CHAPTER VIII

LITTLE SILK WING

The first of the twilight over Silverwater.  So ethereal were the thin washes of palest orange and apple-green reflection spreading over the surface of the lake, out beyond the fringe of alder bushes, so bubble-like in delicacy the violet tones of the air among the trees, just fading away into the moth-wing brown of dusk, that the Child was afraid to ask even the briefest questions, lest his voice should break the incomparable enchantment.  Uncle Andy sat smoking, his eyes withdrawn in a dream.  From the other side of the point, quite out of sight, where Bill was washing the dishes after the early camp supper, came a soft clatter of tins.  But the homely sound had no power to jar the quiet.

The magic of the hour took it, and transmuted it, and made it a note in the chord of the great stillness.  From the pale greenish vault of sky came a long, faint twang as of a silver string, where the swoop of a night hawk struck the tranced air to a moment’s vibration.  A minute or two later the light splash of a small trout leaping, and then, from the heart of the hemlock wood further down the shore, the mellow hoo-hoo-hoo-oo of a brown owl.

The Child was squatting on the mossy turf and staring out, round-eyed, across the water.  Suddenly he jumped, clapped both grimy little hands to his face, and piped a shrill “Oh!” A bat’s wing had flittered past his nose so close that he might have caught it in his teeth if he had wanted to—­and been quick enough.

Uncle Andy turned, took his pipe from his mouth with marked deliberation, and eyed the Child severely.

“What on earth’s the matter?” he inquired, after a disapproving pause.

“I thought it was trying to bite my nose,” explained the Child apologetically.

“There’s not very much to bite, you know,” said Uncle Andy, in a carping mood at having had his reveries disturbed.

“I know it’s pretty little, and turns up—­rather,” agreed the Child; “but I don’t want anything to bite it.”

“Nonsense!” said Uncle Andy.  “Who’d want to?”

“It was that bat!” declared the Child, pointing to the shadowy form zigzagging over the fringe of bushes at the edge of the water.  “He came down and hit me right in the face—­almost.”

“That bat bite you!” retorted Uncle Andy with a sniff of scorn.  “Why, he was doing you the most friendly turn he knew how.  No doubt there was a big mosquito just going to bite you, and that little chap there snapped it up in time to save you.  There are lots of folk beside bats that get themselves misunderstood just when they are trying hardest to do some good.”

“Oh, I see!” murmured the Child politely—­which, of course, meant that he did not see at all what Uncle Andy was driving at. “Why do bats get themselves misunderstood, Uncle Andy?”