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?" His uncle eyed him narrowly. He was always suspecting the Child of making game of him--than which nothing could be further from the Child's honest and rather matter-of-fact intentions. The question, to be sure, was rather a poser. While he pondered a reply to it--apparently absorbed in the task of relighting his pipe--the Child's attention was diverted. And forever the question of why bats get themselves misunderstood remained unanswered.