At the same moment a tiny, quivering thing, like a dark leaf, floated
to the ground. There, instead of lying quiet like a leaf, it fluttered
softly.

"What's that?" demanded the Child.

"_Hush_!" ordered Uncle Andy in a peremptory whisper.

The shadowy leaf on the ground continued to flutter, as if trying to
rise into the air. Presently the bat reappeared and circled over it.
A moment more and it dropped, touched the ground for a second with
wide, uplifted wings, and then sailed off again on a long, swift,
upward curve. The fluttering, shadowy leaf had disappeared.

For once the Child had no questions ready. He had so much to ask about
all at once. His eyes like saucers with interrogation, he turned
appealingly to his uncle and said nothing.

"That was the little one--one of the two little ones," said Uncle Andy
obligingly.

"But what?--why?--"

"You see," went on Uncle Andy, hastening to explain before he could be
overwhelmed, "your poor little friend was a mother bat, and she was
carrying her two young ones with her, clinging to her neck with their
wings, while she was busy hunting gnats and moths and protecting your
nose from mosquitoes. When the owl swooped on her, and so nearly
caught her, she dodged so violently that one of the little ones was
jerked from its hold. Being too young to fly, it could do nothing but