared fields.  Not that they have any special affection for man.  Far from it.  They dislike him, and distrust him, and seem to think him a good deal of a fool, too.  His so-called ‘scarecrows’ are a great joke to them, and have been known at times to afford some fine materials for the lining of their nests.  But they find him so useful in many really important ways that they establish their colonies in his neighborhood whenever they possibly can.”

Here Uncle Andy made another long pause.  He looked at the Babe suspiciously.

“Is anything the matter?” he demanded.

“No, thank you, Uncle Andy,” replied the Babe politely.

“But you haven’t asked a single question for at least seven minutes,” said Uncle Andy.

“I was too busy listening to you,” explained the Babe.  “But there’s one I’d like to ask, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Well, fire away,” said his uncle.

“Why did they all fly away like that, as if they had just remembered something awfully important?  And why would you rather be a little tiny humming-bird than a crow?  And why did it take the whole flock that way to teach the young ones to fly?  And—­and why are they afraid, when they are born to fly?  And why do they make fun of the stupid ones?  And why would you like to be a wild goose?  And, and—­”

“Stop! stop!” cried Uncle Andy.  “I didn’t know you had a Gatling about you when I told you to fire away.  You wait and shoot those questions at Bill, just like that, to-night.”

“Well, but why—­”

“No, you must not interrupt,” insisted Uncle Andy.

“But you asked me!  I was just as quiet—­”