Uncle Andy was wont to say that there was only one man in all the world who knew all about all the animals—­and that he was not Andrew Barton, Esq.  At this, Bill would smile proudly.  At first this modesty on Uncle Andy’s part was a disappointment to the Babe.  But it ended in giving him confidence in whatever Uncle Andy told him; especially after he came to realize 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 ones.

For a moment or two the Babe kept silence, though bursting with curiosity.  Then he whispered tensely—­“What’s that?”