"Oh," replied Uncle Andy, getting up from the chopping-log, "you see, he
was no longer a snowhouse baby, because the snowhouse was all smashed up,
and also rapidly melting. Moreover, it was no longer winter, you know;
so he was just like lots of other wild babies, and went about getting
into trouble, and getting out again, and growing up, till at last, when
he was almost half as big as herself and _perfectly_ well able to take
care of himself, his mother chased him away and went off to find another
snowhouse."




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withdrawn in a dream.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