What more the Child might have seen had time been allowed him will never be known, for now the session was interrupted.  He was hoping for a porcupine to come by, or a deer, or a moose.  He was half-hoping, half-fearing that it might be a bear, or a big Canadian lynx with dreadful eyes and tufted ears.  But before any of these more formidable wonders arrived he heard a sound of rushing—­of eager, desperate flight.  Then a rabbit came into view—­he felt sure it was one of the two who appeared at the beginning of his watch.  The poor beast was plainly in an ecstasy of terror, running violently, but as it were aimlessly, and every now and then stopping short, all of a-tremble, as if despair were robbing it of its powers.  It ran straight past the poplar sapling, swerved off to the right, and disappeared; but the Child could hear the sound of its going and perceived that it was making a circle.  A couple of seconds later came the weasel, running with its nose in the air, as if catching the scent from the air rather than from the fugitive’s tracks.

The weasel did not seem to be in any hurry at all.  It was the picture of cool, deadly, implacable determination.  And the Child hated it savagely.  Just opposite the poplar sapling it paused, seeming to listen.  Then it bounded into the bushes on a short circle, saving itself unnecessary effort, as if it had accurately estimated the tactics of its panic-stricken quarry.  A few moments later the rabbit reappeared, running frantically.  Just as it came once more before the poplar sapling—­not more than a couple of yards from the Child’s feet, out from under a neighboring bush sprang the weasel, confronting it fairly.  With a scream the rabbit stopped short and crouched in its tracks, quivering, to receive its doom.

The weasel leaped straight at its victim’s throat.  But it never arrived.  For at that moment the Child gave vent to a shrill yell of indignation and jumped at the slayer with hands, eyes and mouth wide open.  He made such a picture that Uncle Andy exploded.  The astonished weasel vanished.  The rabbit, shocked back into its senses, vanished also, but in another direction.  And the Child, pulling himself together, turned to his uncle with a very red face.

“I’m sorry!” he said sheepishly.  “I’m so sorry, Uncle Andy.  But I just couldn’t help it.  I didn’t think.”

“Oh, well!” said Uncle Andy, getting up and stretching, and rubbing his stiffened legs tenderly.  “I can’t say that I blame you I came mighty near doing the same thing myself when that fool of a rabbit squealed.”

CHAPTER XI

THE LITTLE VILLAGER AND HIS UNFRIENDLY GUESTS

Across the still surface of Silverwater, a-gleam in the amber and violet dusk, came a deep booming call, hollow and melancholy and indescribably wild. Tooh-hoo-oo-whooh-ooh-oo, and again whooh-ooh-ooh-oo, it sounded; and though the evening was warm the Child gave a little shiver of delicious awe, as he always did when he heard the sunset summons of the great horned owl.