imagination, who, if they see something interesting, are apt to kill it
just because they don't know any other way to show their interest. He
up with the handle of his pitchfork and knocked the poor little mother
bat far out into the stubble."

"_Oh_!" cried the Child. "Didn't it hurt her _dreadfully_?"

"It killed her," replied Uncle Andy simply. "But by chance it didn't
hurt Little Silk Wing himself, as he clung desperately to her neck.
The children, with cries of sympathy and reprobation, rushed to pick up
the little dark body. But the black-and-white dog was ahead of them.
He raced in and snatched the queer thing up, gently enough, in his
teeth. But he let it drop again at once in huge surprise. It had come
apart. All of a sudden it was two bats instead of one. He couldn't
understand it at all. And neither could the children. And while they
stood staring--the black-and-white dog with his tongue hanging out and
his tail forgetting to wag, and the children with their eyes quite
round--Little Silk Wing fluttered up into the air, flew hesitatingly
this way and that for a moment till he felt sure of himself, and then
darted off to the shelter of those woods where he had so often
accompanied his mother on her hunting."

The Child heaved a sigh of relief. "I'm so glad he got off," he
murmured.

"I thought you would be. That's why he did," said Uncle Andy
enigmatically.